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diff --git a/77880-0.txt b/77880-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3e2491f --- /dev/null +++ b/77880-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11179 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77880 *** + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE + + Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold is denoted by =equals=. + + Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book. + + + + +[Illustration: THE DRUID PATH] + + + + +[Illustration: Una] + + +[Music: _Traditional Air_] + + + + + The Music More Lasting + Than Voice of the Birds + + [Music:_Poem by A. P. Graves_ + + + 1. I’ve heard the lark’s cry thrill the sky o’er the + meadows of Lusk, And the first joyous + gush of the thrush from Adare’s April + wood, At thy lone music’s spell, Philomel, + magic stricken I’ve stood, When in Espan a-far + star on star trembled out of the dusk. + + + 2. + Yet as bright shadows pass from the glass of the darkening lake + As the rose’s rapt sigh must die when the zephyr is stilled; + In oblivion grey sleeps each lay that those birds ever trilled, + But the songs Erin sings from her strings shall immortally wake.] + + + + + THE + DRUID PATH + + + by + MARAH ELLIS RYAN + + [Illustration: Decorative separator] + + DECORATED BY + WILL VREELAND + + [Illustration: Decorative separator] + + A.C. McCLURG & CO. + CHICAGO + + + + + Copyright + A. C. McCLURG & CO. + 1917 + + Published January, 1917 + + Copyrighted in Great Britain + + + W. F. HALL PRINTING COMPANY, CHICAGO + + + + +CONTENTS + + + Page + + The Druid Path 1 + + The Enchanting of Doirenn 35 + + Liadan and Kurithir 101 + + Dervail Nan Ciar 141 + + Randuff of Cumanac 229 + + The Dark Rose 267 + + + + +[Illustration: THE DRUID PATH] + + + THE DRUID PATH + + +Phadraig, son of Nihil of the Ua Dinan, held silent his white hound +on the hill of Cromm Cru, and looked down the far valley of blue +mists where the sea of the west rolled in. + +Back beyond the sweet-smelling reaches of the heather he could hear +the bay of the hounds of his uncle Kieran, Tiern over North Tormond. +He could no longer hear the clink of their silver bridles, nor the +laughter of their ladies, nor the scream of hawk on dove. + +But the hill of the ancient god was a sweet place in the silence, and +he rested there, and made him a pillow of fern—and listened to the +soft breath of the wind in the rowan tree. Its sigh of love for the +green earth was a sweet song, and he slept there to that music, while +the sun rushed beyond the wide seas of the west, and soft-footed dusk +crept after, filling all the hollows with the gray web in which the +night is held. + +A curious dream of white birds came to him there; the dream had come +to him before, yet not with clearness—and in the dream was a dusk +path in an ancient wood, and a well there—a well rising and sinking +with the tide, and a vision of a maid moving before him into the +shadows—a vision swathed in a white cloud, with hidden face but a +voice in which was held all the music of beauty of life in all the +world. His soul was as a harp on which that music played, and his +body was but as a shell left behind while the wings of harmony +lifted him—lifted until he was borne as a cloud far from the touch +of the earth—and he heard a word over and over in his ear, until he +strove with might to echo it, and then, in the striving, the smell of +the heather was again in his nostrils, and the forefeet of the white +hound were on his breast, and above him a star shone in the soft rose +of the sky. + +He lay entranced, thrilled by the ecstasy of the perfect dream, and +somewhere from the very earth came a song to his ear and an earth +echo of the word he had striven for and missed. And this was the song +he heard— + + Make strong your charms against Danaan, + Danaan of the snowy breast, + Who lured the souls of the Gods of Old + To the land of the mystic west. + +The voices were those of two boys, and with them was an old shepherd +who bore fire in a strange bowl of thin carven stone, and in the arms +of the boys were dry heather and branches of yew. And in fear they +let fall the yew at sight of Phadraig, and at sight of his white +hound beside him. + +“Peace to you,” spake Phadraig. “And who be you to sing here a song +of charms? And who is Danaan?” + +“A blessing of all saints on you from Jerusalem to Innis Gluair,” +spake the ancient who bore the fire. “We bear here boughs for the +puring fires of Beltain, and the mothers of these boys bade them make +a prayer and sing the song ere they crossed the three magic circles +of the Tor of Cromm Cru.” + +“And is this that hill?” asked Phadraig. “As a childling they tell me +I was nursed in sight of it, but never before have I stood on it, and +who made the song of the charm?” + +“One of the anointed of the saints who loved every plain and black +crag and forest dell between us and the sea. It was no other than +Nihil of the Deep Wood.” + +“Strange, that is,” said Phadraig, the son of Nihil, “other songs of +that singer I have been taught, but never this one until I hear it as +in a dream in this strange place; and look, there are white sea birds +against the stars—and they also were of the dream.” + +“On the night of Beltain strange power is abroad—and strange dreams! +And what is the name of you who venture to sleep on the hill of the +ancient gods in the dusk of this day?” + +And when Phadraig told him, the old herdsman would have knelt, but +Phadraig took his hand and spoke to him in kindness, yet could get +from him no other word as to the song of Danaan. + +“Go to Roiseen of the Glen, the wise woman down by the sea,” he said. +“She was nurse to you and knows all your father Nihil would have had +you know of the names of the ancient gods of the land.” + +“But Danaan was the name of a people—the old, old people, soul +brothers to the fairies!” + +“Ay—it may be. And may not a people have a spirit, as has a person? +Have we not our own this day in Erinn, our Mother of the Land? Ask me +no more, O Lord of the Ua Dinan, but go you down to Roiseen of the +Glen, and peace go with you.” + +And with his white hound at his heels and one of the shepherd boys +as guide, Phadraig took trail to the sea glen and would have gone +through a deep wood in the valley, but the boy drew back. + +“Not there, my lord,” said he. + +“Yet it is the shorter way.” + +“No way is shorter if you never come out alive, O Lord of the Ua +Dinan.” + +“What abides within the wood?” + +“No living thing, my lord, but the water in the Druid’s well, and it +pulses there as if it might be the heartbeat of the ocean beyond, yet +the water is not salt.” + +“This is a land of strange riddles I am coming back to this day,” +said Phadraig, “but do you not hear music in the wood—or is it the +wind through the new buds?” + +“The priest tells us it is the winds, or the waves, or the night +birds in their shelter, and that is the thing we must say,” said the +boy, and neither of them spoke of the white birds above them against +the sky. + +To Phadraig it was as if he had walked into a new life from the hour +he slept on the western hill of Cromm Cru. And all the path of it +held music to make the heart glad of life—yet sad with inarticulate +yearnings. The life of the halls of Kieran was left behind, and he +trod the heath as an exile returned. + +In the cot of Roiseen of the Glen there was a rabbit stewing on the +hearth, and Roiseen herself spinning the silver flax at the open door +in the starlight. + +“Oh, is it yourself come back on your own feet to greet me this day?” +she said, and wept with very gladness, and kissed the young hand of +him. But he kissed her brown cheek instead, and they talked long +after the shepherd boy was asleep in the forest leaves in the byre. + +But it was not that night of Beltain that Phadraig asked of the +unknown things, for he had noted the salt sprinkled on the threshold +to bar out influences of the old gods; so that night they talked of +Nihil, dead ere he had seen his son, and Kreda, his wife, dead at the +birthing, and all the grandeurs of the house of the Ua Dinan where +Phadraig had lived his life of training for the work of a chief. Yet +out of it all he had come back with the heart of a boy, and sat on a +three-legged stool at the door of Roiseen, and fashioned a flute of +alder-wood, and piped on it in the sunshine of the morning. + +Then, when the milk was put away, and Roiseen settled with the +distaff and the whirling strands, he spoke the name singing in his +heart. + +“Mother Roiseen, it is to you I am coming with a thing to ask: who is +Danaan of the birds of white?” + +“That you should ask it, and you with the name of a saint on you! +Get you to your hawking or hunting the deer! And see that you pluck +primroses to scatter at your door this night that the Ancient People +send you no call of Danaan—the men who follow the call wander far.” + +“To the land of the mystic west do they wander?” + +“Ay, that they do; far over the green meadows of the waters where the +horses of Lir have their pastures. From the cliff below you can see +them running in races endlessly to the shore.” + +“I see the waves run in,” said Phadraig, but she was not to be fooled. + +“Ay, and more than the waves to you, as to your father! But you are +idling in thought, Phadraig, son of Nihil.” + +“What other task when there is peace in Tormond? And the Ua Dinan, as +you mayhaps have heard, cannot abide the sight of me near his ailing +son, and Kethlen his wife, bitter as gall because she has borne a +weakling.” + +“True that is. You stand in their eyes as a threat at the crowns they +wear.” + +“To me a pipe on the hills instead, and the songs of my father to +sing! Roiseen, why has the song of Danaan never been given me?” + +“That name has been through the ages a hated word to the women of +your house and in each generation they try to smother it out.” + +“And why is that?” + +“It gave a youth the seeking eye and the wandering foot, and it +was said to keep young the heart of a man when all his mates went +tottering under the sod. No—the women could not abide the thought +of that, and they smother it out. Ay, that is the way with the +woman-heart.” + +“Mother Roiseen, there is a deer for you in the forest. Shall Snard +and I bring it in tomorrow’s morn?” + +And the white hound, hearing his name spoken, flailed the floor with +his tail and rose up and waited. + +“To what would you bribe me, Phadraig, my heart?” + +“To peace and content while I tell you I heard the song of Danaan on +the hill of Cromm Cru in the dusk of Beltain—and I felt the music +that all the songs of Nihil, my father, could not give voice to, and +in my dream I looked in that Druid well of the wood, and saw the +heart of the ocean beat there under the stars! All this came to me by +chance in the place of fire to Beltain, so mine is the right to ask +what I ask.” + +And Roiseen, the wise woman, looked on him and made the sign and +plucked primroses for her door. + +“Yours is the right,” she said, “come you away from the house and +out under the hawthorn tree and what I can say with no hurt to the +saints and their faith, that I will. It is said that while many a +family trace in pride their fathers to the ancient barbarians, few +trace their descent from yon Wise Ones who took themselves into the +air with their own enchantment sooner than be conquered. This I heard +when I was a girl in the home of the king, your father’s father. But +Nihil of the songs learned much from a master of tricks, an aged man +who said he had lived on the earth in other days when the sea covered +all this valley, and that this was the last edge of the land where +the Danaan lived on the earth as people, and ate the honey of bees, +and drank the water of the Druid well in the wood beyond.” + +“Ay,” said Phadraig, and he looked over the green velvet of the +valley running down to meet the white foam of the sea, white as the +hawthorn bloom above them, and from the dark hills he looked to the +islands beyond, and it was all a sweet picture of summer under the +blue sky. “Ay, Mother Roiseen, of all places in the whole world where +would they find another spot so fair? In truth, I believe your word +that it is the last corner of the land they could let go to the hard +people of the iron pikes.” + +“So it was, the last place they let go of—and they lingered long +after the stranger-people swept over the land to the east. And to +your father, Nihil, came a ‘sending’ of sight through fasting, and +enchantments of music, until he spoke aloud the word no other dared +ever to speak for them.” + +“And what was that word, Mother of the Glen?” + +“It was of a bond of birth and blood between the Ua Dinan and the +Tuathe de Danaan, but the legend of it is against all christian +teachings—and we are christian now in Erinn.” + +Phadraig looked up to the mount of the Druid god where fires of +propitiation had burned but a night agone. + +“Ay, so we say,” he agreed, “but tell me more of Nihil and his song +of Danaan.” + +“He all but had the ban of the Bishop of Clare put on him—and it was +backed by some of his own blood whose names I will not speak, for +it is evil to speak against the dead! They were mortal shamed to be +thought of the blood or the spirit of enchanters, the while Nihil +was so proud of it that church itself was called to the question. +That was a time of trial! For there was your mother, the Lady Kreda +of Kilfernora, not yet either wife or mother, but loving him and +holding him to church, and there was the bishop with his power to +bless or ban, and there was Nihil stout in rebellion against all but +the sweet Lady Kreda. For his word was this: that if all the mothers +for a thousand years could not stamp out the call of Danaan in the +heart of a man, was it not proof that it was a bond of the spirit, +and was for good and not for evil?” + +“And then?” + +“He was banished to a forest cell for a year and a day for expiation, +and that was the time the Lady Kreda chose to ride beside him and +do penance beside him. And, at the last, to pleasure her, he made +the song of warning against Danaan, and he went into the forest away +from the sea, but he was never the same man after! A true singer +sings only the songs in his heart, and that was the song made at the +word of another, for he, Nihil, had walked the Druid Path to the +well over back of beyond, and the white sea birds of Danaan had come +to him there, and he heard music of sweetness in the closed hills +where the Ancient People are waiting to this day and holding secret +the sacred things shut in for the people of the future who will see +as your father Nihil saw. That was his word of it many a day as he +walked above yon cliff, or up to the hill of Cromm Cru. And the +priests beyond could do naught with him, though your mother hated the +thoughts he spoke, as did all the women of your race of the Ua Dinan.” + +“Mayhaps they were but jealous of a knowledge not for them.” + +“Mayhaps, for true it is the Lady Kreda loved well his songs when he +was wooing under her window there in Kilfernora but turned away her +head when the songs were of things not of her ken.” + +“I have had few years, yet I have lived to see that with other +lives,” said Phadraig. “What power may a man gain for the world if he +only sing songs of love to a mistress who only smiles from a window?” + +“You are older than your years, Phadraig, my heart, else it would not +be myself sitting here under the hawthorn telling you the ancient +things that the priests tell us are false things.” + +“I do not think in my heart they are false,” said Phadraig, son of +Nihil. “Into the forest I am going now for your deer, Mother of the +Glen, and then, till the next day of Samhain, I will live in the open +to give proof to my own heart that Nihil, my father, saw true, and +spoke true.” + +And thus did he, though his kinsmen raged and their women told the +priests, and the Ua Dinan tore down the stone of Cromm Cru from the +mount and broke it into pieces with iron chisels—for it is well known +that spirits of the Tuathe de Danaan hate the touch of the iron +brought into the land by the barbarians. + +But Phadraig with his pipe of alder was somewhere in the deep wood +with only the white hound and his dreams and his calls to the tamed +sea birds on the cliffs, and never a sight could kindred get of him +unless it was in a boat, dancing on the far waves toward Inis Mor—or +high on the hill where the forest veiled him if any tried to follow. + +And a wail went up from the shepherds that year, for the murrain got +the sheep despite of all, and some wells went dry, and the herders +gave sullen looks to the virtuous lords and ladies who had done that +pious work in tearing down Cromm Cru of the Tor. + +And one day there came to Roiseen of the Glen a lady riding on a +white horse with golden trapping. Her eyes were dark with desire and +her braided hair had the gold of the sun glinting its brown shadows. +With her came a priest