THE DRUIDESS.

A STORY FOR BOYS AND OTHERS.

BY

FLORENCE GAY.

London:

JOHN OUSELEY,

16, FARRINGDON STREET, E.C.

[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]

PREFACE.

As this story touches upon history to a certain extent, perhaps too much licence has been taken with Ethelbert’s movements in bringing him as far west as the Severn Valley. The union between the Britons and Saxons was suggested by the historical league formed between the Britons and those Saxons who revolted against the detested Ceawlin, and, settling in the valley of the lower Severn, took the name of Hwiccan. The date of this league was 592—eleven years after the destruction of Uriconium which in the following story is placed about 578. Some liberty, also, has been taken with the date of Ethelbert’s marriage with Bertha, which took place in 584.

It seems hardly necessary to say that Banba and Fail are old bardic names for Ireland. And that the cities Gloucester, Cirencester and Bath were known in Roman days as Glevum, Corinium and Aque Sulio.

S. Kevin is known also as S. Coemgen.

The date of the Convocation at Druimceta is difficult to discover, but must have been during the reign of S. Columba’s friend, King Aedh, 572-599.

Dedicated to my Nephews and Nieces.

CONTENTS.

THE DRUIDESS.

CHAPTER I.

“The barbarians drive us to the sea; the sea drives us back to the barbarians; between them we are exposed to two sorts of death; we are either slain or drowned.”

(From the Britons’ appeal to Aëtius—Commander of the Roman armies 446 A.D.)

Upon a cold, spring morning in the year of Our Lord 577, the closing scenes of a battle were being fought out on the western shore of Britain; in that part of the country then called Damnonia; on a stretch of low-lying land, between the two rivers—the Yeo and the Axe.

On the winning side stood the Saxons with the whole breadth of vanquished Britain behind them—on the losing, the Britons with but a narrow strip of land between them and the sea; that narrow strip of flat sea-shore.

There were women on both sides. Brawny-limbed, red-skinned Saxons with floating ruddy hair—fighting with a strength and valour worthy of the men beside them; as much at home in that scene of blood-shed as they were by their hearths making the trews and baking the bread of their lords and his ceorls. British ladies reared in the refinement and luxury that the Romans had made common in Britain; satin-skinned and white-handed, strangers to the lightest toil—now forced, in dire necessity, on the battle-field; but, once there, waging war with the spirit of their ancestress, Boadicea; smaller and slighter than their foes and untutored in the art of weapons, they were gifted with a natural dexterity and passion that enabled them, in this hour of need, to be of service to their lords and brothers.

One, in particular, had been conspicuous in the long three days’ fight, on account of her activity and skill. A slight, dark woman, raven-haired and white-limbed, clad in robes of royal saffron-colour, flashing with gold and emeralds. Often by her side was a youth, who bore a strong likeness to her; and these two, woman and boy, commanded the retreating Britons.

The boy was mounted on a beautiful Hibernian stallion, of a pure jet-black, and on the banners still drooping, here and there, overhead was the emblem of a Black Horse in opposition to the White Horse of the Saxons.

No leader could have shown more courage and spirit than this youth. In this last agony of defeat his example still inspired his followers; he gave no sign of the almost mortal wounds with which his body was pierced; his garments were red with blood, and his horse was smeared with white, where the sweat had lathered into foam—but on that stricken field every valiant warrior showed battle stains, and every jaded steed was pale with foam.

Strapped on the shoulder of the boy-leader was a small image of the Virgin, and in the ranks, behind him, were numerous emblems of the Christian Faith.

This was not only a battle between Saxon and Briton, it was also a battle between Christian and Heathen; and yet the woman, on the Christian side, from time to time broke forth into the Druidical incantations of early British days; this she did in moments of savage passion as she stood upright in her car dealing forth death from the sheaf of arrows at her side.

In one corner of the battle-field the mist-cloud lifted wholly for a few minutes, and the sun shone on the thinned ranks of the Britons showing them woefully hindered in their movements by fallen warriors and horses; a mere sprinkling of young and strong remained; here and there a wounded man raised himself and still tried to use his bow. Old men and women fought on desperately. The war-dogs were still numerous—a veritable phalanx armed with spiked collars and goaded into savage rage, strangely horrible with their red, hanging tongues and bloodshot eyes.

In the sudden gleam of sunshine the boy saw that the woman leader was in extreme peril. She had driven her chariot so quickly over the grass—slippery with dew and blood—that her horse had fallen. The boy galloped over dead and dying to her side—as he rode he saw a javelin, aimed at the woman, pierce the side of the struggling horse.

At a sign from his friend, the youth, with rare dexterity, harnessed his own horse to her chariot, in place of hers. She pointed to a gap in the ranks of a small band of Saxons; and, mounting again on his steed, the boy galloped with her to the spot—the sharp knives of the chariots doing desperate work among a body of Saxon soldiers through which they ploughed.

It was the ancient method of warfare, which the woman by instinct had followed. At just such a gap in the ranks of the foe as she had chosen it was the custom to leap from the chariot and charge on foot; but now she remained standing in her car and, suddenly cutting the traces, set her companion free to charge furiously on the surprised enemy—whilst she aided him by a quick shower of arrows. Her artifice succeeded; the boy bounded forward causing such havoc among a little band of Saxons that they—taken off their guard—turned and fled.

In the panic of the moment the enemy did not see that the boy’s gallant horse had received his death-wound. With a last frantic attempt to obey his master’s onward signal, the animal raised itself on its hinder limbs, pawed wildly in the air, gave one long, whistling breath and, with throat and nostrils choked with blood, fell back dead—and, in falling, fell upon his master.

It was the last act of the long, stubborn, futile resistance. The hovering fog-cloud swept down again upon the field as a curtain drops at the end of a scene.

The woman stood—listening. She could hear the steps of the retreating Saxons—but, beyond that, was another indistinct and distant clamour; her quick sense of hearing was confused; she bent and laid her ear to the ground. She listened intently and learnt that the main body of the Saxon host was advancing towards them.

Flight alone remained. She looked towards the flat sea-shore; the water only revealed itself for a stone’s throw—all beyond was fog—the sea that was visible was sullen grey with furious, crested waves of dead-white foam. Even in that moment’s glance she saw fugitives from her own ranks, perish on the ocean—washed from the frail rafts they had hastily made and set forth upon.

What of the boy lying crushed under his war-horse—was he dead?

He still breathed—but not all the strength she could summon was sufficient to extricate him from his position, had not a larger and stronger woman come to her aid. From her appearance the newcomer was Saxon, rather than British; she had the same blue eyes and yellow hair, the same strong features and heavy frame as the enemy from whom they were fleeing! With the strength and haste of despair the two women dragged the dead horse from the boy’s body, and carried off the unconscious hero.

