“Yet the monks drew our raft to shore at the risk of their lives—and restored us to life,” said Elgiva. She had risen in anger.
“But you do not love the monks any more than you love me,” she said.
“I hate ye all—Saxon virgin and toiling slaves!” returned Ethne. “Nor have I turned slave and ploughman after their example.”
The girl glanced down at her roughened hands and earth-stained dress.
“No,” she said, “you add to their work, instead of sharing it. Even for the saffron robes on your back you must give the good men trouble. You sent the poor monk, Patrick, many a weary mile with a heavy yew chest on his shoulders. And when the case was opened what was it you had sent him for? Nothing but silk and samite—gold torques and embroidered crisses!”
Cormac, meanwhile, had been gazing at Elgiva with a troubled face. He was thinking of his dying father on the battle-field, and of his anguish when their fight for his British kinswoman had been in vain.
Cormac went up to Elgiva and placed his hand roughly on her shoulder.
“Listen, girl,” he said. “I have told you I will not marry you, and it is true. But I tell you also that I will rescue your British mother, or die in the attempt.”
He turned to Ethne and embraced her.
“My Ethne! My spouse that will be,” he cried. “My madness is passed—I am thy warrior once more—thy warrior with wounds healed by thee. We will to battle again!”