of the south whose looks were down and ill. + +“I am Yva of Kilfernora,” said the maid, with a blush sweeping her +face. “Have you, O woman, speech with Phadraig of the Wilds?” + +“That was the place his mother came from,” said Roiseen of the Glen, +“and I have seen no sign of him this seven days, barring the white +sea birds hovering over the forest of the Druid well.” + +“Woman,” said the priest, “what would drive sea birds to the forest +on days like this?” + +“Ay, it is a big question, your holiness, and a thousand years have +not given us the answer.” + +“Do you mean the blasphemy of enchantment too strong for church to +conquer?” + +“I would not dare, your holiness; mayhaps it is that the church has +not striven. Sea birds are a small thing to take note of after all.” + +“O woman,” said Yva the brown-eyed, “will you tell him I have ridden +the horse he loved to these wilds he loves, that he may know my +message is a true message, and that I watch from my window ever to +these hills of the north?” + +“That he may find the way to that window, O Lady?” + +“Ay, that he may find the way. The Ua Dinan and the head of my clan +have clasped hands and emptied bowls of mead on the pact, and I bring +my own message to his hills.” + +“How great is your patience, Yva of Kilfernora?” asked old Roiseen of +the Glen, and the priest frowned at the forwardness of the peasant, +but Yva of the dark tresses leaned forward in the saddle. + +“What mean you?” she asked, her lips red and parted over white teeth. + +“Would you take him as Nihil, his father, was taken, with his quest +not finished, nor his heart content?” + +“Nihil, the Singer, died,” said Yva, her eyes staring. + +“Ay, he died! With love beside him—earthly love keeping step, yet not +understanding, he died! Would you fain have Phadraig, son of Nihil, +dead by your side or alive and free to choose after he has made the +circle that was broken for Nihil?” + +“Woman—are you taking on yourself the weighing of a soul?” demanded +the priest in anger. “What blasphemy is this of lives in circles and +like enchantments? Is it evil craft of Druid witcheries by which the +young lord of the Ua Dinan is held here in the wilds?” + +“I have not dared to ask him that myself,” said Roiseen of the Glen. +“But I am an old woman, and I know the men of the Ua Dinan—and their +women, too! By bell and book and candle their women have driven out +or smothered a wild Something in the blood of the Ua Dinan of the +west land, until the clan is weak this day because of it! They have +not dared dream their own dreams lest they range beyond the church +rules and the women they wive; and what man does any great thing +without the Dream—or woman, either? O Lady of Kilfernora, you are +beautiful as the wild rose on the heath, and there are many chiefs to +break a lance at your nod; better to give your glove to any one of +them, than enchain an Ua Dinan before he has followed the Dream till +it makes the circle.” + +The priest was prone to chide such speech, as was his duty, but Yva +of Kilfernora put out her ringed hand. + +“She speaks truly, and I see it,” she said. “No one has ever spoken +thus to me before today. Think back, reverend father, over the years: +Nihil dead with his songs half written; the king, his brother, a man +of gloom with a crippled child; the old king, his father, tired of +rule and in a monastery ere his time; yet, all these men were strong +in youth and to the fore in wild beauty. Not until now has anyone +dared read me that riddle of the Ua Dinan. Woman, you are wise and +you have Yva of Kilfernora for your friend. I ride back and dream my +own dream, and leave him all the freedom of his. Fare you well!” + +“Now indeed may a great day come again to the children of the Ua +Dinan,” said Roiseen of the Glen. She went back to the spinning of +her flax, with a great jewel hidden in her bosom, let fall there by +Yva of the dark hair and the burning eyes. + +And in the green-gray dusk of the twilight there was the flash of +white wings against streaks of yellow sky, and the white hound came +down the glen by the sheep path, and Phadraig the wanderer, with a +hare of the hills ready for the twigs over the roasting fire. + +“Art tired of the quest, Phadraig?” + +“Nay, not that, Mother of the Glen. I am no longer alone, though I +cannot tell you what walks beside me.” + +“None of us can, and for lack of faith few can feel them,” agreed +Roiseen. + +“But Nihil, my father, spoke truth, we do belong,” said Phadraig. +“Once I saw the shadow of her in the Druid well in the moon’s light, +but the face was still veiled for me, but the music is piercing +sweet, and I would I had my father’s gift to catch and hold it.” + +He would eat not any of the hare, but drank fresh milk from the cow +and stood at the door looking tired and white in the starlight. + +“May I let stay Snard, the hound, with you?” he asked. “He is weary +of my trail, and will not walk in my paths; only today did I learn I +was cruel to him; and tomorrow is the feast of Samhain, and where I +go I cannot say, but I think it is not for Snard to follow me.” + +“Phadraig, my heart, do you ever think of someone there in the south, +who—” + +“Ay, Roiseen. I thought of them all today when a storm cloud swept +in from the sea with a clammy cold in it. For it was not so cold as +the welcome in my kinsman’s home lest the day come when I claim rule +there.” + +“Ay,” said Roiseen of the Glen. “That is a picture we all see some +days in life, but Time is a good story-teller, Phadraig aroon, and +I’ll wait the other day when the sun shines for you and the human +call comes.” + +“You are the only human thing, Roiseen,” he said, and touched her +hair. “You understand.” + +“How did you tame the sea birds of Danaan, Phadraig, my heart?” she +asked, but he shook his head. + +“I only spoke to them as I would to Snard—some souls have the gift of +taming—that is all.” + +“Ay, your father had it before you,” she said. Then, as he turned +into the darkness, she spoke again as she held back the white hound. +“Do you look to come back to me here, Phadraig, son of Nihil?” + +“I do, Mother of the Glen, though I cannot see clearly the path I may +come—or when.” + +“I thought as much,” she said, “but Phadraig, take this from me ere +you go: for all ills of youth and life there grows somewhere an herb; +find it, Phadraig aroon; search till you find!” + +But he went across through the night to the hill of Cromm Cru, +singing the song of his father— + + O white Danaan of the sea birds, + Danaan of the snowy breast! + O sweet the song on the Druid Path + To lead me to her nest! + + She takes my hand at the sea marge, + She whispers low on the wind, + She sets her sail for Tir-nan-Ogue + +“Ay,” said Roiseen, twirling the spindle, + + And leaves dear Life behind! + +Then, as a muttering of thunder came on the wind from the sea and a +flash of flame cut the gray of the sky, she took the hound within, +closing the door on the night, and chanted the song of Nihil, as a +prayer, in the dim light of the peat blaze. + + Make strong your charms against Danaan, + Danaan of the snowy breast, + Who lured the souls of the Gods of Old + To the land of the mystic west. + +The feast of Samhain in that year was a time of wonder, for the yew +branches on the old altar place of Cromm Cru were struck afire by the +lightning, or so it was said. All the people, fearful of the crashing +thunder, yet clasped hands in a circle below the mount, while the +man with fire made his way to the top and bent to place it when the +stroke came. The blaze from the sky flashed down, and flamed upward +again, and the stunned man fell downward among his mates and was +borne in fear across the valley, and all knew that night that the +vengeance of Cromm Cru of the Tor could be a thing to put the fear of +death on any man. Let the churchmen say their say ’neath every bell +in Erinn, it would not change any man’s mind. And all had known it as +a sign of evil to come when the altar of the Ancient People had been +defaced. + +And there were those, fleeing under the lightning flashes, who vowed +they passed Phadraig, son of Nihil, running before the wind with +eager gladness in his face, and looking neither to right nor left, +and chanting the song of his father as he went down to the sea. + + O white Danaan of the sea birds, + Danaan of the snowy breast! + +And the white birds were screaming and circling above him in the +storm as he sang— + + She takes my hand at the sea marge, + She whispers low on the wind, + She sets her sail for Tir-nan-Ogue— + +And then a great wave caught the currach he launched and tossed it +out on the night, and the white foam made the curtain and hid him +from all of life. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Ages on the bosom of the ocean seemed to pass over him after that +storm. There was light, and then again there was darkness, but he +knew it only through closed eyes in a trance-like dream. He was +conscious ever of the whir of wings sweeping over his face and knew +the sea birds were there, and then he heard voices, and the laughter +of a woman, high and sweet and mocking. + +The movement of the boat ceased as it grated on sand. There was a +sudden silence, and the sound of running feet. + +“But what use to try?” said a sweet, tired voice. “All white things +go to Danaan, and look: every bird is white!” + +“Danaan comes not out of the forest, and the youth is fair. He is +treasure of the sea on our shore; if for her, the birds should have +borne him into the lake of the pulsing heart. My hand shall give him +to drink.” + +Then a cup was held to his lips, a drink of sweet-smelling fruits was +offered him. He did not drink. He was no longer in a boat; but in a +lady’s bower where bloom was on every bough, and the air heavy with +the sweetness of orchards. + +“Where am I?” he asked, and out from a shadowy doorway of stone a +tall and wondrous woman smiled on him. + +“You are in the Summer Land of the Long Day,” she said. “The birds +of the sea brought you, and what thing do you seek? For your wishing +must be great to win your way here.” + +“I do not know the thing I seek,” said Phadraig, whose mind was +veiled from the things that had been lived. “I only feel that I shall +know again when I find it.” + +“Then we will wander, a-seeking,” said the woman of beauty, and took +his hand. + +Whereupon, without seeming to take a step, he passed through and was +a part of a wonderful people. Their slightest cup was of gold, and +many wore crowns at will, and held court and ordered games at which +all played merrily, and then the crowns were tossed aside as a part +of the game no longer amusing. He moved with his mistress, whose name +was Una, along the seashore where pleasure boats were held without +rope, and he found himself sitting there alone, wondering how the +boats were held together, for there was no iron in them, and that +word “iron” was the first word his mind had as a link with the old +life and changing skies. + +For the skies never changed in the Summer Land of the Long Day, +and all the people laughed and played games as if to pass the time +while waiting. No one told him for what, and when he asked, Una the +beautiful would laugh her sweet mocking laugh and bid him to her +bower. + +“Other earth lovers have come our way, but none like you,” she +whispered. “Do you never know you are fairer than blossom on the +bough—or golden fruit of living trees?” + +“Whence came your orchards where no one labors?” he asked, and she +laughed again. + +“They are the fair memory of the sunken world to the south—as is this +castle of stone by the water’s edge, for what need is there here now +for walls of stone?” + +“Whose hands made it thus strong here by the sea marge?” he asked, +and she took his hand and held it. + +“Weary would you fare in this our land if I gave you all the words of +that building, for it is ancient as the very earth of which you came. +There was no sea at the walls in that day, and the Great White Land +of the South was in the midst of waters, and ruled the world. Then +the lands broke away and the waters covered it, and only little lands +of it kept above the waters or kept the old gods. Your Inis Erinn +to the sun side of the world was one, and another one far on the +sun-path beyond the waters is one, but the links between have been +forgot by the people of Earth. It all lives here because we are the +People of Memory. We went out from your Earth Land proudly, letting +the body and the soul go that we might hold memory alone, and in that +memory we hold only Day and only Summer.” + +“Ay,” said Phadraig, and he sat a long time in the tower looking +across the moat where the tides of the sea swirled in, “but in all +your games and pleasuring, is it not that memory holds you instead, +and makes you as endless slaves to the Great Past? Would it not be +rest to forget?” + +Upon which she drew away from him and screamed at him to begone, for +his earth thoughts were cruel as is the iron of the stranger-people +in the heart. + +He wandered away from that place, and into a wood—and her cries came +after him calling him back, but he could find no gate to the moat and +he could not go back. + +Gay companions danced about him, and made jeweled crowns for him in +the games they played, but he looked at the white birds circling +above him, and looked at the sea, and wondered whence they had led +him, and at times he could close his eyes and see them circling above +the black cliffs of Erinn though he had no memory of that place. + +And the day was heavy in the Summer Land for the reason that a quest +was in his heart, but the mind kept no record. + +But white deer came to a lake in the wood to drink, and after them +gay fays with shepherds’ staves; and they danced and sang their songs +of the woodland things, and that touched his heart more than the +games of crowns and castles. + +“Make me a shepherd, too,” he said, “for you herd the white things, +and the things of white are dear to me.” + +“Why is that?” asked a maid of the wood. + +But he did not know, and they laughed at him because he did not know, +and as they laughed, all suddenly Una, gorgeous and jeweled, flashed +in their midst and caught at his hand. + +“Not yet have you seen her?” she asked. “Then come with me; I weary +for your voice.” + +“I am a shepherd of the wood, and herd the deer.” + +“The deer need no shepherds; it is only a game to play. Come! I will +sing my music and dance you a dance in the woods alone, see! Is the +dance not a fair dance?” + +“Ay, but I would you could give me the word of why I wander here +where this lake wells with the tides of the sea.” + +“Come! We will hunt in a forest far away. This lake in the wood is a +place we never seek.” + +“Yet the white birds come—and the white deer.” + +“It is a place where earth life is remembered, and the dread +enchantment of night may fall.” + +“And the stars?” he asked, for all suddenly he thought of the night +as a thing dearly beloved and to be desired more than the Ever Day of +the changeless sun. The night stars had been dear to him. + +“Ay, and the moon and their mistress. Come out of the dusk of the +wood!” + +“But I hear music of sweetness here!” + +“Come, and I will sing beyond sweetness of woman!” + +“I listen.” + +“By this lake of Danaan, I may not sing.” + +“And that is best,” said Phadraig, for out of the rockwall by the +lake, or up from the water, there came the music of dreams on the +hill of Cromm Cru, and to an altar of stone by the lake-side came a +figure of a maid, and before her and after her swept the white birds +of the sea. Her face was veiled as by a cloud circling her to her +white feet—and it was the white cloud maid he had visioned in the +well where the heart of the sea throbbed as it throbbed here in the +lake of the wood. + +“Come with me now for pleasure,” said Una of the gold crown and jewel +eyes. + +And he looked deep into her wondrous eyes and read there the shadow +things of some forgotten past. + +“Somewhere, in some life, your music of Life has held me, and I +followed after. Was I lost in some forest through that following, O +Woman of the Memory? And do the white birds of the sea lead me at +last out from the shadows of that? This pulse of the lake beats more +close to me than the pulse of your heart, O Una, most beautiful! +And—I follow my dream!” + +And at that the white cloud fell away from the maid, and he saw the +white hands of her make new fire in the ancient way on the stone +of the altar place, and maids and men in green clasped hands and +circled her, and chanted a song he had sometime known of. + + Samhain! Samhain! Samhain! + Take the new fire! Send the rain! + Banish care and banish pain! + Speed the ghosts who ban the sheep, + Light the path to spirit sleep! + This our fire to light the way + This eve: + Samhain! + +And as he heard them he saw again the hill of Cromm Cru and the +circled bands there, but never on Cromm Cru or in all the world had +he seen such a priest at an altar, for she was all of white