On the way they paused in a little wood and bowed themselves at a mossy shrine, where a hermit filled the priestly office for some kneeling Christians.
Once, from a hollow oak-tree, the beautiful face of a girl-hermit looked at them; her white hands, clashed on a robe of sack-cloth, had bloody marks upon them, like the print of nails; she spoke to them, as she spoke to every passer-by, in a voice clear and pure and high like the final peal of a hymn of praise.
A little further on were masons working by torch-light at a wayside cross; twenty feet in height, and all wreathed with scroll work that was carved, not for money, but for love of God and beauty.
The banners of the festive town danced gaily as they entered the city walls. Cormac obtained directions from a watchman. Their road led them to a magnificent Roman villa; built almost on the walls, and overlooking the rushing stream that flowed from the surrounding mountains.
It was difficult to gain admittance even to the outer courts of the dwelling. They were obliged to wait, standing in a recess of a triangular bridge which formed part of the walls and spanned the torrent beneath. A deep dyke separated them from the forest; in whose depths they could plainly hear the gnarling of wolves and scream of swine. The forest grew from the very edge of the dyke and the trees, overhanging the stream, swept the side of the arch on which they stood. As they stood waiting a dark disordered mass came towards them along the river banks. The light broke on lance and javelin, and here and there, on the white face of a horse. A reckless party of jostling race-horses, crying beagles, and huge hounds came into view, and galloped towards them along the rough, pebbly path that skirted the torrent.
The leader of the party was bare-headed, his beard streaming in the wind; he flourished a mead-horn in his hand from which he drank repeatedly; at times he rose to his feet on the bare back of his stallion, and played at cup and ball as he rode along—by means of the end of his drinking horn and a handful of pebbles he had dexterously swept from the ground over which he galloped. As he drew nearer the light showed a gruesome object swung on the neck of his horse.
“A Druid, a juggling Druid!” cried Cormac, pointing with scorn and horror at the rider. “The sorcerers have been at their vile rites—they have slain their victim and have been divining by his entrails.”
The man and woman drew closer into the niche in which they stood—for the wild party, leaping a small creek, swept up the approach and on to the bridge. The great portals swung open. The wind from the horses’ nostrils, the clamour of men and hounds swept by them, and the whole party passed into the outer court.
Cormac thought he distinguished the light form of a woman on one of the foremost of the race-horses.
“Ethne!” he exclaimed in angry-excitement. “Ethne! She has gathered her horde around her even here!”