The officer laughed; but there was that in the boy’s tone and manner that induced him to obey.
Gadarn, the chief, was seated on a tree-stump inside of a booth of boughs, leaves, and birch-bark, that had been hastily constructed for his accommodation. He was a great, rugged, north-country man, of immense physical power—as most chiefs were in those days. He seemed to be brooding over his sorrows at the time his officer entered.
“A prisoner waits without,” said the officer. “He is a stripling; and says he has urgent business to communicate to you alone.”
“Send him hither, and let every one get out of ear-shot!” said Gadarn gruffly.
A minute later Cormac appeared, and looked wistfully at the chief, who looked up with a frown.
“Are you the pris—”
He stopped suddenly, and, springing to his feet, advanced a step with glaring eyes and fast-coming breath, as he held out both hands.
With a cry of joy, Cormac sprang forward and threw his arms round Gadarn’s neck, exclaiming—
“Father!—dear father!”
For a few moments there was silence, and a sight was seen which had not been witnessed for many a day—two or three gigantic tears rolled down the warrior’s rugged cheeks, one of them trickling to the end of his weather-beaten nose and dropping on his iron-grey beard.