and +silver and in her hair of gold was a fillet of silver with a crescent +moon. And he broke through the circle to kneel by her. + +“O new moon of the world!” said Phadraig as he unclasped the strong +hand of Una. + +“I hear your voice but may not look on you until the prayer is +worked. The Lords of Flame send thus the strength of altars to the +sun! ’Tis Summer Days’ farewell!” + +“The day is endless here—and no farewell!” came the whispered +music-sweet voice of Una. “’Tis witchery of Earth, her mother’s +earth! I beg you come with me!” + +But he made no answer, so thrilled was he by the enchantment of the +music of the white maid who gave fire to her men and maids, and bade +them to the four ways. + +Then she turned and smiled upon him, and in her smile was the glory +of dawn. + +“You have followed the quest, O King Phadraig, soul of Nihil?” she +said. + +“Not king, O Wonder Maid! You have given back the name I had lost, +but no king am I. I am the son of Nihil, and am your shepherd of the +white deer, or knight of yours if fighting men are called.” + +“Danaan calls no more battles these many thousand days.” + +And with the name came the strange witchery by which he had been held +in thrall since the night of Beltain on the heights. + +“Danaan—Danaan!” he whispered. “I have followed the quest. Your white +birds led the way, O snowy-breasted maid! I am in bond to you these +many days!” + +“We all are bound by links forged by the gods. What quest was yours?” + +“I never knew till now. I thought it but the music of the past—I +sought to find it through your magic name—and now—” + +“Ay! Wishful human hearts,” she said, and rested her hand on his hair +where he knelt beside her. “Come you, and tell me of your life on +other shores.” + +“I have forgotten all,” he said, and in truth he had; only flashes of +vision came to him as she spoke, but they went again. + +She laid her hand on his. “Now look again,” she said. + +And he looked. And there was the great cliff and the glen by the +sea and the sheep on the far moors. And at the door of the cot sat +Roiseen spinning the flax, and the white hound at her feet looking +out to sea. It was as if he was looking into the eyes of Phadraig, +and seeing him, yet taking no note, and Phadraig felt a longing for +the shore. He had loved well Roiseen and the hound. And Danaan beside +him laughed, and clapped her hands as a child would do. + +“I saw it, too!” she said. “And that is the shore my mother loved! +Once she made me to see her honeysweet hills. She died with the +sickness of longing for them, but never could I see it alone. Oh, +lend me your eyes, and look for the deep well in the wood in the +valley below the altar—it was there he, my father, found her, and +drew her from her people. And she trod with him the Druid Path and +came from the pulsing well here to the pulsing lake. Did you know +that each is a mirror for all that reflects in the other? It is the +path of dreams—and the guide is the living sea. It has led you as it +led my mother from the land of Inis Erinn.” + +“And when was this?” asked Phadraig, after he had looked with her +into the pulsing well and over the cliffs, and in all the places she +had been told of and longed to see. + +“I only know it is so long ago that the sea is changed there. For the +water ran in where you showed me the sheep in the valley. Ay, always +I wanted to see that earth life again, and I wished it till you came +to me.” + +“And I wished for the voice of Danaan out of all the world till my +wish met yours somewhere between the shores, and only the sea birds +knew!” + +She looked at him long, and sighed. + +“My mother came for such a wish—and for love, but she could not stay +alive with us, and her spirit went out on the wings of the wind to +find her way back to the primrose dawns and the purple dusks. How +will you go out, O Phadraig the king, when the time comes?” + +“Why am I here but to do your will?” he asked. “And since you name me +king, then a king’s way must I go out when the time comes; but bear +you with me I will, Danaan, my soul.” + +“Ay, if that might be,” she said, and played with the girdle of sea +pearls about her. “My mother left with me the earth longings else +I never had wished you here”—and then she put her hand on his once +more and had him look back to the land, and softly she crooned over +to herself the charms it held for her through the sick longings of +the mother. And when he thought of the night there, and the stars +circling above and shining in the still water of the well, she arose +and paced the grove. + +“Look you,” she said, “the others who abide with me gave up Earth +and Spirit in an ancient day that they might live ever in the strong +memory of joys that were. My heritage is different—as my spirit is. +They never weary for the dusks of the night; I do, because of the +bond with earth in me. Thus I make my own world, and do the moon +prayers my mother knew, and make the Festivals of the Age of Youth, +and here for love of it I have my night all alone where it gives +dread to Una lest I plunge them all in shadow—they are in fear of +earth enchantings. You are stronger than I, O Phadraig, for you have +the soul of the Danaan and the strong earth body. You have fared +forth on the quest of Nihil, though you know it not! But Nihil was +not a king and the gods decide, Phadraig, that you are to be that. +Wearily one more life must you serve ere you win the right to rest.” + +“With you, O Danaan?” + +“If you will it so, for you are stronger than I, Phadraig.” + +“What pledge may I keep?” + +She gave him the sharp flint spear from the altar. + +“Cut there in the wall of the rock something sacred to you and to the +land of my mother.” + +He did so, and cut the central star of the north, and the wheel of +the wings of it at the four seasons. + +“It is the most steadfast sign in our skies,” he said, “and every +circling dance of prayer to the gods, old or new, is built on it.” + +Then Danaan, holding his hand, stood beside him at the edge of the +lake of the tide, and with her finger drew a circle around the symbol +there. + +“The forest will wither, and the heart of the lake will be still, +ere the bond of that circle dies for you and for me,” she said. “If +ever you doubt, O Phadraig the king, fare you forth again from your +own shores of Inis Erinn and look on the wall and my pledge here. But +never look back to it but once in your lifetime, and now—come away!” + +He followed where she led, and in a grotto by the sea they sat with +clasped hands and she told him what she might of the People of +Memory. Yet often she seemed to tell him without words. The music of +a wondrous life swept over him in great floods of light unspeakable, +and again he could hear an undercurrent of a lament ever dying away, +and coming again, and he felt what that meant, too. + +“We will not be parting,” he said as he held her. “I say it!” + +“That is as may be,” she answered. “I am free of the wood and rule +there, yet I belong to the Tuathe de Danaan, and there are bonds of +this life.” + +“I broke them to find you,” he said. + +“So you did. But you have the wonderful earth body, and the doubled +strength of Nihil and the others who have longed through the ages to +prove the bond they felt. I will be alone. There will be no one to +help me.” + +“I will help,” he said. + +“You have your will, and you see no content till you try,” she said. +“But this is the time of trial, and I will not see you linger till +your soul goes out on the restless winds crying for the blue of the +heather on the hill and the primrose dawns after the sweet nights! It +may be a long farewell you are to give me here, Phadraig, O King!” + +But he lifted her in his arms as if she had been but an armful of the +fragrant blossoms above them, and he strode down to the shore with +the white sea birds screaming. + +She uttered no word as he placed her in the currach and set it on +the waves, and from the castle walls no face looked out. It was as if +all the land there, and her heart as well, had been made quiet by the +strength of his will to bear her away. + +But only the whispered lament of the music was heard, and the world +was very still. The birds had ceased whirling above but swept +steadily onward as if drifting on the wind, and it was a world of +green water and green sky they went into. + +But the cold came down, and the birds flew low. He touched the hand +of Danaan; it was very cold, and his heart was sick with fear for +her. He lifted her to his breast that his body might give her warmth. +But it did not, and his very soul seemed frozen with unearthly cold +as he lay beside her and held her close. + +And then she smiled, the most wonderful smile in the world, into +his eyes, and whispered, “I did not know how it would be coming, +Phadraig, O King. But it is the farewell—and it is sweet as honey on +the hills in your land of love.” + +But he could not speak; he could only look on her face until his own +eyes closed, and the currach went steadily on through icy air. There +was no longer any thought left in him as to where they were borne, +for he felt the sleep of death was over them both. + + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +And on the day of Samhain, as the sun went into the western mists +and left a path of glory behind, the white hound at the feet of old +Roiseen of the Glen stood up looking out to the sea, and the whine +of him was like a chained soul in travail. Roiseen looked the way +he looked, and in the path of the sun on the water a currach came +in to the shore, and over it a white cloud hovered. Yet when it came +nearer, the cloud was only white birds flying low on the sea. + +“The strength of the saints to us—and Saint Brighde to the fore!” +she prayed, for no mortal currach ever came in like that against the +tide. And to shepherds bearing yew to the mount of Cromm Cru, she +made a call. + +“Come you who bear cheer to the ghosts who walk on the night of +Samhain,” she said, “come you down to the sea where the ghost of +Phadraig, son of Nihil, is waiting on the waves!” + +In fear they came, and, led by the white hound, they went down to the +sea, and there was Phadraig in the white sleep. But the hound crept +near to him and gave tongue in joy, and Roiseen of the Glen lifted +his head to her. + +“The luck is on him that he yet holds breath,” she said. “Men, take +him up. Fiann, make you the fire. Erard, go you for the priest in the +cave of the hills, for he is a holy man. Ay! Achone! Phadraig, that +you should come back to us with the ice in your blood like this!” + +And only the bravest of the men would bear Phadraig, for the others +stayed on their knees in fear of the white birds whirling wearily +over. + +And the night fires of Samhain were sending their flames to the sky +when he spoke. + +“Danaan, Danaan, it is again I have lost you?” + +“He dreams,” said the holy man of the cave where Saint Colman had +lived his seven blessed years, and ever after that time the monks +lived there in retreat. + +“Nay, father, call it not a dream, for it is a part of the life of +his people—and he has been bold to go forth to find.” + +And that was the time she told, under confession, the legend of the +race of Ua Dinan. + +He was very aged, and had seen many things on earth, and in hearts, +and he did not chide. + +“What is the blaze on the night sky?” asked Phadraig. “Do they burn +today the yew wet by the rain last night of Samhain?” + +The monk looked at the woman. + +“Ay, Phadraig, my heart,” she said. “It is the feast fire of +Samhain.” But she did not tell him he had gone out with the ghosts of +Samhain a year agone, and came back with them! + +Then there was sound of horses’ feet, and voices of men of degree, +and a chief of Tormond entered the cot and bent the knee to Phadraig, +and beyond the door stood many chiefs. + +“We have guarded your claim till you came, Phadraig, son of Nihil, +son of Ua Dinan,” he said, and the chiefs lifted their lances, and +one by one entered the cot and spoke fealty and passed out. + +And thus he learned that Danaan spoke true in Tir-nan-Ogue of the +Long Day, for Kieran the king had fallen in a raid of the south, and +his frail cousin had gone out like a rushlight in the wind. + +“Come another day, and I will hearken to you,” he said, “other cares +await me this night.” + +They went away at that, and Phadraig asked again for Danaan, and was +told that the currach was empty but for himself, and was so old that +it fell to pieces as the men drew it ashore, and that not lately +could it have ever borne the burden of two bodies. + +This he knew was not true, and he said it, and the fever of him ran +hot, and he talked of the trees of magic where white flower and fruit +of gold grew on the same branch, and where music was achingly sweet, +and spoke without words! Back there to Tir-nan-Ogue would he go for +Danaan, despite all, and he bade them as their king that they bring +him a boat for the journey! + +And so prayerful were the eyes of Roiseen that the holy man of the +cave bade him sleep in peace, for with the rising of the sun the boat +would be ready. + +“Achone! Ay, father! But what shall we do if he wakens alive and +holds you to that?” asked Roiseen, making the sign. + +“What is there to do with god or man but to keep the faith?” said the +priest. “He is not to be bound or held to life for the cares of this +land except he be rowed to some island in the sea, and have the dream +blown away on the wind.” + +And it was so. + +The chiefs waited on his word while he walked the hills with the +priest and listened to the music unheard by all but him, and called +on Danaan to come alive to him. + +Strange tales went abroad that the king walked with angels, and the +chiefs were patient, but to the holy man they said he must wear the +crown or forfeit it, also that he must wed with a maid of degree, +else no chief could bring wife or daughter to the halls of Ua Dinan, +as was the custom in Tormond. + +Phadraig, the king, listened and laughed with bitter thoughts. + +“How may I wed a warm maid of the clans when my arms are yet chilled +with the icy bosom of Danaan?” he asked. “The heart of me craves only +a boat, and strength to fare forth to the shores where I held her.” + +“And if we find a shore and no waiting maids, will you then take up +the work waiting here to your hand?” + +“That, if I cannot find her,” said Phadraig. + +“And will you wed the lady who waits in the south, and hold court as +of old for the good of your race?” + +“Rather with her than another,” said Phadraig. “She is a fair and +honest lady, and sweetly kind.” + +And the holy man kept his word. He bore sacred symbols and a church +bell, and sailed away with Phadraig to the west, and the chiefs on +the shore were told it was a vow, and waited as they might and made +prayers. The bells were rung from every tower that day to pray that +Phadraig, the king, come again in health and safety. + + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +No one ever knew what island in the sea they came to, but come to +an island they did, and it was far away. The wood grew down to the +shore, and there were mighty trees cast down as by a great wind, +and the desolation of it was so great that no living thing moved or +fluttered a wing, and out beyond the shore rested the white birds of +Phadraig, the king, and they rocked on the waves there, and by no +effort could be made follow. + +“This is the farthest unknown land,” said the holy man. “By faith and +prayer have we found it, and by the grace of God only shall we ever +fare safely home or see again the faces of your clans. Look about +you, Phadraig of the Dream, where are the ever-blossoming boughs and +the castle of stone with the many towers?” + +“Hear you not the music?” + +“I hear only the sea wind moaning through the branches of dead trees.” + +“Smell you not the fragrance of orchards?” + +“I smell only the twists of seaweed cast up on the shore,” and +the priest pushed aside a branch of wild thorns with green leaves +reaching out from a gnarled and ancient bole. + +But Phadraig caught the thorn branch, and under the scant green +leaves was one tiny blossom, white and thick-petaled and with the +fragrance of all sweetness of all the orchards in the world. + +“See! Of this I told you, and it is alive here!” + +“Then it is the sole live thing on the shore, for there is not even +fish in this sea.” + +But Phadraig led him over stones of great size piled high. Broken +stone was there covered by sands—and other stone not broken, but +squared on the four sides and grown over with lichens and wild vines. + +“This is like the place of the tower where the sea tide swept into +the moat,” he said. + +And the holy man went over the stone, and stood on a broken wall. And +beyond was a great place of sand piled high where the walls of a moat +once stood. + +“Come away,” he said, and crossed himself in fear. “This is no place +of living things. No life has been here for a thousand years.” + +But Phadraig held the blossom and heard