He trembled from head to foot. He had left Ethne’s side and was gazing on the wall, where a golden crown, torques of gold, and a king’s sword were displayed, deeply stained with blood. They had been taken from his father’s body on the field of battle; Elgiva, the Saxon, had carried them away, and she had placed them on the wall of their dwelling.
The boy stooped forward and kissed the tokens, one by one. The tears streamed from his eyes.
Solemnly he knelt down and, clasping his hands together, looked upward as though in prayer.
“Father,” he cried, “forgive me, but I cannot fulfil thy commands—for marriage without love is no marriage—and I loathe the Saxon!”
The boy’s grief was touching. Ethne watched him with the ugly sneer lifting her lip and showing the fang beneath.
“Well done, boy!” she cried. “A good Pictish chieftain needs no Saxon among his wives.”
Both the speakers turned as a wooden pail was cast down on the ground. Elgiva stood before them.
“What work is this you are at now,” she cried. “Ethne of the Raven Hair?”
The girl’s broad chest, red from sun and wind, heaved under her sack-cloth. She frowned on both Ethne and Cormac.
“Why do you seek to turn the son against the father’s wishes?”