The owner of the beagle was a long-armed Hibernian Pict clad in bards’ dress; druidical symbols tattooed his naked arms and legs; his beard was plaited and his long hair confined at the back by a conical spiral of bronze and gold; his garments were ragged and filthy—from sloth and not from poverty, for he was verily covered with costly ornaments and amber beads. His mouth was still full of brook-lime and nuts—in his hand was a raw onion, which he had been about to eat.
“Ye cursed beggarly bards! Botch and blain of Hibernia! Paupers and panderers all! Parasites on our folly and vanity! Living by flattery, and eating us out of house and home in return! Take me, wilt thou, and cast me forth!”
The bard was too angry to reply. His gold ear-rings danced with the rage that shook him.
“But wait! A few more hours, and you and your stallions, your beagles and false tongues will be banished for ever! Take me, wilt thou, and cast me forth!”
The bard stuffed the waiting onion in his mouth and seizing the besom with both hands took up a threatening attitude.
“Peace!” said an old man, stepping forward. A sombre figure in his Irish monkish dress, cowled garment of brown frieze, book-wallet and leather-flask slung on shoulder, thick knotted stick as sole weapon.
“Is this the spirit you discuss grave matters we have followed Columba all the leagues from Iona to ponder and pray upon? It is not meet that ye brawl over such things as ye brawl over your chess and your horse-racing!” He turned sternly on the chess-player. “Know you not that Columba has taken the bards under his protection?”
“Ay, that do I know well; and I know better that our Christian spirit of forbearance is ill-suited to them—and I know too that some of them make a cloak of Christianity, when at heart they belong all to one faith—fire and blood! Fili they term themselves and half our men are turning Fili. And why not? ’Tis an easy life—for we must keep them and their mares and their stallions—their greyhounds and beagles! Grow barley for their winter fodder, and dower their daughters when they marry! Drones they are, and like rooks for flocking—ever in hordes—see how they crowd on us now winter is coming—swaggering to our firesides to idle and brag there all the winter and tell their idle tales!” The speaker paused, turned about and wildly waved his sword. “Away with them—away with them. Neither grist nor gold do they bring us! Greedy gules they be, swilling and guzzling all! And now, forsooth, must the Church—the Church—maintain their horses for them! Away with them, I say, away with them! I am aweary of warring against them with tongue and book—let us to work and settle the question with pick and knife!”
The quarrel spread like wild-fire in the hall, till everyone had taken his place on the two sides that were glaring at each other. It was a marvel how the scene had arisen from the simple accident. Cormac found himself in the angry ranks with his hand on his knife. There was a sudden rush to the open air to gain room for combat.
No sooner were they outside than they were driven back by a long line of galloping horsemen. There were shouts of “Back! Back!” and “Make room”; a great procession was passing through the village.