When they reached the shore they found a raft awaiting them; and in a few seconds they were being pushed off, through the surf, by a few remaining British slaves.

They were accompanied by two or three scores of their own countrymen; but of these the greater number were soon washed from their rafts and their drowned bodies cast back again upon the beach.

In a few minutes the approaching Saxons had reached the shore; some of the more blood-thirsty dashed through the water in pursuit, but they were either drowned or driven back by the waves.

Just as their bark had passed safely through the surf, the two women saw a dark form swimming swiftly towards them. The fair-haired girl gave a cry for joy, as she distinguished the head of a great war-hound above the water; the animal had been often by the side of the youth during the battle and now love of his master drew him, bruised and bleeding, through the waves. The smaller woman would have beaten him off with her oar; but the other prevented her and aided the animal as he scrambled on to the raft, and threw himself beside the boy. The quarrel over the animal was so violent that the bark was in danger of foundering; the dark woman showed as much fury against the girl as she had shown that day against the enemy.

CHAPTER II.
Gléand dé.

In the days when cells and churches sprang up like mushrooms throughout Hibernia, Saint Kevin had chosen as the site of one of his monasteries that point on the eastern shore of Leinster, where the coast is rendered dangerous by sand-banks.

The little band of monks who dwelt there added to their life of toil a special watch upon the sea; they made the rescue of fugitive Britons their peculiar care; feeling it a sacred duty to protect members of the Faith, who had been driven from their homes by the fire and sword of the heathen. Moreover, S. Kevin, as a child, had been under the guidance of Petroc, a Briton, and for this reason Britons were particularly dear to his followers.

Some days after the battle in Damnonia, the monks, keeping their ceaseless watch upon the sea, saw a raft among the wreckage that the waves were bringing to the shore. At the peril of their lives they dashed into the water and dragged the raft safely to the beach. On it were four unconscious beings. A fine young chieftain with his body sadly pierced and wounded—like a marble Antinous from loss of blood; bearing marks of royal birth in his person and in his princely garments. With his head upon the young prince’s feet was a great war-hound, hoary with age, his hair matted with brine and blood. A big fair girl lay with one arm round the hound’s neck and the other clasped to her heart a man’s sword and torques—of so rich and rare a pattern that only a great king could have possessed them. A little removed from these three beings was a small dark woman from whom the simple monks recoiled at first, saying she had the air of a sorceress; she was clothed royally, like the boy, and was fair, too, as women are accounted fair in Hibernia—having long fine hair of ebony blackness.

It needed much care and skill to bring the three human beings from the death-like trance to which exhaustion and exposure had brought them. But the monks knew their work well; many a homeless Briton had found warmth and comfort at their hands; indeed, the little monastery was already so thronged by castaways that it was thought better to carry the three poor refugees to Saint Kevin’s great monastery at Glendalough—where the sculptured saint may still be seen in the ancient ruin called Priest’s house; he is the central figure in the triangular pediment of the doorway, bearing on his head the crown of the early bishops of Ireland.

Crowned with gold, he is represented to the world; yet, in the life he led in the wilderness, it must have been seldom that crown or mitre adorned his head. His monastery at Glendalough was too luxurious for him, and, for years at a time, he would withdraw himself into the heart of the woods, sheltering in a hollow tree or bee-hive hut; without fire, and existing on herbs and water. In the long trances of prayer, into which he would fall, the beasts rambled fearlessly around him, the birds perched on his arms and shoulders singing and twittering about him. At such times, he said, the leaves and branches gave forth divine music to him. It was the state of spiritual ecstasy common to the early saints; who tested to the full the efficacy of prayer from which they drew the spiritual power that shed a greater influence than a life spent in ceaseless activity.

Glendalough, or Gléand dé, signified Valley of God; it seemed a fitting name, for there the tender-hearted monks laboured every day among the Britons whom they had rescued, sharing with them their own scanty food. Only a ragged hut of wattles with heather beds could be spared to the newcomers; but the monks brought cushions of down to spread upon the heather and begged, from the neighbouring chieftains, warm cloaks and skins of sheep and bear.

The women recovered before the boy.

When, at last they were able to sit up and look about them, their eyes—that had closed on scenes of bloodshed and storm—opened on green meadows dotted with apple-trees in full bloom and bordered by gardens filled with herbs and fruit-bearing plants. On a sunny slope stretched a vineyard, and in the distance were rows of bee-hives—bees and vines, sure sign of a monastery. Gentle-faced monks were at work on the soil, their songs mingling with the cheerful tinkle of carpenters and masons at their trades, for on the land around were being raised high, domed churches and beautiful carved crosses. On the breeze came the sound of silver bells.

When the wounded youth opened his eyes and saw this scene and heard its pleasant sound, he cried out that he was in Paradise.

“Tir Tairgirie!” he cried; the delirium of weakness was upon him. “The Saxons have slain body, but spirits have carried my soul hither to its resting place!”

He raved of Tir Tairgirie—the paradise of every Celt, the constant theme of their bards. Hidden from earthly vision by a cloud, full of lovely dwellings, grass and flowers; a place of unending day and perpetual fagless summer—abounding in meat and apples—free apples—free from disease or death.

As the young warrior slept the two women watched over him.

The rain—the frequent rain of Hibernia—came up on the wind, and beat through the wattles of the cote and on the arms and bosoms of the women. But they gave no heed to wind or rain so long as their warrior was protected—stripping their own bodies to add to the coverings the monks had begged for them from the chiefs around—purple cloaks, wrought with rich broidery by Fail’s fair daughters.

“Go!” said one woman to the other. “We need thee not—he and I.” The speaker had the cold, brilliant beauty of ebony and alabaster.

“No,” replied the other; “he woke with my name on his lips.”

“Ay!” said the first. “A dream cry—a wail of nightmare horror. Thou art his evil star. And with thy sobs, thy hoggish sighs and silly tears thou dost disturb his rest! Leave him to my care. I am sick of thy blunders.”

“Then will I wait on thee,” said the fair girl, bluntly. “Ay, though I hate thee, Ethne of the Raven Hair. I will put all within reach of thy hand that thou need’st. I will go and come at thy beck and call—for thou hast rare skill in sickness, that I see—and I will serve him through thee.”

Ethne watched the boy jealously. An early training among the Druids had given her great knowledge in Nature’s laws, and she knew that the loss of blood which was the warrior’s chief danger could be cured by rest and food and air. She did not leave him night or day. Yet, as she watched him, there was neither love nor tenderness in her gaze.

On the fourth day after their journey to Glendalough he opened his eyes and looked at her. She saw the fever had left him.

“There, there,” she said, softly. “Sleep on now, and take your rest—wounds need time to heal, and time now we have in plenty.”

The boy would have raised his head, but at the attempt pain closed, like a vice, on his temples; a white arm, laden with bracelets, held him back on his pillow of heather.

