As he looked around it seemed to him that all Hibernia was ablaze. Again the same wave of excitement passed over him—a strange, savage thrill as of some unknown instinct awakening within him. As though he, like the world around him, had been set on fire.
Other wild spirits had taken fire, likewise. The sight of the leaping flames worked like mead on the Hibernians. Those who still professed the ancient faith plunged, intoxicated, into all the sacrificial rites of the Druids. Many who professed Christianity, threw it, for the time, aside—as they might have thrown aside a mask; or mingled the fierce and bloody orgies of Beltane with the rites and ceremonies of their own Easter.
Suddenly a band of Druids, in shimmering white robes, circled around Cormac; the setting sun sparkled on their golden harps and ornaments.
One of their number sprang forward with cries of praise and greeting. At his call the other members of the band grouped themselves around the young prince in attitudes of extravagant joy and homage.
“Cormac of Fail! Stealer of men’s hearts! Maker of ravens’ food—and shedder of blood! Hail, then, to Banba—great son of thy fathers!”
These words were cried in the monotonous chant of bards accustomed to attune their voices whenever occasion required it. They paused; then smote a full chorus from their harps.
“From sea to sea, in this circle of Tuathal’s carving, every heart is full with joy at thy return and with sorrow at thy losses. Ahoi!” The voices rose to a battle-cry. “Ahoi! for Tuathal of Tara’s hosts! Ahoi, for Tuathal—maker of Ravens’ food—Tuathal of war horses, foam-pale! Ahoi, ahoi! We have lost the Egg—we have missed the sacred thing—but we have found the child of Tuathal—Tuathal from Tara of Fail!”
The bards paused—the earth around Cormac was covered with white-robed Druids, prone before him. The blood mounted on the boy’s cheeks. Again they smote upon their golden harps.
“Welcome to Hibernia! Welcome—thrice welcome! Behold us at thy feet! We—the mouthpiece of thy country! We offer thee all—all that Fail hath to give! Her gold, her honey, her white-toothed daughters, her swift racers, her fair, spotted trout, her sloes, and apples and brown nuts—her blood for thy sword to drink. Take all, take all—only let us worship thee. For art not thou from Tuathal’s loins? Tuathal Teachmar? Who armed his hosts with spears—who placed his steward over Ceara and built wattled towers on the hill tops to protect the land! Tuathal from Tara of Fail!”
They rose to their feet; dropped their harps, and held out their arms to him, circling about him.