The girl was startled by his sudden fury; she answered proudly.
“Have no fear of that, Cormac of Fail. Thou did’st refuse to do thy father’s bidding. The Saxon would have wed with thee to obey those commands, but now she will abide by thy words.”
“Ay, shall I harden my heart against thee—shall I hate thee, as never maid was hated before?” Suddenly his voice broke. “Shall I not hate thee because thou art Saxon? Ay, and in hating thee, love thee more—with a love that has smitten me, like the lightning smites the oak!” He had drawn near to her.
“Saxon, alas, I am,” said Elgiva, “and thou art true Celt, to talk of love and hate together.”
He looked at her softly.
“Yet I find in thee the old Elgiva, in spite of thy womanhood and beauty.”
Then he remembered, in some bewilderment, that he had not thought of Elgiva’s appearance, at all, in the years gone by. And when he had thought of her at times, in the last few months, he had a vision of her as he had last seen her—the swollen features, the smoke-bleared eyes and mouth surrounded by half-healed scars.
He remembered how he had struck her, and set those half-healed scars bleeding afresh. The remembrance came on him like a blow.
Elgiva’s thoughts, too, had gone back to that last scene. She remembered how she had blurted out that he must wed her, and that he should wed her. With the remembrance came the wish that she had bitten out her tongue before the words were said.
“Why are you in Britain?” he asked. “How did you come here?”