His eyes dwelt on the white arm; he recognised the royal saffron-scent of the drapery that fell over it. With a feeble movement he turned so that his cheek might rest against it.

“Where is she—the Saxon—Elgiva?” he asked after a time.

“She prays,” was the answer; the boy knew, without looking, that there was a smile of scorn in the dark eyes and on the sneering lips above him.

Through the openings of the wattled cote in which he lay he had seen that the day was dark and gloomy; the sky so purple with coming storm that the sprays of hawthorn aloft had a faint, pinkish tinge upon them. The day was as dark and tempestuous as his own sad soul.

“She prays,” continued the scornful voice, “and has she not need to pray—to offer up thanksgiving? The Saxons smote us on one cheek, then we offered the other—full and grievously have we been smitten on both. Therefore she may well be pleased at our performance of the Christians’ Duty!”

The woman paused, and when she spoke again there was rage as well as scorn in her tones.

“Never forget, boy, the fruit thy father’s Christian zeal has borne! In the shaping of thy future life, remember always, Cormac of Fail, that this mushroom faith has cost us our British possessions!”

CHAPTER III.

“... some to the mountains—others yielded to be slaves because of hunger—others to the seas—singing and sighing under the shadow of their sails.”

(From the Epistle of Gildas, the most ancient British author.)

“Prate to me no longer of marriage and giving in marriage. We love each other—that’s enough! Perchance we’ll love others, and a many, ere we die. Marriage, forsooth! And this new-fangled Christian craze—one man, one wife—’tis folly! Fit only for maids and striplings. Tush, boy! I have borne with thee, and humoured thee, because of thy hurt—but now I am weary of this madness!”

Cormac made no reply; only gazed with love-sick eyes at the speaker, Ethne of the Raven Hair.

She had brought him back from death to life; when he lay more helpless than a babe she had raised his head and put food between his lips; in hours of pain and weariness she had anticipated his least want. He had lost his father, his lands, his favourite horse—all that had meant the world to the boy—but Ethne remained, and he loved her.

“In a few more days,” she said, “you will mount your horse again.”

“My horse!” said the boy, bitterly. “I have not even the power to save his bones from the crows.”

“There are other horses in the world,” replied the woman impatiently. “You shall have another stallion, Cormac—blacker and more beautiful than the last. When you ride to battle again the banners shall bear the old device. The Black Horse is not vanquished—he is but worsted for a time—he will rise again victorious. The Black Horse, Cormac of Fail, the Black Horse against the White!”

The boy shook his head.

“I will never fight again,” he said, mournfully. “The world is lost to me—you are my world now, Ethne, and when you cease to love me I shall die.”

Again his thoughts wandered gloomily on the late events—the hideous defeat—the tempestuous sea—the days of agony and weakness.

They were sitting out of doors, at a short distance from the little wattled cote the monks had given them. The day was so warm that Ethne had unfastened the long gold brooch on her left shoulder and thrown off her brat, or shawl. Her white arms and bosom were bare, beautiful gold torques twined her arms; a gold crescent shone above her forehead. Her thick black hair fell about her to her knees—round her waist was a rich purple scarf, called a criss, fringed with gold and embroidery. Her saffron-coloured tunic was open at the bosom and showed an embroidered under garment called a lann. Her dress was that of a princess of Hibernia.

His words brought a smile to her face. Ethne’s beauty was gone when she smiled, for the turned back lips revealed a terrible defect—that her eye-teeth had grown double the length of the others and were sharp and jagged, like the fangs of a wild beast.

“Mere words!” she said, with the ugly smile growing stronger. “If you loved me, you would follow my wishes.”

“I will follow you to the end of the world,” he said. “Only try me.”

At his words the woman turned sharply and looked at him with glittering eyes.

“Do you mean this?”

“I do.”

Her nostrils grew large—her breath came loud and heavy. She raised her clenched hand upward. The boy’s spirit rose.

“Would you to battle again?” he asked. “Where—how?”

“Where!—how!” she screamed. “Here in Hibernia! Rally the men of Hibernia around you—and take your sword and strike at this Christianity that has cost us our home and country!”

She had risen in speaking. Now she sat down again and pressed her lips together; and she placed her hand upon her heart, trying to subdue her passion.

She looked at him narrowly, as though half fearing the effect of her words upon him. He trembled from head to foot.

“This is madness!” he said, in a low voice. “The madness of despair—and it is harder for you than for us, for you had not Elgiva’s cause at heart.”

“Elgiva!” she hissed. “Accursed Saxon name!”

Ethne leapt from her seat again; and, with her face and clenched hand thrown to the sky, let fall a hundred curses on her foes.

She had found a vent for her smothered wrath, and the boy forgot for the time her former words.

The fear and loathing of the Saxon were upon them both. They fell into each other’s arms sobbing and crying out that Rome had done this thing to them. Rome had deserted them in their hour of need.

“The Romans taught us to love ease and luxury,” cried the boy, “and to cry out for help when we were hurt! When we had learnt our lesson well, they sailed away and left us. Then that fool Vootigern did his pretty piece of work—he made room in the nest for the cuckoo who has kicked us out of fair Britain.”

“There is little left of fair Britain now,” cried Ethne. “They have made sword-land of half of it, the other grows smaller every day—this last defeat has cut it in two. Damnonia and Cornwall, with the precious fortress, Tintagil, is severed from the rest. Men say, too, towards Caledonia there is a weak spot, where the Angles of the North are pressing closer to the sea.”

The boy’s face grew sadder. It was monstrous—incredible! The fair isle of Britain over-run by barbarians; its gentle people made food for vultures, bound in hideous serfdom or hid like vermin in the crevices of the earth. Noble lords and tender ladies herding, like animals, in caves—and filling their starving bodies with oak-flittern and beech-mast of the forest! The boy folded his arms tightly over his heaving bosom. In all the bitterness and shame that his thoughts brought him—hardest of all was the knowledge that he had not died upon the battle-field. He had fled, he said to himself—unconsciously, indeed—but, nevertheless, he had fled! Flown before the Saxons like fire—as the heathen themselves were wont to describe it.

“It is late, Cormac,” said Ethne, suddenly, looking at the shadows of the trees. “Long past noon, and you have need of meat and milk. Soon, very soon, you will be well enough to fast one day and feast the next; but we have not finished yet our work of making flesh and blood!”

When they entered their dwelling, the little round building seemed all gloom and smoke. But a bright voice greeted them and, when they were seated, a young girl brought them bowls of broth. She had been standing over the smoky central fire, stirring the contents of an iron cauldron with a ladle of yew-wood. Her eyes were red from the smoke, and her hands black and scorched from handling some half-charred nuts she had been roasting in the ashes.

