CHAPTER XVIII.
England’s First Christian Queen.
The foster-brother and sister were imprisoned in one of the rooms of the Roman villa, in which the feast had been held. They were not fettered, but were carefully watched by a strong body of soldiers. They were to be put to death upon the following day. Their great army had scattered in every direction; a great number of prisoners had been taken by the Saxons. The Black Horse had failed!
The man and woman sat as far from each other as the room would allow. Cormac sat with his face buried in his hands. Ethne crouched like a wild animal caught in its lair; her body still quivered with the war-passion of the evening before; her face was swollen from the blows she had received; her beautiful hair was matted with blood, and blood stained her white skin and her tattered finery.
Cormac could not bear to look at her. He knew now the part she had played with Redwald. During the long night she had told him everything—told it him fiercely—with wild, heathen oaths. In her despair and rage there was still some pleasure in letting him know of Elgiva’s fate.
In all the tumult and distress of Cormac’s mind Elgiva’s loss seemed scarcely harder to bear than that Ethne should prove so treacherous and vile.
“We shall die together,” said Cormac, taking his hands from his face and looking at Ethne solemnly. “It is fitting—that I who tied myself so blindly to you in life, should not be parted in death!”
Ethne made no reply.
“And yet,” he said, after a time, as though continuing some thought aloud, “I could have sworn at the Fair that you loved Elgiva and lamented her loss.”
“Lamented her loss!” repeated Ethne, gloomily. “Ay, her loss meant all lost in those days—long ago I promised you should hear what the diviners told me at the Beltane festival, and now you shall hear it. They told me I should gain my lost possessions in Damnonia, in exchange for a Saxon maid. Now you know why I brought the great, fawning wench with me to Britain.”
She started up, raging again.