“Tuathal the Legitimate!” chanted Cormac, proudly. “Sib am I also to Cormac, son of Art, to Conn of the Hundred Battles, and Niall of the Nine Hostages!”
“Sib art thou also to me, Cormac of Fail!” screamed the woman. “Through the blood of an Ethne—Ethne the Terrible, princess and priestess! Mighty was she in life, treading in blood as a milk-maid in dew—and mighty was she in death, for white oxen drew wood and treasure to her pyre for nine days after her death. Myrrh and amber they brought—unguents and spices and gold. Beasts they slaughtered by the score, and all the earth was drenched with mead and blood.”
“Hail to our ancestress, Ethne!” called the boy, “wife of Oengus—Oengus the Christian, baptised by Saint Patrick!”
“Nay!” thundered Ethne, suddenly dropping the chanting tone in which they were speaking. “But the wife of Oengus—she of my race and my name, never lapsed into Christianity! Druidess she was, and druidess she remained—and in the battle in which she was slain her incantations struck awe into the hearts of all that heard them!”
Then again her voice grew high and shrill as a battle-cry.
“Blood and sacrifice!” she yelled “and the secrets told by fresh-slain men!”
Suddenly she made a thrust at Cormac with her sword, a mere feint—so dexterous that, though it drew blood, it was a mere scratch that might have been received from a sharp thorn. There was a light in her eyes, like that of a half-angry tigress playing with its whelp.
“Ha, cub!” she snarled, “thou hast been bred in the faith of a cur but if thou would’st have Ethne and Ethne’s aid thou must leave all and return with me to the ancient faith and to the Druids!”
The boy fell before her, as though he had received a mortal wound.
“I cannot understand,” he gasped. “Thou art a Christian, Ethne!”