Ethne and Cormac seated themselves on some leathern cushions piled on a heap of dry heather; the girl drew a low stool of yew-wood before them, and laid their platters upon it. She threw herself down, at some little distance, and proceeded to eat the nuts she had taken from the fire. An old war-hound, blind in one eye and covered by half-healed scars, dragged himself towards her and lay down with his head resting against her knee. He had previously feasted well from the bones of the soup-pot; but now he took one or two of the roasted kernels she offered him and made a show of eating them, as though to please her. It was the same hound who had followed them on their flight from Britain, whose life the girl had saved and for whom she had received wounds from Ethne; he was a wonderful creature still, in spite of his age—all muscle and fire—of the breed the Romans had admired; so tall, his head reared itself to the height of a man’s shoulder; so strong he could bear a man over bog and boulder; his one great eye, set in a cavern, seemed lit as by a spark of fire; his lean form, clothed by shaggy hair, of a weird colour, resembling the hair-like growth of ancient pine-trees.

CHAPTER IV.

“Many a branch of the race of Conn is in the land of Banba of smooth grass.”

(Book of Lecan.)

The girl rose often and attended to the wants of her companions. Cormac’s eye fell on her and marked the difference between her and Ethne. The contrast was strong. The young Saxon wore a straight robe of sack-cloth, frayed here and there, and stained from labour in the field and at the fire-side; her feet were bare; she wore no ornaments; her hair, tangled and powdered with ashes, was badly plaited, tied with rushes and drawn round her neck. Her skin was red and rough, her movements awkward, her hands large and toil-worn. She was as broad and tall as a fully-developed woman, but she had the shapeless figure and raw limbs of a child, or an awkward boy.

Once when she stooped over Ethne, in filling her cup, the Celtic woman raised her hand and slapped her in the face.

“Ah, beast!” she cried. “Cub of a Saxon sire—I loathe thy very touch!”

When the meal was over, some water was required from the spring, and the girl ran to get it. The hound, who could not endure the Saxon out of his sight, followed her.

Ethne sneered as she glanced after the retreating figures.

“It will soon be time, Cormac of Fail,” she said, “for you to take the Saxon maid to wife. She will make a fitting bride for a king, in yon sack-cloth shift.”

Again she sneered—Cormac grew crimson.

“And thou can’st have none other. Remember that! One wife must suffice for a Christian. Ha, ha!”

Cormac pushed his platter from before him and rose.

“Ethne,” he said, “I cannot fulfil my father’s commands. I cannot wed the Saxon.”

He trembled from head to foot. He had left Ethne’s side and was gazing on the wall, where a golden crown, torques of gold, and a king’s sword were displayed, deeply stained with blood. They had been taken from his father’s body on the field of battle; Elgiva, the Saxon, had carried them away, and she had placed them on the wall of their dwelling.

The boy stooped forward and kissed the tokens, one by one. The tears streamed from his eyes.

Solemnly he knelt down and, clasping his hands together, looked upward as though in prayer.

“Father,” he cried, “forgive me, but I cannot fulfil thy commands—for marriage without love is no marriage—and I loathe the Saxon!”

The boy’s grief was touching. Ethne watched him with the ugly sneer lifting her lip and showing the fang beneath.

“Well done, boy!” she cried. “A good Pictish chieftain needs no Saxon among his wives.”

Both the speakers turned as a wooden pail was cast down on the ground. Elgiva stood before them.

“What work is this you are at now,” she cried. “Ethne of the Raven Hair?”

The girl’s broad chest, red from sun and wind, heaved under her sack-cloth. She frowned on both Ethne and Cormac.

“Why do you seek to turn the son against the father’s wishes?”

The dog, which had followed the girl, gave a low growl as he noticed her attitude, and pressed closer to her side. She threw her arm round the creature’s neck; his one eye, red as a coal, burned with hatred as he looked at Ethne.

“Child of a Saxon savage,” replied Ethne, haughtily, “do I render account to thee of my doings?”

The girl gave no heed to the taunt.

“Nay, but he shall wed me,” she cried, firmly, “and fulfil the commands of his father.”

Ethne burst into low laughter.

“Thou wilt have a rare bride, Cormac,” she cried. “She will mend thy trews like all true Saxon wives, and she will wear them, too!”

Cormac strode forward.

Every word the Saxon uttered angered him. He was full of shame and wounded vanity when he looked at her; she was so raw, ugly, and uncouth. Her eyes were still red from the smoke; her mouth, naturally large, was increased in size by half-healed scars.

Now, at Ethne’s mocking laughter, he fell into a fury.

“I will not marry thee,” he cried. “Great gaby! Ugly blear-eyed, red-legged girl!”

In his rage he lifted his hand and slapped her on the face. The old hound whimpered as though his master had struck him.

Elgiva was speechless with surprise. Cormac fell back to his old position beside Ethne.

Elgiva’s face smarted with pain; one of the half-healed wounds bled afresh. Cormac had struck her—just as in the days when they had been babes together! Moreover, he had said he would not marry her. Her eyes filled with tears; she did not care for the pain, or for Cormac’s unkindness to her—but the thought that he had turned so soon against his dead father’s wishes was anguish!

“It is your fault, Ethne,” she said. “You have persuaded him to say this. You are wicked and heartless! You did not love Griffith because he would not make you his wife. You hate me because, for my mother’s sake, Griffith warred upon the Saxons!”

She sat down on the floor and, burying her face in the hound’s neck, sobbed as though her heart would break. The animal licked her hair and shoulders. Cormac watched her uneasily. It was unlike Elgiva to give way to tears. The Saxon blood which flowed in her veins—loathed by herself as well as by her companions—had endowed her with a stoical calm in times of ordinary distress.

He began to feel ashamed of the blow he had given Elgiva. He had determined that he could not marry her, but the very fact that he was breaking his father’s commands made him more anxious to show kindness to one who had served that father with more than a daughter’s devotion.

He remembered how, on the battle-field, she had attempted to throw herself between him and his death-blow; and how she had waited on his dying moments under the swords of the enemy.

In the midst of her grief, a new and comforting idea came to Elgiva. She sat up suddenly, ceased sobbing, and looked inquiringly at Cormac.

“Perhaps,” she cried, “you have no mind to marry! You mean to follow the good Saint Kevin and become a monk!” If such were the case, Cormac’s treatment of her was explained. Had not the holy Kevin himself done more than Cormac when a girl had spoken to him of marriage? Had he not taken a great bunch of nettles and beaten her with them till she was sore? Elgiva’s warm heart filled with remorse at her unkind thoughts of Cormac. She knew the dead Griffith’s wishes too well to doubt that it would be more pleasing to him that Cormac should enter a monastery than that he should become her husband.

