Not until nearly dawn did the last of the scouts straggle in. None of these bore any news, and all agreed that no signs could they find of any large band of men, nor of any men at all. Turlough heard their reports, letting Brian sleep, and only when the last man came in were any tidings brought. This man bore a strip of sheepskin, which, he said, an old woman had given him to bear to his master.
"A woman!" exclaimed Turlough, scanning the written words on the sheepskin, but unable to read them. "What is she like? It is a strange thing if women bide on Slieve Clochaun! Was there any stead near by?"
"None," replied the man, who trembled with something more than cold. "M'anam go'n Dhia! She was a witch woman, or worse, Turlough Wolf. She leaped out of the snow in my path, told me to bear that skin to Yellow Brian, and vanished in a burst of fire. How could she not have been a devil?"
"Nonsense!" grunted Turlough, though he suddenly laid the strip of skin down. "You are overwarm with uisquebagh, man. What was this woman like? Was she clad all in black?"
"Faith, I did not stop to see," grinned the man sheepishly.
Turlough stroked his beard, while the men went off to eat and sleep. He gazed at the strip of skin, and twice stretched out his hand toward it, with his eye on the fire, but each time drew back. Then he glanced around craftily, found he was alone, and took from under his cloak a small, brass crucifix. With this he touched the skin, found that nothing happened, and rose with a nod. The dawn was just breaking in the east.
"There is no sorcery in it, at least," he muttered; "but I think it bodes no great good to us. Ho, Brian!"
Brian woke and sprang up. Turlough handed him the strip of skin, saying no word, and when Brian had held it to the light of the embers, he looked up suddenly.
"Whence came this?"
"What does it say first?" returned Turlough uneasily.