"Rebel!—Outcast! I cannot betray thee!"
"Betray me!" echoed a voice from behind. Turning, the speaker stood before him. It was the athletic form of the stranger, wrapped in his grey cloak and cap of coarse felt, plumed from the falcon's wing.
"And who speaks the word that shall betray me? A king,—a fugitive! Yet, not all the means that treachery can com
pass shall trammel one hair upon this brow without my privity or consent."
"Comest thou like the sharp wind into my dwelling?" inquired Holt, in a voice tremulous with amazement.
"Free as the unconfined air; yet fettered by a lighter bond,—a woman's love!" returned the intruder. "Thou hast a daughter."
The Lord of Grislehurst grew pale at these words. Some terrific meaning clung to them. After a short pause the stranger continued:—
"Thus speak the legends of Tigernach, and the bards of Ulster, rapt into visions of the future:—'When a king of Erin shall flee at the voice of a woman, then shall the distaff and spindle conquer whom the sword and buckler shall not subdue.' That woman is yon heretic queen. A usurper, an intruder on our birthright. Never were the O'Neales conquered but by woman! I have lingered here when the war-cry hath rung from the shores of my country. Again the shout hath come, and the impatient chiefs wait for my return. But"——
The warrior seemed to writhe during the conflict. His hands were clenched, and every muscle stiffened with agony. Scorn at his own weakness, and dread, horrible undefinable dread, as he felt the omnipotent power mastering his proud spirit. The man who would have laughed at the shaking of a spear, and the loud rush of the battle, quailed before a woman's hate and a woman's love.
"And what is thy request to-night?" said Holt.