“To enter a monastery!” sneered Ethne. “To till the ground like a slave! To wear homespun and tend sick-beds! Bah! Cormac is a warrior, and the monks have not enough spirit to kill a slave!”

“Yet the monks drew our raft to shore at the risk of their lives—and restored us to life,” said Elgiva. She had risen in anger.

“But you do not love the monks any more than you love me,” she said.

“I hate ye all—Saxon virgin and toiling slaves!” returned Ethne. “Nor have I turned slave and ploughman after their example.”

The girl glanced down at her roughened hands and earth-stained dress.

“No,” she said, “you add to their work, instead of sharing it. Even for the saffron robes on your back you must give the good men trouble. You sent the poor monk, Patrick, many a weary mile with a heavy yew chest on his shoulders. And when the case was opened what was it you had sent him for? Nothing but silk and samite—gold torques and embroidered crisses!”

Cormac, meanwhile, had been gazing at Elgiva with a troubled face. He was thinking of his dying father on the battle-field, and of his anguish when their fight for his British kinswoman had been in vain.

Cormac went up to Elgiva and placed his hand roughly on her shoulder.

“Listen, girl,” he said. “I have told you I will not marry you, and it is true. But I tell you also that I will rescue your British mother, or die in the attempt.”

He turned to Ethne and embraced her.

“My Ethne! My spouse that will be,” he cried. “My madness is passed—I am thy warrior once more—thy warrior with wounds healed by thee. We will to battle again!”

“Ahoi!” she screamed, “Cormac of Fail—Cormac, the Black Horse. To warriors alone doth Ethne give her favours! Pict, I call thee and brother! Prince of Hibernia and twig from the tree of Tara! Cormac of Fail—sprung from the loins of gods and princesses!”

She parted her crowding locks and saluted him fiercely. She drew back and smiled at him, with the little tusks gleaming on either side of her mouth. Even with that ugly smile upon her lips the boy marvelled at her beauty—at her smooth white limbs, her blue-black hair, and her flashing purple eyes.

He fell back from the compass of her arms and drew his sword, flourishing it around his head.

“Pict do you call me!” he cried, in the same screaming voice. “Ay, Pict am I, and Pict art thou! And we will rally Pict and Scot around us! We will to Britain again and harass the Saxons, as in olden days we harassed the Britons! Scot am I and Scot art thou—and the Scots brought Lia Fail and the Ogham books to Hibernia!”

“Fire!” she returned, “and blood and plunder! Men we make white with fear. Our swords drink deep of blood of maids and babes. Ahoi—we will once more to Britain!”

She drew her lips over her savage fangs. Once more she pressed her hot, fierce mouth to the boy’s.—She also drew her sword and brandished it above her head.

“Blood!” she cried, “and fire and sacrifice! Come with me, boy, to the sacred heart of Hibernia and I will show thee warriors that will set the world on fire. Tell me, Cormac, wilt thou come?”

He was as fierce and hot as she, and he yelled out with bloodthirsty oaths that he would follow her to the world’s end.

Then—like all true Hibernians, in times of excitement, they fell to calling pedigrees.

“Hail, Cormac!” she cried, striking his shoulder with the flat of her sword, “Whelp of the lion, Tuathal!”

“Tuathal the Legitimate!” chanted Cormac, proudly. “Sib am I also to Cormac, son of Art, to Conn of the Hundred Battles, and Niall of the Nine Hostages!”

“Sib art thou also to me, Cormac of Fail!” screamed the woman. “Through the blood of an Ethne—Ethne the Terrible, princess and priestess! Mighty was she in life, treading in blood as a milk-maid in dew—and mighty was she in death, for white oxen drew wood and treasure to her pyre for nine days after her death. Myrrh and amber they brought—unguents and spices and gold. Beasts they slaughtered by the score, and all the earth was drenched with mead and blood.”

“Hail to our ancestress, Ethne!” called the boy, “wife of Oengus—Oengus the Christian, baptised by Saint Patrick!”

“Nay!” thundered Ethne, suddenly dropping the chanting tone in which they were speaking. “But the wife of Oengus—she of my race and my name, never lapsed into Christianity! Druidess she was, and druidess she remained—and in the battle in which she was slain her incantations struck awe into the hearts of all that heard them!”

Then again her voice grew high and shrill as a battle-cry.

“Blood and sacrifice!” she yelled “and the secrets told by fresh-slain men!”

Suddenly she made a thrust at Cormac with her sword, a mere feint—so dexterous that, though it drew blood, it was a mere scratch that might have been received from a sharp thorn. There was a light in her eyes, like that of a half-angry tigress playing with its whelp.

“Ha, cub!” she snarled, “thou hast been bred in the faith of a cur but if thou would’st have Ethne and Ethne’s aid thou must leave all and return with me to the ancient faith and to the Druids!”

The boy fell before her, as though he had received a mortal wound.

“I cannot understand,” he gasped. “Thou art a Christian, Ethne!”

She laughed and folded her arms.

“I am a Druidess! Learn that, ye two poor white-livered Christians.”

Her glittering eyes glanced from Cormac to Elgiva.

The distant chime of the monastery bells came softly to their ears; and closer at hand the chant of Saint Patrick’s hymn, the Feth Fiddha. The June sun shone warm through the chinks in the walls.

For a time Cormac was unable to speak. When he did so, his voice was hoarse and uncertain.

“It is a foul and horrible faith. Its rites are bloody and repulsive—there is human sacrifice—and the burning to death of men and women and little children! At its best it teaches neither love nor charity.”

She spat upon the ground.

“So much for your love and charity! I never heard such words till I lived amongst fools and Christians!”

“But thou art a Christian, Ethne!”

The woman again laughed impatiently.

“A Christian! ’Twas a slight thing that—to humour thy fond old father—when in return he gave me gold and lands!”

The boy’s eyes drooped proudly. He turned and left the hut, and the old hound slunk after him.

Two heavy hands seized Ethne’s shoulders—and the Saxon’s blue eyes flamed into the purple ones.

It was the age when primitive passions held sway—and this young girl, reared in the gentle faith of the Christians—now that her anger was roused, was every whit as fierce as Ethne.

Ethne seized her knife, but the Saxon wrenched it from her grasp and threw it to the farther end of the hut.

“Viper!” cried Elgiva. “Foul woman and false friend! Thou art un-chaste, un-loving! Thou hast stolen his heart, and now seek to defile him in thy Druid rites. He shall not sacrifice, I tell thee, he shall not sacrifice!”

Ethne was inarticulate with rage. The two women fought like animals. Ethne tore at the girl with her teeth, but Elgiva prevailed—and at length threw the Celt, bruised and bleeding to the ground.

Then she wept. Not from rage or anger; but from fear and the knowledge of her own weakness. For she knew with Cormac she was powerless.

CHAPTER V.
Why Ethne Hates the Christians.

