The woman paused, and when she spoke again there was rage as well as scorn in her tones.
“Never forget, boy, the fruit thy father’s Christian zeal has borne! In the shaping of thy future life, remember always, Cormac of Fail, that this mushroom faith has cost us our British possessions!”
CHAPTER III.
“... some to the mountains—others yielded to be slaves because of hunger—others to the seas—singing and sighing under the shadow of their sails.”
(From the Epistle of Gildas, the most ancient British author.)
“Prate to me no longer of marriage and giving in marriage. We love each other—that’s enough! Perchance we’ll love others, and a many, ere we die. Marriage, forsooth! And this new-fangled Christian craze—one man, one wife—’tis folly! Fit only for maids and striplings. Tush, boy! I have borne with thee, and humoured thee, because of thy hurt—but now I am weary of this madness!”
Cormac made no reply; only gazed with love-sick eyes at the speaker, Ethne of the Raven Hair.
She had brought him back from death to life; when he lay more helpless than a babe she had raised his head and put food between his lips; in hours of pain and weariness she had anticipated his least want. He had lost his father, his lands, his favourite horse—all that had meant the world to the boy—but Ethne remained, and he loved her.
“In a few more days,” she said, “you will mount your horse again.”
“My horse!” said the boy, bitterly. “I have not even the power to save his bones from the crows.”