She pointed gravely to the hills beyond.
“Forests and mountains stretch between us and our refuge,” she said. “We have crossed the barrier that earth herself has built between us and our enemies.”
“Fair mother-earth helped us in our need with hill and forest,” said Cormac. “Then were we the vanquished, now are we the victors. Is not Cutha slain and Ceawlin loathed and detested by the Saxons themselves?”
He was smiling and triumphant, as his eye swept the scene of the river-banks before him—the motley array of Kymry, who owned him for their leader. British legions, still manifesting the polish and discipline of Rome, woad-dyed savages, blue on the russet landscape; bands of Hibernian Fili—their sleek race-horses, slight and frail, beside the stout cavalry of the Romanised Brets; Picts from boundless Caledonia—the swing of their sheep-skin garments never ceasing in their restless masses; and warriors also from weems and caves with arrows tipped with stone, or bearing leaf-shaped swords as in days of old. Near at hand were workers inspecting and repairing the scythe-edged chariots of early days—ever the pride and stay of the Britons. From peak and wind-swept down came the hum and shriek of bagpipes. Above all, great swarms of kites hovered in the air—for the hosts of the great army yielded rich store for nest and maw.
On the hills beyond—sinister background for the reckless warriors—burnt black on ling and heather was the conquering symbol, the Black Horse. To Cormac’s ears came in uncouth, primitive verse a weird refrain, sung continuously in his honour, a battle song that had been in his family for unknown generations, descended from that dim past whence sprang the origin of his forefathers’ totem, the Horse. A vague, formless kind of verse, difficult of translation and, when translated, shaping itself into words akin to these:
“In days of Eld, when men choose birds and beasts around them,
To bear their name and race and station,
I sought and chose the swift, free horse!
Into his silken, mobile ear my lips have slipt their whisper.
Bear me away—away with the wind and the lightning and storm.”
“You say we have crossed the barrier between ourselves and our enemies,” said Ethne, in reply to the Saxon’s words. “But I tell you, my Elgiva, that we need no barrier against friends.”
“You speak in riddles,” said Elgiva, looking in wonder at the bright-eyed and smiling woman.
“I speak in riddles, say you? And I can show you a riddle, too, as well as speak one. Behold!”
At a sign from her some slaves drew apart two great pieces of tapestry that covered a gap in the ruined walls; they saw that a great feast was under preparation.