Elgiva had spoken the truth when she had said that Ethne had no love for the dead Griffith, because he had not made her his wife.

As a child, Ethne had been told she should be one of the wives of the rich and famous chieftain, Griffith Finnfuathairt—King Griffith of Erin he was called, though his kingdom in Hibernia had been long ago cut up and divided; when his father, unable to resist the dangers and excitement of a pirate’s life, had joined in with some Picts and Scots who led a life of adventure on the shores of Britain. After a wildly spent youth, the pirate settled down with his wives and retainers in Damnonia; there he became the owner of a valuable lead-mine in the Mendip Hills and, when he died, his eldest son, Griffith, found he was possessed of enormous wealth and vast lands covering the greater part of Damnonia.

Ethne’s father, Brian O’Fhirgil, had been King Griffith’s bard—as the O’Fhirgil, had been bards in the family of Finnfuathairt for generations. Ethne had been sent, as a babe, to Hibernia; where she had been fostered, and where she had lived until she was twelve years of age. The family, who had fostered her, had been poor. On her arrival in Britain the wealth and splendour of Griffith’s lands and palaces impressed her in a way she had never forgotten. She was enraptured by the magnificence of the Roman villa where her mother dwelt with the baby prince, Cormac. From that day Ethne became a slave to wealth and luxury. When she was shown the villa destined for her, as Griffith’s wife, her delight knew no bounds; and it was arranged that when she was sixteen she should take her place in his household. It wanted but three months to that date, when Griffith, who had always been attracted by the faith, suddenly became a Christian.

In the case of a convert of his age, with several wives and numerous family ties—the wives were often retained. But Griffith, with true zeal, separated from all but the mother of Cormac; and the coming marriage with Ethne was, of course, annulled.

Ethne was furious at the disappointment. In her anger at Griffith’s decision she showed him so plainly her real motives and fell so low in his opinion that, when—after the death of Cormac’s mother—he could have given her the place she coveted, he declined to do so. This last slight she never forgave; although King Griffith made her the mistress of a handsome Roman villa on the Mendip Hills, and gave her much land and gold as well—this last she only looked upon as her due, for it was the duty of every chieftain to dower the daughters of his bard.

She felt all the misfortunes of her life had come to her through Christianity; which had robbed her, not only of her position as a king’s wife, but also of her lands and the luxury of Roman Britain.

In this last onslaught of the Saxons against the Britons, Ethne felt sure King Griffith would have escaped, had he not armed and attacked the enemy.

After conquering the three cities of Gloucester, Cirencester and Bath the West Saxons, under Ceawlin, had driven the Britons to the sea across a long stretch of coast, extending from the mouth of the Severn towards the northern bank of the river Axe. Griffith’s territory lay on the southern bank, was strongly defended, and the Saxons would not have been unwilling (so Ethne believed) to have formed an alliance with him. Alliances were not uncommon between Picts and Saxons—and Griffith’s father had been considered a Pict. It was in vain Ethne reasoned with Griffith; he deliberately crossed the Axe, and attacked the conquering Britons—and it was his zeal for the Christian faith that led him to take this step.

Many years before, in a Saxon raid upon Damnonia, a British woman had been carried off from Griffith’s territory. The woman shared the fate of many of her country-women—she was forced to wed a Saxon.

In this case the woman contrived, from time to time, to communicate with her friends; and with her kinswoman, Griffith’s wife. When her child, Elgiva, was but a few years of age, she found means to send her to Griffith; she braved the wrath of her husband, rather than the child should be bred after the manner of its savage and heathen father.

Griffith formed many plans to rescue the poor woman; and in this last fight with the Saxons he had hoped to succeed.

He knew she was with the Saxon army and close to the army frontier. Her husband was dead, but she was retained by his brother, Redwald, one of Ceawlin’s most powerful thanes; who not only kept his brother’s wife a prisoner, but had shown a desire to gain possession of Elgiva, also. The woman was able to communicate with the Britons, and aid them in their plans. Griffith believed that, in the tumult and excitement of the time he could carry her off, quickly and easily re-cross the Axe, and retire to his strong and impregnable castle of Brean Down. It has been shown how fatally he was mistaken; how he was slain, and his tribe driven from the shores of Britain.

“One reason have I to be thankful in the midst of all my loss,” said Ethne to herself a few days after her late interview with Elgiva, “and that is the death of Griffith!”

She was wandering by herself, beside the stream that watered the valley.

“Griffith checked me—restrained me—opposed me in all things. But Cormac—Cormac! I shall twist him to my purpose, as I twist my hair about my fingers.”

She was determined to link her fortunes with Cormac’s. He was necessary to her; at any rate for the present, because he was the last of a royal house—of an ancient name to which she trusted to rally followers. To connect herself with him would strengthen her own slight connection with his family. She felt that fortune had favoured her in the fact that both she and he had inherited a similar type of face and form—a type dear to Hibernians, combining blue eyes and blue-black hair.

It had given her much thought to decide the nature of the tie that should unite them in the eyes of the world. At first she had an idea of marrying the lad; but finally decided that it would further her interests to rely on the bond of fosterage that existed between them, and which was strengthened by the fact that their families were related to each other. The ancient system of fosterage was almost sacred in the eyes of Hibernians—she and Cormac should be known as brother and sister; children of the great Tuathal.

“Hibernia shall give me warriors to regain my lost possessions,” she cried. “And Cormac shall help me to my triumph! How soon I am rid of him after I care not!” She threw her arms towards the sky. “Why was I born a hanger-on of the house of Finnfuathairt? Why should he, and not I, be first of the royal line? Ye stars! Help me to power quickly for I am sick of clinging to the skirts of others! All my life long Griffith thwarted me—and yet I was forced to live on his bounty. Now must I have this cub ever at my side, fearful lest at any minute he should play me false and refuse to follow me!”

It grew late, but still she remained, wandering up and down the little glade in which she walked. The moon rose; and when it was fully risen she stole away, with a soft, cat-like tread, towards a little clump of oak trees that stood on the fringe of the neighbouring forest.

She had not long to wait. Soon her quick ear caught the sound of a footstep—light and cat-like as her own. A man muffled in a Druid’s cloak came quickly towards her.

They met in thick shadow—one or two patches of moonlight was all that found their way to them through the leaves, but they showed that the man, beneath his cloak, was clothed in shimmering white.

“It is over—you have done it! It was propitious?”

It was Ethne’s voice saying these words. She was breathless—quivering with excitement.

The man was breathless also, for he had been running.

“No—we were disturbed—”

“What! you have not divined?”

“Listen—we were disturbed—”

“You have not divined—you have not divined! What of your promises—did you not swear, last time we met, that you would not come again unless you had done it!” She tore at her flowing hair in her anger. “I tell you I must consult—I must know. There are a hundred things I want advice upon; you are all such dolts and thick-heads—”

“But I tell you—it is difficult—we were disturbed.”

