The boy breathed hard—deeply touched.
“They shall not find me ungrateful,” he said.
“They ask little at your hands,” said Ethne. “All they say is, Come and Try. Try our mysteries, and see if they do not yield more knowledge and certainty than the Christian faith.”
Cormac shook his head.
“Well, well, we will not talk of it now,” said Ethne, lightly raising her arm as a signal to her horse to go faster.
Ethne looked her best on horseback. She was as lithe and active as a boy; and could rival a man in all the feats common amongst the riders of the day. She could rise upon her feet when her horse was at full gallop—could jump from the saddle and mount again, without drawing rein; and, as she rode along, could bend lightly down and pick the wayside grass and flowers.
Cormac drew deep breaths of rapture as he rode by Ethne’s side. It was good to feel a horse under him once more, to feel the wind on his face and hear the saddle creak beneath him. It was pleasant, too, to ride beside Ethne whom he loved; to laugh and talk; to be sure his wounds and weakness were a thing of the past; to cherish wild hopes of future war and victory—that seemed near and possible on this bright summer morning. He was a man now, he told himself; he had left boyhood behind him; a man and a leader of men—with a woman at his side. They travelled quickly; the horses, of their own accord, broke into a gallop and carried them forward, mile after mile, in swift, easy motion.
After Cormac’s weeks of confinement, the long ride was bliss to him. The motion of his horse was like the flight of a bird, he thought—such a long, winged, untiring stroke, bearing him on through the scented summer air. He had no eyes for the country near at hand; his gaze was fixed on a gap in the hills before him where smooth and soft, stretched the waving grass of Hibernia. In the songs which Ethne sang to him there was so much about the wild grass of the great plains. How it waved up the slopes of the hills around, and clothed them to their summits. How it sprang, everywhere, even roofs of the little wattled cotes of the hamlets; how the bards would lie and sing their melodies into it, and all the tiny blades would carry the music from one to another—thus spreading their songs over all Hibernia. There were a thousand pretty fancies of a like kind in the old tales and songs. Cormac noticed how much greener and richer it was than the grass of Britain; unspoilt by frost, bright and fresh from constant showers.
In the deep, rich pasture hundreds of horses lived lives of joy—untouched by the hand of man. In their freedom a thousand times more beautiful and graceful than their brothers who knew bit and saddle. And here, in Hibernia, thought the boy to himself, he would find warriors as fresh and free as the creatures of the wilds. It was his constant wail that Rome had caused the ruin of Britain—here he felt the truth of his words. In the life struggle against Jute and Angle and Saxon only fierce, wild races could survive. Civilisation meant indeed destruction.
“Rome!” he said to himself. “Rome is no more!”