“Ahoi!” she screamed, “Cormac of Fail—Cormac, the Black Horse. To warriors alone doth Ethne give her favours! Pict, I call thee and brother! Prince of Hibernia and twig from the tree of Tara! Cormac of Fail—sprung from the loins of gods and princesses!”
She parted her crowding locks and saluted him fiercely. She drew back and smiled at him, with the little tusks gleaming on either side of her mouth. Even with that ugly smile upon her lips the boy marvelled at her beauty—at her smooth white limbs, her blue-black hair, and her flashing purple eyes.
He fell back from the compass of her arms and drew his sword, flourishing it around his head.
“Pict do you call me!” he cried, in the same screaming voice. “Ay, Pict am I, and Pict art thou! And we will rally Pict and Scot around us! We will to Britain again and harass the Saxons, as in olden days we harassed the Britons! Scot am I and Scot art thou—and the Scots brought Lia Fail and the Ogham books to Hibernia!”
“Fire!” she returned, “and blood and plunder! Men we make white with fear. Our swords drink deep of blood of maids and babes. Ahoi—we will once more to Britain!”
She drew her lips over her savage fangs. Once more she pressed her hot, fierce mouth to the boy’s.—She also drew her sword and brandished it above her head.
“Blood!” she cried, “and fire and sacrifice! Come with me, boy, to the sacred heart of Hibernia and I will show thee warriors that will set the world on fire. Tell me, Cormac, wilt thou come?”
He was as fierce and hot as she, and he yelled out with bloodthirsty oaths that he would follow her to the world’s end.
Then—like all true Hibernians, in times of excitement, they fell to calling pedigrees.
“Hail, Cormac!” she cried, striking his shoulder with the flat of her sword, “Whelp of the lion, Tuathal!”