“Disturbed! but you could wait and begin again!”

“We were afraid of discovery—we had to bury the body!”

“You had already killed him, then—it was a man!”

“Yes.”

“I believe now a woman is better. Disturbed! Fools and numb-skulls—then dig it up and begin once more.”

“You forget—the body must still be quivering with life, if we are to read aright!”

She stamped her foot in anger.

“How were you disturbed?”

“By the fool Kevin and his monks.”

Rage kept her silent for a minute—then she burst forth.

“These Christians! These accursed Christians! Everything I set my hand to they come and spoil! Oh, when I hold Hibernia in my hands, let them look to themselves! I will burn their monasteries over their heads as the Saxons burnt our palaces! I will thrust them to the sea—I will throw them to the bears! I will cut out their tongues and give them to my dogs. I will cut their legs from under them, when they stretch their hands in prayer, I will strike at them too! Footless and handless they shall crawl in the dust before me!” In her rage she ground her teeth. Then turned quickly to the man. “When will you try again?”

“I do not know! We must wait until Beltane. I told you that long ago. We shall have more chance then of a victim!”

“A victim—is that your word? I tell you if the ancient faith were as it should be, we should be selecting victims—not seeking them! What news have you in other quarters—are our people arming themselves?”

“Everywhere!”

“And the first attack is to be made at Druimceta?”

“Ay, and a fitting place, too, to strike at them—since it is there, instead of the ancient place at Tara, that King Aedh has chosen to assemble the princes.”

CHAPTER VI.
The Sacred Heart of Hibernia.

“To-morrow—at dawn!” said Ethne. “Be ready!”

Cormac was well and strong again; on the morrow he was setting forth to see the wild plains of Hibernia—and Ethne would be at his side.

He was once more her slave. At first he had said that he would part from her, would never look on her face again, if she belonged to that foul and horrible faith.

But it was in vain he strove against a boyish passion for a woman more than half-a-score of years his senior—the very fury of her outbursts fascinated him. So it came to pass that the old relations were established between them, and little reference made to the cause of their division.

Though he rose early on the following day, Ethne was before him; seated on a beautiful white horse and holding by the rein a magnificent black stallion.

The creature was a pure bred Hibernian race-horse. His trappings were mounted with gold; a magnificent purple cloak lay across the saddle, ready for Cormac’s use; it was lightly flecked with gold—Cormac saw at once it was one of the speckled cloaks so much in vogue amongst the Druids.

“I told you you should find a horse awaiting you,” said Ethne, “and that it would be of the true colour.”

“But you did not tell me it would be of the purest breed the world can show!” exclaimed Cormac, as he leapt to the saddle. The horse rose on its hind quarters and pranced; the colour mounted with joy to the boy’s face.

A stout hide shield was slung on Cormac’s arm, a short, Irish sword thrust in his belt; room was found on his horse trappings for a tough yew bow, a sheaf of arrows bristled at his side—some with poison lurking in their points, others tipped with stone and of a rude make like the arrows of ancient cave-dwelling people. A pike supplemented his short sword, and some half-javelins found their place at his saddle.

He turned to Ethne, and poured out warm thanks for the horse.

“The gift is not from me,” said Ethne, her long hair streaming in the wind as she rode beside him. “Nor do I know if the givers’ names will please you, my Christian brother.”

“Tell me!” said Cormac.

“Need you ask?” returned Ethne. “Where can you find such fire, such strength, and lightness, but in the horses of the Druids? The steed is a gift to you from my brother-Druids.”

Cormac made no reply.

“It is a love gift, too, Cormac—for their hearts are true to the children of Tuathal! Though they can no longer feast at Tara, they can pour out such poor treasures as they have at the feet of their future lord. They are not rich, boy—and they could have sold that horse for its weight in gold to the Eastern merchants who are ever seeking Hibernian racers—but they chose rather to starve than forego the joy of giving him to you.”

The boy breathed hard—deeply touched.

“They shall not find me ungrateful,” he said.

“They ask little at your hands,” said Ethne. “All they say is, Come and Try. Try our mysteries, and see if they do not yield more knowledge and certainty than the Christian faith.”

Cormac shook his head.

“Well, well, we will not talk of it now,” said Ethne, lightly raising her arm as a signal to her horse to go faster.

Ethne looked her best on horseback. She was as lithe and active as a boy; and could rival a man in all the feats common amongst the riders of the day. She could rise upon her feet when her horse was at full gallop—could jump from the saddle and mount again, without drawing rein; and, as she rode along, could bend lightly down and pick the wayside grass and flowers.

Cormac drew deep breaths of rapture as he rode by Ethne’s side. It was good to feel a horse under him once more, to feel the wind on his face and hear the saddle creak beneath him. It was pleasant, too, to ride beside Ethne whom he loved; to laugh and talk; to be sure his wounds and weakness were a thing of the past; to cherish wild hopes of future war and victory—that seemed near and possible on this bright summer morning. He was a man now, he told himself; he had left boyhood behind him; a man and a leader of men—with a woman at his side. They travelled quickly; the horses, of their own accord, broke into a gallop and carried them forward, mile after mile, in swift, easy motion.

After Cormac’s weeks of confinement, the long ride was bliss to him. The motion of his horse was like the flight of a bird, he thought—such a long, winged, untiring stroke, bearing him on through the scented summer air. He had no eyes for the country near at hand; his gaze was fixed on a gap in the hills before him where smooth and soft, stretched the waving grass of Hibernia. In the songs which Ethne sang to him there was so much about the wild grass of the great plains. How it waved up the slopes of the hills around, and clothed them to their summits. How it sprang, everywhere, even roofs of the little wattled cotes of the hamlets; how the bards would lie and sing their melodies into it, and all the tiny blades would carry the music from one to another—thus spreading their songs over all Hibernia. There were a thousand pretty fancies of a like kind in the old tales and songs. Cormac noticed how much greener and richer it was than the grass of Britain; unspoilt by frost, bright and fresh from constant showers.

In the deep, rich pasture hundreds of horses lived lives of joy—untouched by the hand of man. In their freedom a thousand times more beautiful and graceful than their brothers who knew bit and saddle. And here, in Hibernia, thought the boy to himself, he would find warriors as fresh and free as the creatures of the wilds. It was his constant wail that Rome had caused the ruin of Britain—here he felt the truth of his words. In the life struggle against Jute and Angle and Saxon only fierce, wild races could survive. Civilisation meant indeed destruction.

“Rome!” he said to himself. “Rome is no more!”

Ay, she had been gone for long—fallen prey to Goth and Hun, but for the first time in his life Cormac realised it; and in doing so a momentary weakness seized him for Roman civilisation had played its part in his life; it had drawn his grandfather from his fellows, the Picts and Scots, and made him Bret!