the music of Danaan and would +not. + +“Come out first, as by your vow, to the forest,” he said, “for it was +there I found her. Once only in my lifetime I was to come back if I +had doubt. I have no doubt, yet I am here with you. Come you in.” + +It was a wilderness beyond words, and the twisted thorn trees were +gray and dead there, with neither green leaf nor white bloom. + +“I am sorrowful to bring you through them,” said Phadraig, the king, +for the priest was old and the way hard. “But over beyond the hill +is the great forest—and there by the blue lake the pulse of the sea +is—” + +But the forest was a jungle with no path, and the lake was not there; +only a bog stretched from the gray wood to a cliff of gray rock, and +Phadraig could say no word but sat there on a crumbling stone and +covered his eyes with his hands. + +“Now, O Phadraig, will you come back to the warm blood of your own +clans?” asked the priest. “For here is the end of the dream.” + +But Phadraig, the lover, stood up and walked to the wall of gray rock +at the edge of the bog. + +“Not yet—O holy father,” he said. “Once only I was to come for proof +in one lifetime, and here am I! Come you and look.” + +He tore away from the rock wall the gray and green lichen and placed +his fingers into the carving made there for the star of the north, +and its circling seven, which makes both cross and wheel in the night +sky. + +“See! I drilled them deep as the flint knife would burrow the stone,” +he said, “and the storm has beaten away the face of the rock until +only the traces are here. But Danaan took one finger of her white +hand and drew a circle as her bond, and it has eaten deep into the +rock as if carved with tools of iron this day. Father, what should +that tell to me?” + +And the holy man looked in the face of Phadraig, the king, and made a +prayer against enchantments, and rang the sacred bell of church there +in the gray wood before he would speak. + +“Since written bond it is, O Phadraig, rest your soul with the +thought that it was a bond with a forbear of yours a thousand summers +agone! You have only dreamed the dream that was born in your blood of +that bond. You have kept the tryst for your ancestors, and risked +your life and soul in the keeping. No more of duty for your race will +be required of you in this life—naught but to wear the crown and rule +in the ways of the clans.” + +So Phadraig knelt there by the written bond of union, to the harmony +of the circling stars, and he touched the circle of Danaan while he +made his prayer, and then they went out again from the wilderness +to the sea, and the white birds flew silently ahead of them on the +sun-path to the home land of Erinn. + +“Look not behind you,” said the priest, “but follow the birds and +pray for all lost souls.” + +For well he knew what would come of the church bell, and the +Christian prayer in the gray wood. And come it did, for when he +looked back the ancient island of enchantment was no more to be seen. +And no living man has seen it to this day except its shadow every +seven years far across the gold haze of the sunset path, and then the +gray wood is glorified and young again—but there are those who can +still hear the music of Danaan across the water in dusks and dawns. + + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +And Roiseen of the Glen went to the great hall of Phadraig, the Ua +Dinan, and nursed his children there, and gave comfort to Yva of +Kilfernora, who was wife to him, and counseled her never to hedge in +a child of the Ua Dinan from the open life and the old faiths; for +in strange and dangerous ways they would cross the barriers, and it +was safest to let them range free till they made the circle and came +back to bide at the hearthstone and under the bell of the church. + +The holy man of the cave of Saint Colman was given merit by the +bishop for saving the soul of Phadraig, the king, who was known to +have won a strange power through some holy source. + +His hair whitened but his eyes were ever young, and his strength and +wisdom grew, and his children’s children could not keep pace with him +on the moors. He trained his eldest son to rule, and when the times +were safe, he gave up the crown and wore the monk’s robe of white, +and crossed over to Dun Aengus of the Isles of Arran. The singers of +three centuries sang the songs of Nihil, his father, and the poets +wrote of Phadraig, the king, as of a holy man by whom the white birds +were tamed. Also he loved the stars and learned wisdom of them in the +night, and in the blessed Isle of Arran he was always out under the +sky when the wind blew from the west—and the music he heard then made +him walk in beauty with the glad eyes of a lover who is beloved. + +And when the Time came, he laid him down in the white robe and bade +all doors be open, and all windows, that the west wind come over him! +And the white birds came on the wind and circled the room and hovered +there. While the brother monks lit candles and chanted the words for +the dying, he smiled in content and whispered the music of the song +of Nihil— + + She takes my hand at the sea marge, + She whispers low on the wind, + She sets her sail for Tir-nan-Ogue + And leaves worn Life behind! + +No pain was with him, and no sickness, but he went out on the wind as +the birds went, and the monks who knelt by him, waiting some vision +of his patron saint, heard him say at the last: + +“Danaan, the star stands steady these thousand years and the circle +closes. I come back on the breath of the gods!” + +There was much learned discussion over this saying of his. Some +thought he spoke of Daniel of the Hebrews, who was never a saint but +was once a strong prophet. Others thought it was David, the king, of +whom he spoke, for David was once a shepherd—and such were ever wise +in the ways of the stars of night. + +As to the “breath of the gods”—they could by no means make out the +meaning of that, which would have been blasphemy had it been said +by anyone, high or low, and in their charity the monks united to +disbelieve their own ears and content their souls with the miracle of +the white birds—which was a beautiful miracle indeed—and, of course, +a holy one. + +So Phadraig, the king, was buried in consecrated ground, and only two +souls had lived in his day to read the riddle of his life. One was +the Wise Woman of the Glen and the other a holy man of the cave of +Saint Colman in the hills. + +But each had passed on, long years before, and made their choice +between heaven and Tir-nan-Ogue. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + + + +[Illustration: THE ENCHANTING OF DOIRENN] + +[Illustration: Love’s Story] + +[Music] + THE ENCHANTING OF DOIRENN + + +Not lucky is it for a man when his own clan gives him low looks, and +Ruadan of Ardsolais saw how the wind blew in the rath of Fethna in +Meath when his kinsmen brought there a counting of cattle, and they +grudged that payment of cattle and grudged twice over the twelve +white cows, for the white cows were the darlings of the herd, and his +kinsmen were coveting them for their own fields. And to Fethna, who +was lord of the judgments in that place, they spoke. + +“What is this debt to Cairell?” asked Donn, of his clan. “Far from +Deasmond is the dun of Cairell; far to drive cattle, and waste of +time coming.” + +Fethna would have been a cloak for Ruadan had he dared, but justice +must have light of the sun. + +“It is no debt, and I could wish you made me no asking,” he said. “It +is a fine, and it had to be paid when Cairell brought witness and +made oath.” + +“Why not give to them the tale?” asked Ruadan, and laughed. “If +Cairell and his wife Luaine care so little to have songs of us going +round the fire, what is it to me? Luaine of the white hands can be +queen of cattle for all I am caring. That is the comfortable kind of +wife to have for old age, and she is a fair, sweet body.” + +“It would serve you better,” said Donn, of his clan, “to take a wife +of your own, that your kinsmen could bring their women folk to your +dun, as is fitting. Neither monk’s robe nor wife will you take or +will you keep.” + +“I am not yet brave enough in spirit to pledge my name for every +man’s child a woman may take fancy to bring; it takes a brave man for +that. Until I find the right woman it is cheaper to pay trespass in +cattle.” + +“You talk heresy; for marriage is called sanctified.” + +“So the priests are telling, but it takes more than their words to +prove it so. Make not your quarrel here, because there is no wife in +my dun, when all these coveted cattle are paid by me because there +was a wife in my camp in the forest—ill-luck on that night!” + +His kinsmen stared darkly, feeling they were laughed at, but Fethna +spoke. + +“It is the truth: the woman followed him, he makes no denial.” + +“What good of it?” laughed Ruadan. “I left his dun and asked no +company. Every jester in Erinn would have a song of me if I took +flight from the same woman twice. And where would there be profit in +it to anyone?” + +“There would be profit in that you would not lose the love of Niall, +the king,” said Fethna sorrowful, and Donn changed looks with the +others. + +“True enough,” agreed Ruadan, “but if Niall was pleased to give me +love himself, why should he be in anger for the reason that his +uncle’s cousin’s daughter should have followed after to do the same? +How was I to know? Does a man waste time to ask about grandsires when +a lovely woman would creep under his cloak? Out on you for a lot of +cold-blooded fish! Niall Caille will show temper for a year perhaps, +and I’ll be keeping my distance till he has need of a spear.” + +“Is the favor of a king so small a matter that you pick it up and put +it aside as you will?” asked Donn jealously. “Strange tales have come +to us of other heads with crowns and other friendships of yours.” + +Ruadan looked at his hand on which a foreign ring shone—a ring of +deep gold and a red jewel in it. + +“Rest you easy on that. There will be no cattle to pay there! I was +on the business of the king; and the jewel was given only to the +king’s messenger.” + +“Ask of Niall another gille next time,” said Fethna, “for the last +one had tales to tell of Queen Ota and that ring of yours! Turgesius +of the Danes needs two eyes for her alone. Since kings and queens do +not come to me to set fines for loves, I can laugh at that, and leave +it to Niall. But the bards do be making songs of that and even the +maids are singing them in their chamber.” + +Back of the arras there was a movement and a scuttling of feet; maids +were there listening because the drive of cattle had made talk. + +Bevind, daughter of Fethna, was there, and held by the hand Doirenn, +of the deep voice, to listen. + +“Do you have wonder that I give him my looks when queens have given +him love?” she asked, but the girl Doirenn looked her gloom and her +scorn. + +“How is it that you give looks to him whom they call ‘God’s Dastard’ +when your eyes have looked on goodness in Geroid who has no blemish?” +she asked. “This man has much blemish, and is not in shame because of +it.” + +“You are as hard on him as the monks, for it was the monks that +put that name on him. It is heavy to carry, Doirenn. To put an ill +name to a boy and hope he walks the white path is much to hope for, +Doirenn.” + +Doirenn looked at her, frowning. + +“I have not seen his face, yet I am thinking ill of him,” she said. +“Geroid would have no light word of women and cattle such as this +man speaks. Give him no looks, Bevind, and no words. It is said that +monks learn holy ghostly things, and, if turned dastard to God, they +can use power for enchantments. If a queen, even a pagan queen, +looked love on him, and a king’s cousin followed him, what can it +mean but enchantings?” + +Bevind gasped and rolled her eyes. + +“I did hear old Aillve tell a tale of enchantment by love, and the +man was old as the world, yet looked young, and he snared maids and +took them to his rath where they were changed to white cats. His +forest was full of beautiful white cats, waiting for a brave and pure +youth to ride their way and make prayers there; and that would free +them, and nothing else would free them.” + +“Geroid could be that one,” said Doirenn. “All his verses on the +tablets are against enchantments in these days. Here is one— + + _Against incantations of false prophets, + Against craft of idolatry, against spells + Of women, and smiths, and druids, I bind + Myself to the strong strength._ + +The prayer of a saint is that prayer, Bevind, and with +it he could ride safe to free all enchanted souls.” + +“But would he?” asked Bevind. “He is my kinsman more than yours, and +the safe side of a good wall was ever the choice of Geroid when the +play was getting rough. My brothers are wild to fight out the Danes +when the time comes, but Geroid casts no spear for that practice.” + +Doirenn sulked and frowned. + +“Your brothers have not souls of religion,” she said, “they have +jealous hearts because of the high words of Geroid.” + +“They have jealous hearts because of your own beauteous eyes, and +because not one of them would shut himself away with the monks, +and feed a maid like yourself on letters and on the prayers of the +old-time saints, and that is what Geroid is doing to you.” + +“The tongue of you is bitter from some poison herb you have chewed +on,” declared Doirenn, “you have no good word for the godly, but many +good words for that swaggering lover of queens and other men’s wives. +The more shame to you!” + +Bevind laughed again. “Alanna,” she said, “he has no love, else he +would have kept Luaine who followed his road. He would be fighting +for her and not paying cattle for her—no—Ruadan of Ardsolais has not +yet found Love, he has only found many fond women. Achone! That I was +promised in troth before I was seeing him, for his kinsmen are saying +it is a wife he should have, far away there, back of beyond where his +dun is in the mountains.” + + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +But Doirenn cared not where he lived, nor when he wived. She carried +the last tablet of Geroid out through the arbor where she could read +over again and again the written words of the lad who was dear and +was far. She unbraided the red gold of her hair, and let it fall +about her as a shimmering curtain. She had days in that sixteenth +year of hers when the veil of a nun would have seemed to her a sweet +thing to wear in sanctuary, but the cutting of that golden shower was +a thing to shrink from; and the thought of Geroid was another reason! + + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +It was there in the arbor Ruadan saw her, while his kinsmen fed and +Fethna did a host’s duty. + +At first he could see little but the glory of her hair and the bare +feet under the striped skirt of white and brown. He was above her +on the wall, and stood waiting some movement that her face might be +uncovered. + +Fethna found him thus, for she had not moved and he had watched her +long. + +“Who is that?” he asked, “or do I dream of magical gold in the shape +of a maid?” + +“It is Doirenn, daughter of no man now, for Marvan that was her +father, and all his household, were swept into death by the men of +Lochlann, and the gold of her hair is all the dower the child brings.” + +“What does she there?” + +“She is devoted these days because a queer twist of a lad is devoted, +and hours she reads the prayers he is sending on tablets. It is a +game of young years and is on the love path. She grows tall and +nearing time to wed.” + +“And she reads the writings?” + +“She does, and who wants a cleric in a wife? Marvan taught her as a +scribe ere he went the way—cows and slaves would be a better portion.” + +“I do not say that,” said Ruadan. “Ten years I worked on letters +alone in Cluain-mac-noise and books I made were gifts to kings. There +is a joy in that. If in this life I found no house, I may go back to +the pen and color pot after I have covered my circle.” + +Then the voice of Bevind called from somewhere, and Doirenn stood up +and shook back her golden mane. + +“She has dower in plenty,” said Ruadan. + +He listened to her voice and remembered its deep music, and he rode +west with his kinsmen, who planted his fields and counted his herds. + + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +A month went by, and again he stood at the gate of Fethna. + +“Does that maid know me, Ruadan, from Donn or the others of my clan?” +he asked, and Fethna looked at him and laughed loud. + +“The last time it was a cattle-fine for a wife you paid, and now you +are coming to ask of a maid and no name to her!” + +“There is only one in the world,” said Ruadan. “She is Doirenn na +Marvan, and I would have speech with her.” + +“Sorrow the day,” lamented Fethna, “it is not now you would be seeing +that one; grief of the world is on her, for Geroid who was her lover +has gone into the ‘Solitary’—far west has he gone down the Sionan to +the ancient cell of Saint Senan on the shores of Lough