“There are other horses in the world,” replied the woman impatiently. “You shall have another stallion, Cormac—blacker and more beautiful than the last. When you ride to battle again the banners shall bear the old device. The Black Horse is not vanquished—he is but worsted for a time—he will rise again victorious. The Black Horse, Cormac of Fail, the Black Horse against the White!”
The boy shook his head.
“I will never fight again,” he said, mournfully. “The world is lost to me—you are my world now, Ethne, and when you cease to love me I shall die.”
Again his thoughts wandered gloomily on the late events—the hideous defeat—the tempestuous sea—the days of agony and weakness.
They were sitting out of doors, at a short distance from the little wattled cote the monks had given them. The day was so warm that Ethne had unfastened the long gold brooch on her left shoulder and thrown off her brat, or shawl. Her white arms and bosom were bare, beautiful gold torques twined her arms; a gold crescent shone above her forehead. Her thick black hair fell about her to her knees—round her waist was a rich purple scarf, called a criss, fringed with gold and embroidery. Her saffron-coloured tunic was open at the bosom and showed an embroidered under garment called a lann. Her dress was that of a princess of Hibernia.
His words brought a smile to her face. Ethne’s beauty was gone when she smiled, for the turned back lips revealed a terrible defect—that her eye-teeth had grown double the length of the others and were sharp and jagged, like the fangs of a wild beast.
“Mere words!” she said, with the ugly smile growing stronger. “If you loved me, you would follow my wishes.”
“I will follow you to the end of the world,” he said. “Only try me.”
At his words the woman turned sharply and looked at him with glittering eyes.
“Do you mean this?”