But here, thought Cormac, in Hibernia he would find the ancient spirit, unknown in poor, lost Britain. Back, then, once more to Pict and Scot! He leapt to his feet, on his horse’s back, as they rode along; and, brandishing his sword around his head, uttered the wild scream of a war-cry.

Ethne joined her voice to his; and, as they galloped by wattled hamlets, by dun and cabin, all eyes were turned on the two noble riders and on their black and white horses. The news spread fast that Cormac of Fail, of the race of Finnfuathairt, had returned from Britain. Men, women and children ran everywhere to salute them. A party soon formed around them, mounted on horseback. When they halted beautiful girls ran forward, offering mead and curd to refresh them. Old men tottered from sunny grianans to look upon the face of the last of the house of Finnfuathairt. Old women called down blessings upon them and children peeped at them shyly from hiding places. Slaves crept unperceived from quern and hoe to stare upon them, open-mouthed.

Everywhere Ethne proclaimed their lineage.

“We are the children of Tuathal the Legitimate! We trace our descent through the race of Finnfuathairt! Cormac of Fail, known in Britain as the Black Horse; and Ethne of the Raven Hair—foster sister to Cormac, and likewise descended from his family, through Ethne the Terrible!”

Her cry was taken up far and wide; for Hibernians never tired of reciting pedigrees. And, here and there, one would come forward who remembered her in childhood; and how she had been sent for from Britain when her mother fostered Cormac.

Every hour the crowd around them grew larger. From marsh and forest wild men came forth, clad in skins with red naked limbs; their beards and long hair plaited, strange devices tattooing their freckled skins. Even from the weans beneath the earth, short, long-armed men, dark and swarthy, scrambled out and ran, fleet-footed, in the rear—some, among them, leaping on the great Irish hounds, rode in this manner amongst the throng.

Thus riding on in triumph, they left the hills behind, and entered the great central plain of Hibernia.

The day drew near its close; but, as the shadows fell, Cormac thought that the crowd around him grew thicker. He had pictured these wide plains desolate and uninhabited; and now it seemed to him they swarmed with people and with flocks and herds—everywhere he looked he saw lights twinkling.

Ethne had chosen for their journey the time of the Beltane Festival.

“It is a fitting time to enter the sacred heart of Hibernia,” she had said to Cormac, in speaking of the two great Druidical festivals, Beltane and Santheine. “Therefore I have chosen it; it is our time of joy—so hallowed by custom that even some of the Christians share it with us.”

There was such excitement and fascination in these ancient festivals that the wild spirits of the Hibernians were unable to resist them; when, as Christians, they wished to do so. They entered often from mere love of excitement and danger; not realising—or realising too late—that they were offering homage to the sun-god of the Druids who was no other than Baal—the Baal of the Syrians, the Phœnicians, and the ancient Hebrews—the Bosheth, or shameful thing of the Jewish writings.

CHAPTER VII.
Into the Arms of Moloch!

“All hail! all hail! Son of the House of Tuathal! Twig from the tree of Tara!”

These words were cried in Cormac’s ear next evening; as he and Ethne gave their horses drink at a running stream.

The cry was followed by a shout of victory as a Druid—the horse beneath him wet with sweat—leapt across the stream; his beard and garments streamed in the wind as he disappeared in the smoke of a circle of fires.

“Behold! behold!” cried Ethne, leaning forward and pointing to the circle of fires. “You have seen the winner!”

With a wild cry, she struck her horse—the creature bounded forward and she disappeared after the Druid.

A great wave of excitement passed over Cormac. He knew enough of the rites of the Druids to realise what this meant to Ethne. He had seen the winner of the Snake’s Egg—the Anguineum; the most prized of all druidical charms; believed to be thrown in the air from the frothy striving of entangled serpents; and eagerly sought after by waiting Druids who stood around with outstretched cloaks ready to catch it as it fell. The lucky Druid who caught it would forthwith ride at full speed on a waiting horse to gain security by the placing of running water between himself and the pursuing serpents—for it was believed the vipers turned immediately in pursuit.

As far as Cormac could see, the country was dotted with wreaths of smoke. As the evening fell, innumerable fires twinkled under the smoke; tongues of fire leapt on every hill, on every peak and granite column; they lit up the tracks in the swale and heath before him. He knew that to the Druids they were sacred fires.

As he looked around it seemed to him that all Hibernia was ablaze. Again the same wave of excitement passed over him—a strange, savage thrill as of some unknown instinct awakening within him. As though he, like the world around him, had been set on fire.

Other wild spirits had taken fire, likewise. The sight of the leaping flames worked like mead on the Hibernians. Those who still professed the ancient faith plunged, intoxicated, into all the sacrificial rites of the Druids. Many who professed Christianity, threw it, for the time, aside—as they might have thrown aside a mask; or mingled the fierce and bloody orgies of Beltane with the rites and ceremonies of their own Easter.

Suddenly a band of Druids, in shimmering white robes, circled around Cormac; the setting sun sparkled on their golden harps and ornaments.

One of their number sprang forward with cries of praise and greeting. At his call the other members of the band grouped themselves around the young prince in attitudes of extravagant joy and homage.

“Cormac of Fail! Stealer of men’s hearts! Maker of ravens’ food—and shedder of blood! Hail, then, to Banba—great son of thy fathers!”

These words were cried in the monotonous chant of bards accustomed to attune their voices whenever occasion required it. They paused; then smote a full chorus from their harps.

“From sea to sea, in this circle of Tuathal’s carving, every heart is full with joy at thy return and with sorrow at thy losses. Ahoi!” The voices rose to a battle-cry. “Ahoi! for Tuathal of Tara’s hosts! Ahoi, for Tuathal—maker of Ravens’ food—Tuathal of war horses, foam-pale! Ahoi, ahoi! We have lost the Egg—we have missed the sacred thing—but we have found the child of Tuathal—Tuathal from Tara of Fail!”

The bards paused—the earth around Cormac was covered with white-robed Druids, prone before him. The blood mounted on the boy’s cheeks. Again they smote upon their golden harps.

“Welcome to Hibernia! Welcome—thrice welcome! Behold us at thy feet! We—the mouthpiece of thy country! We offer thee all—all that Fail hath to give! Her gold, her honey, her white-toothed daughters, her swift racers, her fair, spotted trout, her sloes, and apples and brown nuts—her blood for thy sword to drink. Take all, take all—only let us worship thee. For art not thou from Tuathal’s loins? Tuathal Teachmar? Who armed his hosts with spears—who placed his steward over Ceara and built wattled towers on the hill tops to protect the land! Tuathal from Tara of Fail!”

They rose to their feet; dropped their harps, and held out their arms to him, circling about him.