Still the old woman shook her head and mumbled in wrath, and speedily betook herself away; while Patrick, laughing heartily at her foolish story, went to bed. But all night above the roar of the storm could be heard the howling of wolves.
The morning broke wild and gloomy; the castle seemed lonely and dreary without the cheery presence of Lady Eileen. Patrick went once to her door and knocked, but received no answer. Presently Fingal, the huntsman, came in, armed for the chase. Bran followed close at his heels. “Will my lord hunt to-day? The wolves were among the flocks last night, the shepherds tell me.”
Patrick hesitated, remembering his lady’s commands, but he decided finally to go. Soon he was ready, and issuing from the gates, he and Fingal and the dog were lost in the mists that enveloped the hills.
Long did the household wait their return. Night was brooding: over the castle when Fingal’s horn was heard at the gate. In answer to the warder’s call his voice came sternly through the night: “Bring help, and come quickly; my lady is dead.” To the grievous outcries and questions that arose he would return no answer.
Soon an excited group were hurrying toward the hills, and presently the torches revealed a sad sight. The first to come into view was their young lord, crouching on the ground, with the dog’s head clasped in his arms; Bran’s throat had been torn and mangled, and he had been thrust through with a spear. Patrick was wounded and torn in many places; blood was flowing down his face and throat, and his tears were falling on the dog’s head. Not far away lay Lady Eileen, quite dead. Very beautiful and placid she looked, as if sleeping; but on her throat were marks of great teeth.
“Take up my lady and bear her to the castle,” said Patrick; “as for Bran, you must bury him here.”
“Nay, child, he is only a dead dog,” said the old nurse, fussily. But she was met by a stern command to be quiet.
“Do as I bid you,” he said to the servants, and then added, “The good dog went mad, and attacked my lady. I could not save her. Let my father know this, should I die;” and then the boy fell backward, fainting.
To the father it was a sad home-coming when, a few days later, he returned from war,—his beautiful young wife lying cold and dead in the chapel; his son very ill, calling always for Bran to save him from some deadly peril.
Greatly the household marvelled how their lady came to be out in the mist and the storm, alone on the hills; but Fingal, the huntsman, sought his two gossips, the nurse and the harper, and told this tale of the day’s hunt.