“Fortune favours us!” she said, in a low impressive voice. “You fight for your liberty not only under Cormac of Fail, but under the protection of the saint, Columba! Remember!”
Cormac meanwhile, looking proudly around, saw the place was thronged with his followers. There were bards horse-racing and making wagers on horse and hound; bards as jugglers, sorcerers, and minstrels; bards at sword play, ball-tossing and serpent-playing.
Ethne, also, cast her eye over the assembled bards, as she looked out on the race-course from the temple. And she recognised them all as Druids—both those within the columns and without.
Chief among them was the bard who had quarrelled over the hound so short a time before; he was riding races on a swift white mare, and outstripping all who rode with him.
At the height of the revelry it was this man who headed the mead-drunk bards as they circled round Cormac—on their lips cries of “Ethne!” “Tara!” “Cormac of Fail!” “Cormac, The Horse—the Black Horse!”
They flocked around him on their matchless Hibernian horses—creatures all quivering from the race-courses, their bodies flecked with the foam and blood of their own rivalry. Some of the animals had been freshly driven in from the plains and wastes—roped with difficulty, and throwing one after another of their nimble riders. In the ranks about Cormac many startled, riderless creatures strove towards him, as though seeking his protection—this sight appealed to his followers, who renewed their cries of “The Horse—the Black Horse!”
The sight alone of those beautiful creatures, with their scarlet nostrils and flowing manes, was enough to quicken a young man’s blood. Cormac pressed forward, so proud and elated that he was scarcely aware of the words that were cried around him; only hearing shouts and battle-cries.
“Fire and Sword! Pict and Scot!” cried the bards, surging round him. “Men we make white with fear! Babes and women feed our swords. Ahoi! Come, Cormac, brother of Ethne! Ethne daughter of Druids! Come, Brother and Druids!”
They danced savage, prancing dances—rough, red limbs tossing and twirling. With broad, expanded nostrils they uttered screaming Pictish war-cries.
“Away with the Christians!” they yelled. “Away with cave-dwellers, fools, and fasters! Hibernia shall have men and warriors—not saints and hermits! Away with monks and virgins!”