Dearg. She +thinks the sorrow of the world is hers.” + +“I would lift that load and carry it,” said Ruadan. + +“You mean to take her to wed?” and Fethna’s face had a frown on it. +It was not easy to shift the sails for every wind with Ruadan. + +“It would mean war with me, or a race beyond me to the man who would +offer her less,” he said. + +But for all the urging of Bevind, Doirenn would not come where he +was. She said he was the contrary in all ways to the pious youth who +had her heart. If she loved Geroid, there could be only hate in her +thoughts for one so near to the evil one as “God’s Dastard” was said +and was sung. + +“She has not seen me,” said Ruadan when her refusal came. “Let her +see me and hear me, and let my own ears hear her words.” + +It was not a pleasant day of joy for Fethna and the family of Fethna. +His own sons were asking the same thing, and the girl had only one +thought, and that was not of marriage. + +But after much argument Doirenn put aside Bevind and walked alone +into the great hall where Ruadan—God’s Dastard and the darling of +fond women—waited. + +White she was, and afraid, but the fear only made darker the blue +eyes of her. Her hair was braided in long strands over each shoulder. +Bevind had dressed her in white and the broidered shoes of skin were +white. She was more lovely than a queen of the Danaan in the ancient +legends. + +But she stood, a pale, proud, frightened child in her loveliness, and +she looked past Ruadan and not at him. + +“I came by the courtesy of Fethna,” she said. “I do not come by my +wish.” + +Ruadan looked at her and saw the fluttering of the white throat and +the tight clenching of her hand. She looked like a bird trapped. + +“And I come despite my wish to go elsewhere,” he said grimly. +“Child, I saw you once in the arbor and I shall not be forgetting the +seeing of you. I meant not to see you again, but a dream came to me +in the forest and it brought me to you, for you were in it.” + +She looked at him then and looked away proudly. + +“Your dream was false,” she said. “It should have been of Luaine who +claimed your cattle, or Ota the queen, whose love gift you wear.” + +“By the Elements,” he began darkly, but she put out her hand. + +“I have no desire for speech with unholy men,” she said. “Priest +and monk say you are that, and they have a name for it! They tell +me you speak marriage for me, but I have a choice: If Geroid goes +into sanctuary I also will go; I am going. The veiled women of +Cluain-mac-noise will take me without dower. Your dream in the forest +has no meaning to a veiled maid.” + +“It will have in another time,” he said in patience, for her voice +had the sound of tears, and it made a strange ache in his heart. “I +dreamed that you were in sorrow and that I was to offer you shelter. +I did not know your sorrow but I turned and rode back to learn. From +Fethna I learned.” + +“It is not your sorrow,” said Doirenn. + +“It may be, and we may live to know it,” Ruadan made answer, and +strove to gentle his voice to her sadness, “for I dreamed I saw you +in a very different place—away to the west and in hills I know and by +a shore you never have seen.” + +“The west!” she whispered. “Geroid is there now, a stone cell in the +mountains of the west!” + +“I did not see the cell. I saw you there at a shore I know, and +Bronach the Lamentable was there—the wraith washing the shrouds of +mortals. I woke in the night with that dream, and turned in the +night to take the road here. To the people of my house Bronach does +not come for naught. You were in that dream, it means a bond with our +house, and I am here to keep that bond, and offer what I may.” + +Doirenn, by the arras, called Bevind and her father. + +“You told me of enchantments men make on maids when of evil mind,” +she said. “The power Ruadan learned as a monk he would turn to much +usage today. Was it by tales of dreams you witched the ring from a +queen’s hand? And witched the Lady Luaine to the forest?” + +And then she laughed and went out and left them there. But when +Bevind found her in her chamber she was weeping bitterly and would +not tell them of the dream or the enchantment. + +And within seven days Fethna was glad of heart to take her to +Cluain-mac-noise for the year of preparing a soul for the veil. +Between her weeping for Geroid, and the raging of his own sons there +was no peace for a quiet man in his own house. + +Thus it was that the golden tresses of Doirenn were covered by the +white novice veil and she began life anew in the great school by the +Sionan, famed for its learning from Gaul even to Egypt. + + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +But the year of her preparation had not ended when Ruadan again rode +to the dun of Fethna. He was hollow of eye, and his spent horses were +glad of rest and fodder. + +“Is there aught of Doirenn na Marvan known to you?” he asked, and +the sons of Fethna, who had taken wives and forgotten the golden maid +who had flouted them, looked at Ruadan and laughed. + +“How is a man to know of a veiled maid?” one asked. “The walls are +high and the fair ones are well guarded.” + +“I was on the south shores and I heard her voice; it was her voice, +there is none other like that. It was her voice calling—a troubled +voice.” + +“How could you hear a voice from the center of Erinn to the south +shore?” they said, but Fethna looked in the fierce face of Ruadan and +bade them be silent. + +“Your father Ferdiad had ‘the sight,’” he said, “but my thought has +been that it did not come to you because the priests were down on +you. They can take away power if they think of it! What is it you +would do because of that calling?” + +“I would answer it,” said Ruadan. “No gate of a nun’s dwelling would +open for me, but you have women about you. Take one and make a gift, +and let me ride beside you. The call was coming to me and the gift I +will provide. I will pledge them a book more fine than the one of my +youth made for the abbot’s gift to Clonard. My hand has not lost its +craft—I vow this thing!” + +There was much talk of which wife would go, and the dress to wear, +and to carry, for Bevind had wed and gone north to Orielle. Also the +best horses were to bring in, and food to prepare. Hours were wasted +ere they started on the way. + +They would have been as well not starting, for soon they met people +in fright and with awesome news. + +While Turgesius harried the south shore and strengthened the Danish +holdings there, Queen Ota, the pagan priestess of terrible things, +had won to the heart of Erinn by the Sionan. She and her brother, +Amlaf, had a fleet on Lough Rea and Lough Boderg. A fort of theirs +was over at Rinnduin and the lands were ravaged by them. A battle at +Cluain-mac-noise had won the churches and monasteries for the queen. +Monks and nuns were killed, and there was much burning of all houses +of farmers or herders. Not a handful of thatch was left on a house +for miles, and runners had been killed with spear and with arrow. + +It was too late for help. The warriors of Queen Ota were on the walls +and in the towers of Cluain-mac-noise. They held the Sionan to north +and south. It was not for nothing that the great night-sun with the +tail of fire swept like a besom over the skies of Erinn that year. +The young had fear on them, and the old went in secret ways to the +high places of ancient druidcraft and made answering fires that help +might come their way if the way of the saints failed them. Though +bishop thundered from the altar, and monk prayed in the cell, yet +fires did blaze where the temples of ancient faiths remained, but no +prayer and no spell swept away Ota and her mate—or swept away that +fiery trailing thing among the stars! + +There were those who called it the war warning of the Dane, +and the worst of all the evils it announced was the sacking of +Cluain-mac-noise, because great wealth of jeweled books and costly +gifts was centered in that place. + + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +“What of Doirenn who was fosterling of Fethna?” asked Ruadan of the +fleeing host. + +“No one is knowing that. Ota likes not women about her except for +labor to save her men. The young and strong may be taken overseas as +slaves—no one can know that. West to the sea along the Sionan Ota +has her swift oarmen as couriers to bring quick warnings, and a fort +is there at Luimneach for all supplies, cattle and horses are held +for her, and the people of the land only live by her mercy to harvest +their own crops for her warriors. It is a sad time under the dreadful +star for the people of Erinn.” + + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Ruadan looked about the little huddled group, pale with horror of +what had been, and in further dread of what might be: with one army +of the foreigner on the south shore, and one in the very heart of the +land, and the fearful star of danger sweeping the heavens! He took +Fethna aside, and when they were alone he spoke as follows: + +“Go you back. This is not the game of an old man. Bid your sons keep +silence as to the call I heard; I had too much of hill and valley to +cover and have come too late. I will take my gille and go a day’s +ride farther. I may learn somewhat.” + +“It is better not to go, and not to know,” said Fethna. “When I +was younger than you they stole the maid I was to wed; their ships +sailed out to sea and no word was ever coming back. What is there +to do for one man against an army? What is there for you to do at +Cluain-mac-noise? We can gather men and fight them out, but it will +take time. While we are getting our clans and arms together they will +have ravaged the land and sailed away.” + +“That is true,” said Ruadan. “Send your couriers to every point +while I go on and see as I may. I will be back for a spear when the +time comes, rest you easy on that.” + + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +So, with his servant, he went on in deep thought and silence, +striving to find ways to answer that call of Doirenn, who held him in +bitter disdain. + +When half-mad wanderers were met, fleeing from the Danish scourge, +and smoking ruins were seen afar, Ruadan halted in a grove of little +oaks and washed in the stream and took more sightly apparel from the +bag carried on the horse of the servant. A purple cloak from overseas +he put on, and from the lining of a girdle he took a golden ring with +a great red jewel of beauty, and set it on his hand. + +“From here you take the back road,” he said to his servant, “and if +you would favor me, and the house in which your family had protection +of spears, this is the time for the favor.” + +“Tell it and it is done,” said the man. + +“There may be half-Dane spies among these fleeing people. When they +ask of me tell them I have made quarrel with my clan, and that the +monks call me ‘God’s Dastard’ for putting off the robe and letting my +hair grow as God meant it to.” + +“It is a hard thing you are asking,” said the servant, “for it is +myself has had many a fight to deny your unfaith.” + +“I know that without words else I would not be trusting you. Say what +you can to let them think I have cast off my own people to follow +Queen Ota and her fortunes. There will be no need to say it to them, +they will say it for you if they are given the hint. They will call +me ‘pagan’ because I follow a pagan queen. And you can be sad and of +downcast countenance, and say a prayer against evil for me. Never +fear it will get to Ota herself before you get to your home.” + +“And where will I be waiting for you, Ruadan?” + +“In paradise, man, and good luck to you on the way! Go you back to +Ardsolais. Tend the herds and wait what comes. It is not with chance +our life is.” + + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Then he mounted his horse and when his servant looked downcast at the +parting, Ruadan tried to cheer him, and sang words of the hymn of +Saint Colum for a journey. + + _It is alone I am on the mountain, + O King Sun of the lucky road! + There is nothing to fear on that road!_ + + _If I had three score hundreds of armies + To defend the body + When the day of my death comes + There is no strong place to hold out against it._ + + _Whatever God has settled for a mortal + He will not leave the world until he meets it. + Although a high head goes looking for more + He will not get the size of a grain of it!_ + + _He that is spent may find death in a church + Or on an island of a lake he may find it; + He that has luck to his way + His life will be safe in the front of a battle!_ + + + _It is alone I am in a wilderness, + O King Sun of the lucky road! + There is nothing to fear on that road!_ + + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Queen Ota, wife of Ragnor who was called Thor’s servant, +Thorgille—“Turgesius” by the christian land—was a thing of strange +beauty in her first sailings with the fleets. Flaxen straight hair +of a child was hers—silken straight. Her face had a slim whiteness, +and her eyes of amber were the eyes of a white cat. Men had fought +and slain each other for love of her red mouth and her round breasts. +Her raids were more fierce than the raids of Turgesius or Amlaf, her +brother, for no chief but knew that valor might win for him more than +his share of the spoil if his deeds were worthy her smile. + +But many sailings had been hers and much profit from Erinn, and none +had been greater in one place than the spoils of Cluain-mac-noise, in +the year of the Great Star, for princes of Gaul and Alba sent their +sons to Cluain-mac-noise and had sent rich gifts with the sons, until +the wealth at the great place of learning on the Sionan had become +the wealth of kings. + +All that wealth of gold and silver vessels and jeweled censor +chains, and crosses of golden wonder, were heaped on the floor of +the strongest of the stone towers. With them were heaped the dreaded +magic altar-books of Erinn, in jeweled cases. Neither church bell nor +church cross was feared by the pagans of the north seas as the mystic +writings of the books were feared—it was dark magic to them, and to +be burned or drowned or buried on every raid. + +And Ota, wearied after the battle and sick of the smell of old +blood—though the red of it fresh flowing from her opponents was sweet +to her as red berries ripening for her in a garden—went within the +dwelling from which Ronan, the abbot, had been dragged by her men. On +a couch of furs over which broidered silk of altars had been spread, +she rested herself and spoke wearily. + +“Let none enter here until my rest is come to me,” she said, and the +wife of Amlaf, whose name was Gurtha, looked at her in wonder that +she would confess to need of rest, for the hatred of growing age was +with Ota always. + +“But Barolf, chief of your spear men, has been twice here for +speech,” said Gurtha. + +“I am wearied of Barolf. When he comes tell him I take it ill that he +troubles me today.” + +But a man stood in the doorway, broad of shoulder, his yellow hair +reaching down to his gold-banded arms. + +“O Queen, how has Barolf wearied you?” + +She looked at him and the amber eyes narrowed to golden slits under +the silken flax of her hair. He was a favorite of a year gone, who +was daring much! He waited with folded arms—and Gurtha was watching! + +“Yours was the word to the men to burn the bodies where winds brought +stench to me, which is weariness enough,” she said. “I am badly +served when Ragnor is south and Amlaf in the north.” + +“Was it ill service when my men mowed down for you the clerics and +guard of this place, and brought the wealth of it to your feet?” he +asked. “No man of the blood of the queen has done her more service +than that.” + +The queen looked at Gurtha who frowned darkly. Well she knew that +Amlaf, her man, should be first of the chiefs, yet because of his own +nature, was not. His sister, the queen, was the greater warrior. + +“Another time we will speak of the men of my blood,” said Ota, “but +this day of weariness it is enough to say that fires of the dead must +not be built in these days of summer. Illness is on me from that +burning. Your men are strong to dig the earth. Let them dig.” + +“It will be done,” said Barolf, “for the hounds are now full.” He +looked toward Gurtha, and his look spoke hope that she be sent away, +but Ota the queen chose not to see the look. + +“That is well,” she said. + +“And the division of the spoils, O Queen?” + +“The time for that will be when Amlaf is with us for the counting.” + +“And that other in the tower,” he began, but she made him secret sign +for silence, and he spoke no more. + +“When Amlaf is with us I will give you a feast and we will speak of +all the things,” she said with less coldness, and at that there was +nothing to do but go. + +“He is not of quiet mind,” said Gurtha darkly, and Ota laughed. + +“This victory makes him look long for the death of Ragnor, and his +crown perhaps,” she said. “He forgets I have a brother to rule beside +me in need.” + +“Yet he was high in your favor with the coming of May,” said Gurtha. + +“What of that? Springtime and summer bring different hunger. I am +tired of huge white bodies and blue eyes, I would rest myself with +other color.” + +“You had that other color on the south shore a year ago, and Ragnor +had a knife ready,” warned Gurtha. + +“You lie. The man never was with me alone. But there was none like +him! Wine-brown were his eyes, and his curls were shadows of night to +nestle in.” + +“He has no kingdom, and no army to fight for a queen if he chose +one,” said Gurtha. “He is only a noble of Deasmond who was once a +monk in this place.” + +“In this place? That would be strange if it be true, but he looked +not a monk to me.” + +“No. He was rebellious and cast off the robe, for some anger. They +call him a name of their own—it means outlaw to their gods.” + +“And I let him go, not knowing that!” said Ota. “I would I had the +year back—he should not go!” + +Gurtha went out and left her regretful over a year of coveted love +with one man, after the many years of love with the men she had grown +tired of. