She drew nearer, and leaned a little forward, and looked at him.
“You are good to look upon, Cathal—the comeliest youth I have ever seen.”
The monk flushed. This was the devil-tongue of which Colum had warned him. But how sweet the words were: like a harp that low voice. Sure, sweeter is a waking dream than a dream in sleep.
“I care,” he repeated dully.
“Look, Cathal.”
Slowly he raised his eyes. As his gaze moved upward it rested on the white breast which was like sea-foam swelling out of brown sea-weed, for she had a tanned fawn-skin belted and gold-claspt over the white robe she wore, and that had disparted for the warm air to play upon her bosom.
It troubled him. He let his eyes fall again. The red was on his face.
“Cathal!”
“Yes, Ardanna.”
“And you will never put your kiss upon a woman’s lips? Never put your heart upon a woman’s heart? Is it of cold sea water you are made—for even the running water in the streams is warmed by the sun? Tell me, Cathal, would you leave Molios the Culdee,—if—”