The masses of men, women, and beasts swayed and spread, like a sea, on the hill-side; and, above them, flashed like foam the white dress and limbs of Druid and Druidess—leaping and bounding on the stone monuments with which the hill was dotted.
Highest of all a band of chanting Druids was grouped, motionless, around a great white bull breathing his last on the stone of sacrifice—his blood staining their golden knives and white robes and his own white skin.
Suddenly, in the midst of a surging mass, a small hand, strong as iron, seized Cormac’s bridle and wild eyes flashed into his.
It was Ethne; her saffron garments torn and singed. The white fell of her stallion splashed with blood.
“Choose!” she cried. “Come to us, child of the sun, and worship with us, or depart to the saints! They will give you caves to fester in and cold stones to do penance on—mast and acorns for hermits’ food—go, Christian!”
The supreme contempt in her tones had little sting for Cormac. He hardly heard her words; with all his might he was struggling against the overwhelming desire to enter in upon this scene of fire and danger. The natural desire of a youth to join in the dancing, wrestling, and horse-racing; and joined to this was a fierce desire for further excitement and danger.
The horrible fascination was growing.
In a hush, in the storm, the voices of the chanting Druids came to his ears—silver sweet. He could see them raise their sacred symbols. The beatings of his heart grew faster.
“You have the Christians’ symbol!” he said. “The Cross!”
The Druid at his horse’s bridle borrowed the silver tone of the sacrificial chanters.