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +A day went by and the spoils were not divided. She carried the key +of the treasure tower at her girdle, and walked among the ruins her +fierce sea-wolves had made, and thought of wine-brown eyes and the +searching smile of a man who had as a youth lived there by the Sionan +in sanctuary. + +Kings and warriors had given her wealth of love and wealth of tribute +but the love of an anchorite was a new thought. It charmed her as the +song of a bird of spring after the nuts are ripe and the ferns past +their greening. In a cell of stone she saw one white robe untouched +by ruin, and bade it be sent to the palace of the abbot, now her +place of rule. + +She laughed with it beside her on the couch of rich robes and silken +broideries, and closed her eyes to fancy wine-brown eyes beside her. + +Then the impossible chanced to her, and gave her strange belief in +her own powers in which her devotees believed, and in the power of +the strange trailing star, called “the star of the Danes” in Erinn. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +For a runner from the south hills came to her with strange word, and +she put secrecy on him, and told Barolf and told Gurtha that a strong +ally of the nobles of the Irish was coming to swear fealty, and help +in the conquest. One would bring two, and in time all Erinn would be +ruled from the center by the children of Thor. + +Barolf secretly mocked, but the other men did not mock, for they +had fought the Irish and would rather have them as comrades than as +enemies. + +“Strain not your eyes looking,” Barolf laughed, and went up the river +to the fort there of Rinnduin. + +For all that, they did climb on the walls, and did look toward the +hills of Meath, and when afar they saw one horseman who rode steadily +and without fear, their wonder was great, for he was tall and +handsome and dark Irish, and no other Irish in that day was seeking +alone any fort of the Danes. + +“Tell the stranger Ota sees no man of Erinn who comes without gauge,” +said the queen, but she laughed and the robe she put on her was a +robe of richness as if to greet a king of great armies. + +“O Queen, the man brings a gauge, and his word is that it was a key +of all gates when you wore it.” + +“That is true,” said Ota, and looked at the ring he sent. “Give it +to his hand in courtesy and lead him to me. It is still a key to all +gates for Earl Ruadan.” + +Ruadan walked between lines of men with lifted spears until he +reached her portal. Two of the elder chiefs entered with him, and +Gurtha was there watching. + +“I come without bard to chant your praises or my wishes,” said +Ruadan. “I come without men-at-arms or wealth or cattle. I bear no +shield for battle, though I will take one at your hands. My own clan +put shadow on my name because I cast off the robe of a monk. The +priests add their word to my blame, and I will take service with you, +Queen Ota of the ships, or I will go over to Gaul and fight there if +you have no spear or no shield as a gift.” + +Ota looked on her head men, and saw that the words pleased them. + +“We will talk of that gift,” she said, and her smile was level and +steady while the head men were there, and Gurtha was there. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +But when they were gone, it was not a gift of shield or spear she +would give Ruadan for the enchantings of his wine-brown eyes. Ota had +been Queen of Love always, and gave royally. + +“I brought you—I brought you here!” she whispered. “For a year I have +wished it—and at last you have come to me! You shall be chief instead +of Barolf who grows jealous. A knife from you to him in the dark and +you shall head his fleet.” + +“Give me the knife,” said Ruadan. + +She laughed and kissed him. + +“So keen are you? O wine-brown eyes! O dark man of the red mouth! +Shields and spears are in that corner, and tomorrow we will make +choice. Tomorrow you shall see the spoils of our raid and choose a +jewel gift from me.” + +“But the man who stands in my way to you?” + +“He is gone north in a boat at dawn and no one stands in your way to +me. When he comes again, and Amlaf, my brother, comes, we divide the +spoil, but this night is ours and tomorrow night may be ours. See? I +hold a monk’s robe here in memory of you, and dreamed of dark eyes +and kisses, and through the wilderness you brought them!” + +Gurtha lied for the queen to the men, but the men laughed, and knew. +They were told that Ota promised a wine feast of welcome to the Irish +earl, and that gladdened them, for they would get their share, and +the wine of the cloisters was good. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +There was starlight and it pleased Ota to walk with Ruadan in the +night. And the cell where he had once slept was where she would go. +It was whole and in no ways injured. She kissed him there, and asked +of his dreams there, and of the Lady Luaine and the song made of him +a year agone—all things heard of him had been remembered by her. + +But he laughed and wound her long cloak of silk about her lest the +river-damp do her hurt, and would not tell her the things she asked. + +“What difference does her beauty make when I left all others to +follow you?” he asked. “There is only one queen.” + +The men on the walls saw them and made jests, for the trailing star +left no darkness anywhere. None watched too closely; for their +outposts were many and there was no enemy near for an uprising. + +“Tomorrow we look at the spoils in that tower there,” she said. “I +would that Barolf be the one to tear the jeweled covers from the +mystic book of Christ’s men before the books are burned. There is +evil magic in them, and I want no black enchantment from them. We +will have Barolf live long enough for that work of danger. But go +he must. He has wish for the place of Amlaf, my brother, and it is +making troubles.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Ruadan looked up at the tower where a white face moved at the narrow +slit in the stone wall—the face did not reach the height of a man. + +“You have a guard there besides the key at your girdle?” he asked, +and she pressed his arm quickly. + +“Speak not of that before Gurtha,” she whispered. “It is a young +thing with a golden mane I am hiding for Amlaf. There is no other +place to keep her from the men, and from Gurtha’s knife. Amlaf sulked +because of a girl he lost in his last raid—I need his help to get +Barolf out of my path, and the girl is a fair bribe. I dare not send +her to him. When he comes he can hide her in a boat and take her to +the north if she pleases him. If she please him not, she can go with +the others.” + +“And that is—where?” + +“I never ask about women unless I need them. There was a convent +across the raised road, but I see no women there now, and hear +none.” Then she held his arm with both her hands, and looked up at +him in the dusk and laughed shortly. “The other men may follow their +will in a raiding, and take their women as they choose, but you must +take no maid to wife!” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +The sun was high in the morning when Ota the queen took her +serving-man, who was her slave, and her new guest, of the Irish, to +the tower of the spoils. The serving-man carried a dish of food and +told Gurtha it was for a hound with a litter of wolf pups, but he did +not pass the tower with the food. + +The outer door was unbarred, and the inner door unlocked with the +queen’s key; a ladder was there, and the queen was helped up by +Ruadan, his arm circling her for safety. The slave sent up the dish +of food in a basket by a rope of grape vine. + +“There are ladders above and floors above, but the upper door is +chained now because of the red bird caged here for Amlaf,” said the +queen. + +By the narrow slit of the embrasure a girl stood as far from the +opened door as she could get. She was flattened against the stones of +the wall in terror, and clasped to her was a flat golden-brown book, +and the gold of its cover was set with amber disks, and pearls of the +sea. + +Ruadan of Ardsolais knew that book, for his own hand had wrought it +and it was the writings of Mark the Saint, and the chapter in it was +that of the sermon of the sea, and the great faith when the storm of +the sea obeyed the Voice. + +The Abbot Ronan had asked it as a gift for Clonard, but Clonard had +been sacked, and he saw again his lost handiwork. + +In a corner were many other books—great piles of vellum in their rich +casings. And on and around them were chains of gold, and necklets of +gems, woven armlets, and silver sandals, silver trappings of chariots +and war horses were stacked with the rest, and women’s jewels in +girdle or torque, or ring, beyond belief. The sun struck on the heap +through an embrasure and set it all aglitter against the gray stone +of the wall. + +“It speaks a brave hosting,” said Ruadan, and lifted the jeweled +shrine in which a tiny bell of holiness tinkled. He never looked at +the girl. + +“I will take all the bells for the decking of our steeds when I ride +the forests with you,” said Ota the queen. + +“Nay, it will not be bells we will care to carry,” said Ruadan, and +she laughed, well content, and emptied a leathern bag of altar jewels +on the stone floor. A golden bell and a jeweled chalice were there, +and a wondrous monstrance of gold all aglitter with ruby and amber +and pale pearls. A censor of jeweled chains was there, and armlets +and necklets thrust in among the vessels of holy use. Ota lifted from +them a gorgeous necklet set with smoldering rubies. + +“This has been gift of some king of the far world,” she said, “and it +goes well with the ring you had from me a year ago. I have brought +you to choose a gift; choose the richest you can carry.” + +“My thought is that I could carry you if your long cloak would not +tangle my feet on the ladder.” + +She laughed at that, and clasped the necklet on him and loosened the +lacing of his garment that it might be hidden next his skin. Then she +glanced at Doirenn, rigid and white against the wall. + +“Look at her face,” she said laughing. “If she has looks of such +scorn at Amlaf he will not risk the knife of Gurtha for her!” + +“So good a sister should make a good wife,” said Ruadan; “few women +would pick so much of beauty in a slave—unless for sale.” + +“Yes, I am good to my men,” agreed Ota. “They are strange children. +They can be starved, and wounded, and beaten, but if they get their +toys at the end of the raid their songs are only victory. Yet—” and +she looked at Doirenn in thought and then turned to Ruadan, “think +not because I would give such gift to a brother, or a husband, that +I would allow one to a lover! So choose your gift from the spoils of +kings, O Ruadan!” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +He laughed with her and fastened a great gold brooch in her sweeping +cloak. + +“My choice is only a jewel for your wearing,” he said. “Are you ready +to go down?” + +“I do not know,” said Ota the queen. “Why is that girl staring hate +at us? Ruadan, I like it not. She holds that book of the altar magic +and it may be she works a spell! Ruadan, could it be?” And she clung +to him and stared at the hate in the eyes of Doirenn. “Why do you +look frozen? You have life left you, and food and shelter. You were +not counted among the women for whom lots were drawn. What rage is +then yours?” + +“The grief is mine that in all that heap of jeweled sacrilege there +is no thing of flint or of iron with edge for a maid of Erinn,” said +Doirenn, and from the safe shelter of the arms of Ruadan, Ota gained +courage again. + +“A knife might be there,” she ventured. “You have no task all these +days but to search among this wealth of beauties until Amlaf comes +and finds your beauty.” + +“There is no knife else only my body would be here for your mockings +this day,” said Doirenn. + +“Your caged bird of beauty croaks like a battle crow,” said Ruadan +and laughed. “There are friendlier places than this place. Come, O +Queen!” + +“But that book she clasps? It is a thing for fear and why should she +covet that when these jewels are in her reach? Art sure it could be +no spell she works against us?” + +“No, it could not be. What does a stripling maid like that know of +books? I risk your gift in wager that she knows not the readings. +Give me the book.” + +Doirenn did not give it to him, but she shrank against the wall as he +approached and let go of it. He turned the leaves and looked at her +in scorn. + +“There—” he said, and thrust it again into her hand. He took her +other hand roughly and placed her finger on certain lines of the open +page. “There, O young nun of the books, read me that!” + +But she only looked at him in horror. + +“God’s worst dastard—you!” she said. + +“What does she mean?” asked Ota. “I need not save her for Amlaf. I +can send her to the men if she does you ill. Was that a curse?” + +“No curse: it is only a name the monks called me when I learned I was +not fit for endless pen work, and endless prayers. Come! The wild +thing will not eat while she has us to stare at.” + +With tenderness he helped the queen down the wooden ladder and drew +into place the stone slab of the floor. + +Doirenn gazed after him, wide-eyed, hopeless. He did not turn one +look toward her. + +Her hand was still on the page where he had thrust it so roughly, +and her eyes rested there, and then she sank down among the jeweled +trophies and stared incredulous. + +For there in beauty equal to the jewels about her were the +words—“_Why are ye so fearful? How is if that ye have no faith?_” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +The wine feast of Queen Ota was a victory feast for all. Gurtha was +angered that it was given before Amlaf returned; neither had Barolf +come. Early she went to her sleep, and said in going that if word +should reach the ears of Ragnor that it was a wedding feast, she +wanted not to be dragged forward for question! + +But Ragnor was far to the south, the wine of the monastery was old +and was good, and Ota left the filling of her cup to Ruadan of +Ardsolais of the far mountains. + +She whispered that his eyes worked magic without the brimming cup of +gold he offered her, but he kissed the cup, and she emptied it, and +talked her dreams of empire—and other dreams. + +When the feast was ended he broke jewels from the necklet to give her +women as bribe, and himself bore the queen to her silken couch, and +rested beside her until all was silence, and the last reveller of the +night sunk in sleep. + +When the deep hour of the night had come, he took the key from the +girdle of the queen—the cloak of hers, and the veil she wore in the +sun, a dagger and a shield and spear he took from the place of arms, +and the shoes of the queen he took. + +He listened to her breathing, and drew the dagger from its sheath. He +knew the right thing to do, for one dagger thrust was small payment +for the nuns of Cluain-mac-noise—but he thought of Doirenn and halted. + +With the queen living there could be only a jealous rage and a brief +search for him and for the maid. But with the queen dead by his hand, +there would be Thorgille and Amlaf and Barolf on the trail, and all +her devoted men with hate for him and vengeance on the maid. Erinn +might not be big enough to hide her in. Even from his own kinsmen he +might get only curses and hounds on his track when they learned he +had stolen away a maid of the cloisters. Another man might be given +good thoughts for such stealing, but not Ruadan who had paid eric to +Cairell, and had worn love gift of Ota. + +To no dun of a friend could he take her, else that house would be +stormed and the place left waste. There was nothing for it but the +caves of the hills until the fleet of Ota was gone from the waters of +the Sionan. + +He thought of old forgotten sanctuaries of the early monks, if he +could win south to the Skelligs and lay hidden, or reach to Arran, or +hide in the grottoes of the loughs in Iar Connaught, carved ages ago +by De Danaan magic! + +These thoughts were with him as he gathered swiftly the needed +things, and took last reluctant look at Ota the queen to whom he +should deal death. Grief was on him that it must not be done by his +hand if he would save the scornful holy thing in the tower. + +So secure were all the guards of the outer walls, and the far points +of vantage, that those of palace and cloister slept heavily and +without care after the wine feast. It was not as an armed camp they +rested, but a safe household. + +He kept to the shadow of the walls from point to point and reached +the tower safely. No guard was there, and he unbolted the door below +it in silence, and bolted it back of him in the darkness. + +The queen’s key served at top of the ladder and he felt that the girl +was again crouched against the far wall. + +“Haste,” he whispered, “here are shoes and cloak. Take a leathern bag +in which the spoils were carried and thrust the garments in that. We +have muck and mire to wade through ere a boat is ours.” + +“Give me a knife that I may die here,” she made answer. “You are a +greater thing of fear than the northmen.” + +“Geroid is waiting a call of safety; I am his voice,” he whispered. + +“Geroid!” and her voice was a flutter of hope. “I will trust his +trust of you, if ... you give me a knife!” + +“It is here to your hand.” + +The dagger of the queen was passed to her in the darkness, ere she +would take cloak, or shoes, or move a step toward the door. + +“Haste!” he whispered as he heard her empty the bag with a little +click of metal on stone, “haste, for the night is brief.” + +She crept to the ladder but halted as his hand touched hers. + +“Put no touch on me,” she muttered. “If die I do, it will not be in +handclasp with the queen’s lover.” + +At foot of the ladder he knelt and felt over the flagstone paving in +the dark, and she heard heavy breathing as he worked fiercely among +the rubbish and tossed aside sacks of grain stored there for siege. +Then he found the stone for which he was searching and threw all his +strength into his task. + +Doirenn felt a rush of damp air where she stood. It had the smell of +the river in it. + +“The way is hard and narrow,” he whispered. “Also it is wet under +foot. Give me the bag.” + +“No,” she said, “sacred things are in it: the holy book and jeweled +chalice, not to be touched by God’s outlaw. I am strong, I can +follow.” + +At first it was dry, then the dampness came, then the water, and she +was wading near to the knees but wading toward the open. A tangle of +vines and brush was to push through and she saw the glimmer of the +Great Star on the still river. + +“Steady,” he said, and moved up a space where the small boats were +moored. A guard slept in one and Ruadan stood, girdle deep, beside it. + +There was enough light to see the bare throat of the man, and strike +true that no slightest cry go out on the night. He twitched once or +twice and lay still forever. + +Ruadan unfastened the boat and guided it back to where Doirenn stood, +fearful and alert. + +“Get in,” he whispered, and she did so, not noting the Dane until she +stumbled and felt warm blood on her hand. + +“What is it?” she asked, but Ruadan climbed dripping into the boat +and took up the oars, but did not answer. + +He dared not row, lest the dip of the oars be heard. They drifted +in the darkness, making no more sound than an otter swimming in the +night. + +Doirenn stared at the still thing by her feet, and thence to the +still man of horror, who was perhaps her safety, and wrapping herself +in the cloak, she drew close the sacred helps in which all her trust +was. + +A late and fading moon came up over the forest as Ruadan used the +oars for speed—they had passed the last fire of a river guard in +safety. + +The weird light showed the staring open eyes of the dead man at her +feet. + +“Dead and unshriven!” she gasped in horror, “and you with the soul +stain of blood on you!” + +“It is the first of the men for whom Bronach was washing grave +clothes in the dream I rode to tell you of a year ago,” said Ruadan. +“I saw his face yesterday, and knew he was the man. When we come to +the high reeds of a meadow brook we will hide him there until the +crows find him. There will be others.” + +Until the edge of the day they bore the weight of the body ere a +rushy place was reached where a boat could enter leaving no broken +reeds near the sweep of the river. Far in, where a bog would hold the +body, Ruadan stripped him of cloak and ax, and left him to the black +earth. + +“You make not a prayer,” said Doirenn in horror, “though well you +were taught the ways of prayer.” + +“It is yours to pray,” said Ruadan. “My knife did murder for you on +him because you would not heed the warning I brought you from the +mountains of the south a summer gone.” + +“It was enchantments you spoke, and not warning. The enchantments of +men of evil are things to fear.” + +“Truth is truth—whether holy or unhallowed,” he said darkly. + +“Who is Bronach?” she asked after a long silence, while he sought +other channel where the reeds would leave no trace as he swept again +into the Sionan. + +“She is the washer of the ford. She washes in the land of souls the +garments of men doomed to die. For my house to see her means death by +us or for us. In a dream you stood beside her in my land.” + +“The priests forbid,” she began, but he stopped her with a gesture. + +“Talk me no priestcraft! Bronach is older than foreign priesthood in +Erinn.” + +“If I held not a holy book close in my hands for soul help, I am +thinking the sky would fall on us with all its stars for that saying, +or the water of the Sionan run backward from the sea!” + +“It will do that in spite of your book,” he made answer, but she gave +him no belief. She did not think the truth was with Ruadan at all. + +She watched him in dread and in disdain while he bent to the oars in +the dawn. The boat skimmed the air like a bird under his tremendous +strokes. + +“This is the time of the sun they will be searching,” he said. “One +night is all we have in the lead of them, but many oarsmen has Ota +the queen. Their course will be swift after they start the search.” + +No guards of the river or lake were stationed in the middle land +between Cluain-mac-noise and Killaloe, for forest and meadow and +island were stripped of Irish herdsmen and Irish homes along the +Sionan. He toiled lustily, with the current in his favor, while the +day was young and the way clear, knowing that cover must be found ere +midday, and all other water journeys must be in the night. + +When a fair place of shelter came in their path he turned the boat to +the mouth of a meadow brook and crept carefully over the black waters +drained from bogs beyond. + +It was none too soon, for his breath was scarce even again from the +labor until a man was seen by them leaning on a spear, moving swiftly +west above the meadow reeds; his head was turned ever from side to +side, searching. + +The boat and the oarsmen could not be seen because of the height of +the swamp growths and the distance. But their swiftness was a wonder +to view: it would be a good horse to be beating it. + +But they swept out of sight, and Ruadan knew the lough toward the sea +was now a place of danger. + +“They have no trail, and that is a good help,” he said. “Now while +the sun shines there is only the woods for us, and it may be berries +or roots for food.” + +Far he went inland where the boat was lifted over shallows into a +little still lough under shadow of the wood. + +“’Twill serve,” he said. “Nothing but the wild cattle may be coming, +and it is a hiding place.” + +He left her to get out as she might and wade with wet feet in the +sedgy marge. Her looks at him were ill and fearful, and she clutched +to her the bag in which the sacred helps were borne. + +“I have no liking for this place,” she said, “and it will not be +resting under birchtrees we will find Geroid.” + +Ruadan made no answer. The labor had been to the limit of strength. +He drank of the cool water and cast himself on the turf. She frowned +at the discourtesy. + +“Where is Geroid, O Queen’s Lover?” she asked. “It is to him I am +going.” + +He looked long at her, darkly frowning. He had killed a man for her, +and was risking life for her, yet she had no thought for a creature +of earth, but thought only of that anchorite who had turned to prayer +and a bed of stone, and would not look in her deep, seeking eyes. + +“By the Elements! It is to your Geroid you shall go,” he swore +roughly. “My thought is that he is in his glory without you, but that +is nothing. Though we circle Erinn to find the way to him, it is to +Geroid you will go! Sorrow on the night you called for help and I was +the fool to answer.” + +She let fall the leathern bag and sank down beside it—her eyes wide +in wonder. + +“How are you knowing that—and you an evil man in an evil world? I +did send the call. On my knees I made the prayer that holy Saint +Kieran might help the call go out to some soul beyond the walls—and +you—_you_—” + +“I heard it in my sleep and knew your voice though I had only heard +it when weighted heavy with hate. Also I followed it.” + +She brooded over that long, and drew the book to her. + +“You followed Ota the queen,” she said at last, “and you fled in the +night with her jewels on you lest her kinsmen return and spear you to +the ground.” + +“You shall go to your Geroid,” he muttered, and got up and walked +away. + +So wearied was she that she fell into sleep there in that warm hour +when the wind and the bees and birds all swept drowsily through the +low green branches. So thick were they that a dusk was on the turf, +though beyond their shadow the yellow light of sun was a glory. + +It was beyond he had gone, and in her sleep she thought he had gone +over some edge of the world where she could not find him. She woke +with a moan of fear. + +She lay there thrilled by a sort of terror that she had wanted him—it +was a thing she could not understand, and puzzling things angered +her. That thought of evil enchantments of his would not go away. + +Then, while she framed a prayer against magic and druid spells, a +sweet smell came to her, so close she thought it was part of a dream. + +But it was a better thing, for fresh sweet blackberries were heaped +beside her, and a little apart Ruadan sat with his back to her, +eating. + +She had not known how hungry she was until she tasted the melting +sweetness of them, and then she determined that, on the rest of the +way, she would pick her own berries—there was anger on her that she +had not done it. + +As she moved away to look for more, he spoke. + +“You are not to go from this shadow,” he said. “Cattle are beyond, +and a hut of a herder; we have far to go, and meat will be good to +have. I am going in a circle till I come to them, that no track will +seem to come from here, for this must be the hiding place of you.” + +“And if foreign men are there? If they take you—if I am lost alone in +this place where you bring me?” + +“It is not in this place you will be lost. In the dream I saw you to +the west, and that place is yet to find.” + +No more than that he said, and no look did he give to see if it was +well or ill she liked it. + +She crept back to the birchtree shadow, and watched him go, and she +held the book with its precious work and precious words close to her +bosom, and was making prayers on it—the prayers of Phadraig the Saint +against enchantments. + +With the eyes of her closed she went over the prayers and over them +again, and the sun was in the very center of the sky. Two wood doves +came close and spoke their loves sweetly in a rowan bush near, and +listening to them was like listening to the silver string of the +magic harp of the god of music, for the silver string has the wood +music of sleep in it. + +The sun was low to the edge of the forest trees and was red as a +signal fire of danger when she woke. The doves were flown away, and +the world was very still about her. + +He had not come back, and she felt fear at the wide aloneness of the +deep forest and the reedy marge of the wide lough; alone she could +not make her way even to the flowing Sionan or Dearg below. + +She looked the way he had gone, and listened for faintest sound of +his step until every droning bee set her heart to thump. When she +could bear it no longer, she looked at her knife’s edge, tied the +leathern bag of the sacred things to her girdle, and looking with +care to all things by which the return way might be found, she ran +with swift feet to the last point from which he had vanished in the +green. + +No living thing was in sight, and she went on more slowly. There was +a hill to climb, and from that height she had hope to see the cattle +toward which he had gone. On the high point of the hill there was a +circle of stones, and two with strange spiral carvings. These magic +places of the old gods had curious legends in Meath, and she drew +close to her the holy things of the altar as she stood in the shadow +of the great stone to look westward over the plain. + +The herds were there, but they were only far moving specks, no more +size to them than birds. But among them, or near them, she could see +no man. + +But the hut of stone and timber at the edge of a wood she did see, +and sat long in the shadow of the huge stone watching for a sign of +any living thing—and no sign was there. + +Then she crept through fern and gorse at the edge of the land where +the cattle fed, and dragged herself along the brink of a dark wooded +glen, and the hut was at the wall of that glen, and the look from +there was a wide look for the herding. + +A sound came to her, and her thought was that her heartbeat was +loud in her ears from the fear of the still, strange place. And she +crept more close and knew it was not her own heart, for it was a man +breathing, and the breath was a rattle in the throat. + +Through a chink in the hut she could see the man, and him a stranger +and a great dog dead near him. The man was stained with blood and +was looking with no good looks at something her eyes could not see. + +He was reaching for a long knife with blood on it—far from him it had +fallen—and there was a stagger to every movement he made, for great +weakness was on him. + +Yet he watched one way whilst he crept to the knife and fell as if +dying, yet roused himself to creep again a little ways. + +The blood of Doirenn went cold from that look of hate on him, and +then blazed keen and hot to learn why the knife was coveted even in +the face of death. + +With the dagger of Ota the queen unsheathed in her hand, she crept to +the low door, and the low sun of the west pierced to the dark corner +where Ruadan lay. She could see no movement of him, yet she knew he +was not dead, for if it had been so, the foreign man would not reach +thus for the knife, or creep, dying himself, on a wounded foe. + +She had no plan of attack, yet as he grasped the knife and lifted it +over the body of Ruadan, she leaped through the door, and her dagger +struck deep and true in the neck of the stranger. + +He gurgled, choked, and lay still. + +She crept back to the wall and sat there, wild-eyed and fearful. She +had not meant to do the thing before her: to strike the knife from +him had been her thought. But the right hand of her had done its own +task despite any thought of hers. + +The lowering sun slanted over his dead face, filling her with horror +at the moving shadows of it. Her teeth chattered with chill at the +dead man and dog, and at the other man whose breath she saw lifting +ever so little the lacings of his garment. + +It was that piteous little breath, no deeper than of a child in +arms, by which she was urged at the last to draw near. She felt +frozen, and the leathern bag with the sacred helps lay without the +portal, but without that help, and in forgetfulness of prayer, she +crept forward. + +He lay in a pool of blood, black and stiff. His shoulder bore a deep +gash, and the red tide yet came faintly at each breath. A long slant +of a blade had creased his brow and his face shone gray white where +the dark smear had not touched it. It all seemed to have chanced a +long time before. + +That thought coming to her, she went over where the dog lay and +touched it; stiff it was and cold.... While she had slept in drowsy +rest under the birchtree Ruadan had fought out a battle of fierceness +with the huge foreign man and the dog stretched there as big as a +calf. The two men had all but killed each other. Each had thought his +enemy gone out of life ere he gave way to weakness or swoon, and the +foreign man had wakened first. + +Terror went from her suddenly when the mystery of it went. There was +left only a wounded man for her care, and she knelt beside him and +loosened the lacings of his garment as she had seen the white fingers +of the queen unlace it in the tower. