It was next rumoured that the gentle Bragela, heart-broken and deserted, had, with her little babe and an old and faithful attendant, one-eyed Donald, taken up her abode in the lonely Castle Brochel. Here she reared her son, within whose infant mind the powers of good and evil seemed to struggle with unwonted energy.
Unceasing were the prayers that the loving mother offered up over her child, for his strange nature caused her many tears. At times he would sit contented by her side, and fixing on her his large dark eyes, listen attentively to her words of instruction and wisdom. Or wandering with her, as soon as he could run alone, over the hills near at hand, he learnt the names and properties of various medicinal herbs, and the hours when they should be gathered to render their use efficacious. Wondrously effectual was the healing touch he inherited from his fair young mother and brought to light in future years.
On other days a mad spirit of wild wantonness seemed to possess the boy. He would destroy everything upon which he could lay his hand, or tear along recklessly over the rugged walls and dangerous precipices on which the Castle stood, where a single false step would have dashed him to pieces on the rocks beneath. If his mother tearfully besought him to return to her, he would burst into loud fits of laughter, and shriek until the very sea-birds flew affrighted from the spot.
When these strange paroxysms seized him, Bragela found that nothing had the least effect upon her wayward child save music. It was wholly by accident she first discovered the soothing charm of melody on his turbulent nature.
One day, after watching his wild antics till her very heart grew sick within her, she re-entered the hall wearied and discouraged. Gradually consoling herself as she remembered how often the young rebel had come down in safety from his perilous haunts, she drew to her the harp, her father's gift in days of yore, which in all her wanderings she had carried with her. Striking chord after chord on its well-worn strings, she at length began to mingle her sweet voice with its thrilling tones. She sang of her childhood's happy home, and her tenderly-loved father, of the still beloved though faithless Valbiorn, of the perils they had together undergone, of the blissful hours she had once enjoyed when the fierce warrior forgot everything save her gentle strains, and lay entranced at her feet drinking in every word, and whispering in ardent tones that "her voice was as that of the angels in heaven."
She would have sung on of sorrow and forlorn solitude, but voice and heart alike failed her. Clasping her arms around her cold harp, the forsaken Bragela bowed her head on its shoulder and wept aloud.
But a little rough hand was laid upon her neck. "Mother, mother," whispered her boy; "you must not weep, you are not forlorn or lonely, for I am here to care for you, and to protect you."
Surprised and touched, Bragela turned to look upon the child. The wild light had died out of his eyes, and in its place shone through those brilliant orbs the tender protecting instinct of his sex. He drew closer to her, and pressing his little curly head on her soft bosom, he murmured, "I am sorry, mother dear; forgive me this time."
Poor Bragela gladly folded the young truant to her heart. Henceforward she derived unspeakable comfort from this new influence over his boisterous spirit. For his sake she cheerfully resumed the art she had deemed laid aside for ever. When the wild fit again and again returned upon her boy, she would even carry her harp into the outer court. There inuring herself, with all a mother's courage, to behold without shuddering his maddest freaks, by her sweet singing and playing she gradually lured him to her side, and awakened his better self.
These happy days, however, could not continue for ever. Eudæmon's mother had gone through too many trials, and was of too tender a nature to endure such grief with impunity. There came a time when the gentle Bragela laid down her wearied head to rest; her dim eye kindled not with affection when her terrified boy bent over her, her cold hand for the first time gave him no responsive caress. Her sorrows were over, but loud and long were the lamentations of her child; thus left alone with one poor old man and his faithful dog Luachan.