"Where are—your men?" she exclaimed after a little. Brian told her what had chanced at the castle, and she broke out in a last wild cackling laugh.
"Tyr-owen's luck!" she cried. "Betrayed and blasted, betrayed and blasted—but the root of the tree is still strong, Yellow Brian—give me your blessing, master—give Noreen your blessing before you go to Rome, Hugh mo mhuirnin—"
Brian's face blanched and his hands trembled, for he saw that her wandering mind took him for his grandsire.
"Dhia agus mhuire orth," he murmured, and with a little sob the Black Woman died.
Silence fell upon the dingle, as Brian gazed down at the woman his grandfather had loved, and whose love had been no less. Then Turlough pushed his horse closer, looking down with a shrewd leer.
"Said she not that it would be a black day when you met her again, master?" he queried with awe in his voice. "I think—"
"Keep silence!" commanded Brian shortly. "Get down from that horse and dig a grave."
"But the ground is frozen—" began old Turlough in dismay. Brian gave him one look, and the old man hastily dismounted, crossing himself and mumbling.
Brian joined him, and they managed to scoop out a shallow grave with knife and sword, laid the old woman in it, and covered her up again. It was a sorry burial for the love of the great earl, but it was the best they could do.
Shaken more than he cared to admit, Brian mounted and rode on in silence. As he had thought, there was nothing supernatural about this weird Black Woman, except, perhaps, the manner in which she had contrived to keep close to him. She had warned him at the Stone Mountain, and she must have been keeping close to Bertragh ever since, unseen by any, with her unhinged mind driving her forward relentlessly.