Cormac turned and walked up and down the cave with frowning, averted eyes. She disliked him, of course, and he deserved it, he said to himself—but he did not deserve this!
Elgiva soon controlled her sobs. Furious that she should behave like a child again on their first meeting—when she had determined to be a woman for Cormac’s sake.
She stole one or two glances towards him as he passed and re-passed her.
After the British manner his hair was parted in the middle and floating freely about his neck; it was as black as night with a gleam on it like steel, where the ends curled into rings, his blue-black eyes were deeply set and fringed with black lashes. Under the bronze of his skin his cheek was pale and thin, showing the lines of the muscles beneath. The alert carriage of the small head, the play of the mobile nostrils, reminded the Saxon irresistibly of some untamed mountain horse. When Cormac was a child these characteristics had been noticed by Griffith—in particular a certain movement by which he tossed back his black locks as a horse throws the mane from its eyes—and he had given the boy the title of The Black Horse. A horse had in generations past been the totem of Griffith’s family. The old chieftain had hoped to see the day when the Black Horse should be pitted against the White Horse of the Saxons—he had seen the day, and died!
Cormac had ceased to walk up and down the grotto. He approached Elgiva—threw himself down beside her.
“Oh, Elgiva,” he cried, “wife that will be—beautiful, adored! Forgive, forgive all—I mean at Glendalough. Come with me in safety from Ethne—at dawn the priest can unite us. Gift of my father to me—my beloved—my spouse!”
She had recovered from her passion and was quite calm.
“My wife, my spouse!” she repeated. “The last time I heard such words from your lips they were addressed to Ethne, not to me!”
“That evil woman!” he said. “Name her not with thyself!”
“She is my sister,” returned Elgiva. “And tell me, Cormac, have you no sin that you should thus cast stones at Ethne?”