Ethne held out her hand.
“You would not let me go with you,” she said, gently, “but I have followed you.”
He said nothing in reply; but bending down knelt on one knee before her and placed her hand upon his head.
It was the very scene to appeal to the hearts of the people. Cormac was recognised, in spite of his shrouding cloak. Cry after cry to his honour rang through the room. Weapons flashed, and clashed aloft.
“The Black Horse!” they cried, “Cormac of Fail! Cormac and Ethne! Children of Tuathal! Twigs from the tree of Tara! All hail! All hail!”
They were the same battle cries, in the same Hibernian voices, as those which had greeted him when he rode through Ireland with Ethne many months before.
Cormac stood upright and threw aside his cloak. One of Ethne’s slaves drew a scented saffron robe around him, another placed a golden hoop on his head.
The applause grew louder. Trumpets and timpans almost deafened the people. Cormac’s eye flashed, his cheek glowed.
He walked up and down the raised platform; smiling and responding to the people.
“The Black Horse! The Black Horse!” they cried. “The Black Horse against the White!”