The creature was a pure bred Hibernian race-horse. His trappings were mounted with gold; a magnificent purple cloak lay across the saddle, ready for Cormac’s use; it was lightly flecked with gold—Cormac saw at once it was one of the speckled cloaks so much in vogue amongst the Druids.
“I told you you should find a horse awaiting you,” said Ethne, “and that it would be of the true colour.”
“But you did not tell me it would be of the purest breed the world can show!” exclaimed Cormac, as he leapt to the saddle. The horse rose on its hind quarters and pranced; the colour mounted with joy to the boy’s face.
A stout hide shield was slung on Cormac’s arm, a short, Irish sword thrust in his belt; room was found on his horse trappings for a tough yew bow, a sheaf of arrows bristled at his side—some with poison lurking in their points, others tipped with stone and of a rude make like the arrows of ancient cave-dwelling people. A pike supplemented his short sword, and some half-javelins found their place at his saddle.
He turned to Ethne, and poured out warm thanks for the horse.
“The gift is not from me,” said Ethne, her long hair streaming in the wind as she rode beside him. “Nor do I know if the givers’ names will please you, my Christian brother.”
“Tell me!” said Cormac.
“Need you ask?” returned Ethne. “Where can you find such fire, such strength, and lightness, but in the horses of the Druids? The steed is a gift to you from my brother-Druids.”
Cormac made no reply.
“It is a love gift, too, Cormac—for their hearts are true to the children of Tuathal! Though they can no longer feast at Tara, they can pour out such poor treasures as they have at the feet of their future lord. They are not rich, boy—and they could have sold that horse for its weight in gold to the Eastern merchants who are ever seeking Hibernian racers—but they chose rather to starve than forego the joy of giving him to you.”