The dog, which had followed the girl, gave a low growl as he noticed her attitude, and pressed closer to her side. She threw her arm round the creature’s neck; his one eye, red as a coal, burned with hatred as he looked at Ethne.
“Child of a Saxon savage,” replied Ethne, haughtily, “do I render account to thee of my doings?”
The girl gave no heed to the taunt.
“Nay, but he shall wed me,” she cried, firmly, “and fulfil the commands of his father.”
Ethne burst into low laughter.
“Thou wilt have a rare bride, Cormac,” she cried. “She will mend thy trews like all true Saxon wives, and she will wear them, too!”
Cormac strode forward.
Every word the Saxon uttered angered him. He was full of shame and wounded vanity when he looked at her; she was so raw, ugly, and uncouth. Her eyes were still red from the smoke; her mouth, naturally large, was increased in size by half-healed scars.
Now, at Ethne’s mocking laughter, he fell into a fury.
“I will not marry thee,” he cried. “Great gaby! Ugly blear-eyed, red-legged girl!”