"There, there, Briton," exulted he, pointing to the post, "there you shall pay! A scant payment for the debt your race owes mine, but to the fullest of your extent."
The old man's exultation would have been fiendish, except for a certain high purpose in his face. He was sincere. He believed that he was only taking just vengeance; and he seemed like some great patriot for a mighty, lost cause.
"But I am a Briton!" stammered Cororuc. "It was not my people who drove your race into exile! They were Gaels, from Ireland. I am a Briton and my race came from Gallia only a hundred years ago. We conquered the Gaels and drove them into Erin, Wales and Caledonia, even as they drove your race."
"No matter!" The ancient chief was on his feet. "A Celt is a Celt. Briton, or Gael, it makes no difference. Had it not been Gael, it would have been Briton. Every Celt who falls into our hands must pay, be it warrior or woman, babe or king. Seize him and bind him to the post."
In an instant Cororuc was bound to the post, and he saw, with horror, the Picts piling firewood about his feet.
"And when you are sufficiently burned, Briton," said the ancient, "this dagger that has drunk the blood of an hundred Britons, shall quench its thirst in yours."
"But never have I harmed a Pict!" Cororuc gasped, struggling with his bonds.
"You pay, not for what you did, but for what your race has done," answered the ancient sternly. "Well do I remember the deeds of the Celts when first they landed on Britain—the shrieks of the slaughtered, the screams of ravished girls, the smokes of burning villages, the plundering."
Cororuc felt his short neck-hairs bristle. When first the Celts landed on Britain! That was over five hundred years ago!
And his Celtic curiosity would not let him keep still, even at the stake with the Picts preparing to light firewood piled about him.