His head drooped.
“I am not fit for thee,” he said. “I have sinned often; above all, at the place of Fire—but ’tis past—I repent!”
“Ay, yet you deny repentance to Ethne!”
“I speak not of Ethne now—only of thee. Come with me, my father’s darling, and I will soon teach thee to love me.” She hid her face. “Come with me and leave Ethne!”
“I will return to her. And when you have forgiven her you may speak of love to me.”
“That will never be,” said Cormac, rising. “Yet will I do as I am asked, and take thee back.”
The grotto filled with shadows. Evening was falling. Cormac suggested that it was a fitting time to escape from the cave and make their way to Ethne’s house. Elgiva thought that his voice sounded harsh and cold. She turned without a word to the steep ascent that led them to the open ground above.
The upward, winding tunnel was dark and difficult; but a few minutes’ climbing brought them to the top and to the scene of the tumult of the afternoon.
They stole, unperceived, from the shadow of the great Monolith that marked their exit, and found themselves in the stir of the multitude still assembled on the spot. All around them were horses and cattle with their accompanying horse-boys and cow-herds. On every side camp-fires twinkled. It was a fine night and the stars shone. A rich dim scene spread itself before their eyes—moving herd and glittering camp fires, long lines of tents and newly-built wattled cotes, ancient temples looming in the distance, and sumptuous Roman villas dotting the valley; a white Roman road gleamed in the darkness of the forest beyond, and close at hand was a light tapering minster that was being built by Greek workmen.
Mingled with the murmur of the sea and the tumult of the flocks, and their attendants, was the sound of monks’ chant, the clash of swords; and the shrieks and brawl of mead-drinkers and revellers.