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +The sun set, and the other suns rose ere he wakened to knowledge. +Troubled phantoms of blood and death were with him in his weakness, +and a strange presence he did not know. + +It was in a rosy dawn he wakened to know the walls, and how he had +first found them, but the strange presence was like mist of the +seafoam—ever about to take form in his mind, and ever fading again. + +And out of that fog of dreams and phantoms of carnage a vision of +Paradise came to him. + +It was perhaps the slant of the sun through the mists of the morning +by which the magical thing was wrought, but where the sun-kissed +green had been seen through the portal, there was at once a glory of +gold beyond any glory of saint told him in the teachings. He looked +at her and thought of Brighde, the ever young, when bondmaid to her +druid master, bearing cups and bowls of common things made holy by +touch of her hands. + +For she stood there with the sun making a halo of her red-gold hair, +and in her two hands was held a golden chalice of richest handicraft, +set with the thirteen flashing stones of beauty. + +The chalice was brimming with foam of new milk, and when she saw his +eyes, wide open, she stood silent, waiting, but the look in her eyes +was the look of Brighde, ever the giver, the serving-maid to whom the +angels sang. + +“You are a dream, and not truth,” he muttered. “You are Brighde the +goddess; you are the fiery arrow of radiance in hearts of men; you +are Love, and you are Knowledge. When the priests could not stamp you +out, they made a saint of your name to hold the worship of you. You +are the vision always beyond a soul—you are only a dream, and I could +wish you truth.” + +“The warm milk is true as if in a wooden bowl instead of a golden +chalice,” she said. “Two days it has been your food, and has served +you fairly.” + +He drank it as a gift of God, and stared at her. + +“And it is a vision come true,” he said. “Two days? And I not alone +here. There were others—a dog and a man I killed.” + +“They were dragged and rolled over the cliff of the glen. There was +no other way,” she said. + +“And this?” he asked, pointing to the mass of soothing poultice on +his shoulder. + +“It is anemone, a flower of healing. I but gathered it and bruised +the leaves. The work of that was nothing. The only task of fear was +to hold you from wandering. Too restless were you for the boat and +the road of the Sionan.” + +“And you did it? I dreamed of your hands touching me; I thought it a +dream of Brighde who was goddess and then saint.” + +He went asleep again almost as he spoke, for the weakness was yet on +him. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +When he wakened his thoughts were more steady, and he asked if the +golden chalice had been a thing of dreaming. + +“I took it from sacrilege in the tower,” she confessed. “It was the +cup of sacrament, and not to be left to pagans if my life could give +it guard.” + +He looked at her long, with thoughts of that day in the tower, and +asked where her dagger was. + +“It is no longer with me—I have taken instead the one of the herder.” + +“The other had sharp slimness and value of gold and jeweled hilt.” + +“This, with the horn of a deer for handle, is a cleaner thing.” + +He thought she meant cleaner than a knife touched by the hand of Ota, +and his well hand went up to his neck where the necklet rested—the +gold of it had saved him a death stroke of the herder. + +“This necklet has served its task,” he said. “It can take its place +with the other spoils saved by you.” + +“It has no place among them,” answered Doirenn coldly. “I saved only +holy things from sacrilege.” + +And he saw by that he had said the wrong thing, for she was no longer +the Brighde of tender service—she was a gold-crowned judge who looked +down from a far height. + +He held in his memory the wordy condemnation of the priests, and of +Ronan the abbot, but it was easier to endure their revilings than her +frozen look when she remembered the love gift and caressings of Ota +the queen. + +“It is to your Geroid you shall go,” he said, and looked at her +darkly, and went out from the hut of the herder, though the blue of +the sky and green of the turf were as one before his eyes because of +the weakness on him. + +It was better to be in the woods alone with his tranced vision of +Brighde, than to face the cold scorn of the maid who had seen the +white hands of Ota on his throat. + +But despite the look, or the word of scorn for him, Doirenn was not +at ease if he was long out of her sight. Never had she outgrown the +fear of what she had felt at sight of the great dead dog and the +dying foreign man crawling for the knife. + +There was trouble on her for the thing she had done, and no holy man +anywhere to take her confession and lighten her mind. Prayer she +could make, and did—but for the sending of an unshriven soul to God +there was no comfort, and her thoughts had no sunshine. + +Sometimes there was terror on her because she could no longer judge +Ruadan for the stark body at her feet in that first awesome night. +From the rath of Fethna to the garden of the nuns at Cluain-mac-noise +had been all the world known to her. Even in the raid of the Danes +on her father’s house, when the black smoke of burnings had left her +without roof of her own, or kindred of her own, she had been borne to +safety before the battle. + +Of the foreign men who were pagans she thought no more than of +wolves in a pack leaving death on their path, but for Ruadan, called +evil, yet with knowledge of godly things, she could find no gentle +excuse—until her own hand had the secret stain of blood on it! + +By that was she made kindred in evil to him, and the shining beauty +of her was under shadow from the thought. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +As strength came back and the wound healed, he had curious looks at +her, ever with the book of amber and pearl of sea on the cover. But +when he spoke of it she frowned her reproof. + +“It is holy, and it is a safe charm to lead me out of the wilderness.” + +“Yet is it made by the hand of a man,” he said. + +“How should you be knowing that?” she asked. “It is knowledge not for +sinful men. My own thought is that Saint Kieran sent an angel to do +the words of this, it may be that a man made the cover.” + +“It may be,” he said. “May the charm of it lead you safely, for +another night we leave this place. I am able. Even Dermot and Grania +never hid so long on the way to happiness as we here.” + +“There is a difference,” she said, and she blazed a rose red at +thought of Grania’s love. + +“There is,” he agreed. “Dermot had to his aid friends and gods. +The pagan gods are driven out by christian bells and there is only +the wilderness for us with that white cat on the trail. I must find +hiding for you and leave you there and gather men of the west to +serve as guard.” + +“I will not be left again,” she said. “To be left behind in darkling +wood, or dreary cave, gives me more fear than to be on the way.” + +She drove in a young cow and braided a rope of vines to hold her for +the killing that food might be theirs on the way, for their journey +along the shores of Lough Dearg must be in the nights, and all +movement in light of the sun was danger. + +With his one well hand and her two they managed the killing, but she +turned away her head because the knife brought her thought of the +dead foreign man under the cliff. + +Ruadan went through the russet fern and the berry vines seeking the +silky inner bark of a dead tree for the spark of flint and steel, and +when he found it he wandered on to the circle of stones to sharpen +spear and knife on the ancient altar. When he made his way back he +saw a strange thing, for the glen below the cliff was plain before +him, and he stood very still as if fearing the ancient gods had heard +his speech of their fading away. There was a glitter of gold and +a jewel among the ferns below him, and it was not a place for the +seeking of such wealth. + +He crept forward, and saw the dog and the man who lay face downward +as he had been rolled from the cliff. And it was in the neck of the +man the jeweled dagger had been thrust deep. The sun shone on it +through a rift in the boughs above, and set it all aglitter. + +It was the knife of Doirenn, and so deep had it struck that it took +a strong hand to draw it out. Away from there he cleansed it in the +earth, and washed it all in a shadowed rill, and brooded over it in a +maze of wonder. + +A woman of frankness like Ota the queen he could know the thoughts +of. She said the thing she wanted and took it. If battle had to be +waged to gain it, that battle she fought like a man and took her +victory prize, or put her own foot on the neck of an enemy. + +But this thing of radiant scorn and icy piety who thrust her knife +deep and went to prayer was a different breed. He would not have +thought her hand strong enough for that stroke. The edge was turned +where it grazed a bone. + +So he carried her secret—and with it the mystery of her. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +As they could, they went from the hut of hiding and went seaward +in the nights through the great lough, and hid in forest or swamp +meadows or inlands at dawn, until the churning, quick current was +reached, and there the boat was hidden, and cooked meat stored with +the altar jewels in the leathern bag, and they went afoot through +dusk of the deep wood, or crept, hidden, through lush grasses of wide +meadows. + +At times, afar off, they saw men with cattle on the hillsides, and +a boat of courier speeding down the rapids. Once a warrior’s boat +passed beneath a cliff where they lay hidden, and glittering shields +were bright in the sun. + +“Look well,” said Ruadan, “for it is Amlaf, the prince, who is on +your trail. A strong man is Amlaf, with king and queen for his +kinsfolk. It may be he could make you queen of Erinn by a lucky turn, +for Turgesius—which is Latin for Thorgille—has great tribute, is not +young, and it is said by all that the threat in the night sky is the +‘star of the enemy’; as it grows strong—will grow the strength of +the Dane. If gods fight against it, where is the refuge of Erinn?” + +She looked as bidden, and the man in the boat was slender and tawny, +with long tresses of pale silk waving in the soft air. Jeweled he was +in great beauty, and his armor was of white bronze. The blue-green of +his eyes was like the glint of his spear-heads, and the cloth of his +garment was broidered with wires of pale gold. + +“He is as beautiful as your lover, the queen,” said Doirenn in scorn, +“but not so strong. He will hold no strong star in the sky.” + +Ruadan looked at her in gloom at the mocking, and after a little he +laughed. + +“That naming of her leaves no scar on me,” he said. “But ‘queen’s +lover’ suits me ill.” + +“Is it so?” asked Doirenn staring after the warboat with its deft +oarsman. “Then again are you kin to Dermot who was not the lover but +the many times loved.” + +He took the mocking blackly enough. + +“Sorrow is mine that, like Dermot, I have no bread unbroken to leave +on the road for them that trail us,” he said. “And you to your +Geroid!” + +But she knew not the meaning of the words of broken bread, and he saw +that, and the flame of his anger went out. + +“It is ill enough to pass time in rages when our time on this earth +may be ending,” he said. “That man below is a strong prince with +a strong army at the shore. Horses and cattle are theirs and one +spearsman in every Irish house of Thomond. No one king of Erinn +commands tribute today like to the tribute of Turgesius and of Ota. +Their swarms are here like bees on honey, and no roof is ours for +safety. The caves of Iar Connaught are safe if we can reach them, +with your monk to aid. You may have your fill of life in a cloistered +cell ere the day I can guard you to safety.” + +“And if—if Geroid is not to be found? And if all roads are closed?” + +“Geroid will be found if he is left alive. These hills were once +hunting ground for me, and the cells of Senan’s men were known as my +own mountains.” + +“And, if he is not left alive?” + +“Of that we will not speak. If Amlaf, or if Ota, trap us in their +wide net, you will die first, so make your prayers.” + +She looked at him long, and the shadow on his face caused her wonder, +for she had heard all evil of him but never that he was of faint +heart. + +“Is it so far to your own domains?” she asked, and never before had +she asked of home or kindred or life of his. + +“It is not far as the ravens fly, but my clan have their rages +against me. After that judgment of cattle, not one would take spear +for a maid I would hide on Ardsolais.” + +“It is said you have good will of Niall the king. How can the friend +of a king be without help?” + +“The Lady Luaine is of the clan of his mother, and the grace of a +king can grow cold.” + +“Like enough,” said Doirenn, “she told them of your enchantments.” + +“Like enough,” agreed Ruadan, and there was laughter in his eyes. “A +woman must ever have ready some excuse of magic. Is it enchantment +you are thinking?” + +“What else to think when you are dark and not handsome? Wives of +men put jewels on you and follow where you go. How is that but by +enchantings?” + +“How indeed?” asked Ruadan. “And since you are knowing that, it is +a strange brave heart that is in you to drink from the same cup with +me.” + +“The cup is holy and is to go with Geroid into sanctuary, and the +book with me is holy. That is my strength.” + +“Since it is so I would ask concerning this godly Geroid to whose +sanctity you would trust them. Since my life is too evil for your +christian grace, what is the saintly enchantment of him, that a +well-favored maid would cover herself with a veil because he chose to +go walking out of her life?” + +“Enchantments are evil, and he was never evil,” said Doirenn. “He +made beauteous verses and told me his love in them sweetly. He gave +me kind kiss at parting, and only to God would he give himself rather +than to me. No payer of cattle was he, and—no love of a pagan queen!” + +“It may be so,” said Ruadan. “And when was this high loving of his +and of yours?” + +“There is no hurt to him in making speech of that,” she answered, +“and it may bear its lesson to you. He had seven and ten years to his +age, and three less to mine.” + +Ruadan stared, and then strove to seem grave, yet were his eyes full +of laughter and she saw it. + +“Yet he could love and he did!” she made protest angrily. “Tablets +were sent to me often and his verses on them told me that.” + +“Ay, his verses!” said Ruadan. “From the dull days of schooling he +would have some fair thing to hear his calfloves, and you were the +most gracious! Child, at that age I was writing verse to Venus and +Brighde, and sad at heart for the ghost of fair Dierdre who loved so +well! All the world is turned to love at that age—it is the schooling +of hearts.” + +“I alone was his Venus and his Brighde and his Dierdre,” she said +and drew back in proud anger at his jesting. “How could you, queen’s +lover and God’s Dastard, read that lesson of loving, or know holiness +of such writings?” + +Her anger was like a lash, and almost it whipped him into turning the +pages of her holy book and show the writing of his own name there +cunningly twined with the interlaced scrolls of the last page. But he +knew it was not easy to believe that his other days had been filled +by that beauty of line and color. It would be to her but another +proof of enchantment if he should show it her, as he might. + +And he put aside the thought for another reason: it would take from +her the only thing to which she trusted as a link with her saints. + +“Time is a good story-teller,” he said, and his smile was grim +enough. “On a day to come you may know the weight of your words. +Come, the hunter who seeks you is gone beyond sight, and we can cover +much ground ere the dark comes down.” + +She obeyed him in silence—half shamed because of her anger and his +quietness. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +She still bore the precious book, making prayer on it through all the +terrible ways they trod, but he bore the leathern bag in which the +food and cup and jewels were safe. It was strange to her, but after +she had found him wounded and given him drink from the cup, she no +longer thought so deeply of his evil repute, and since the herder +went over the cliff with her dagger she felt less bitter for the +other sins on his soul. But when she found herself thinking kindly of +him as a human she grew angry with herself and went to her prayers. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +All of a day did Ruadan of Ardsolais and Doirenn na Marvan lay in +hiding of the hills where the path to the high cell of Saint Senan +could be seen through the branches. Far beyond was the smoke of the +northmen’s fires, and footmen and men on horseback were seen to cross +open spaces. One rider, on a steed of shining black, had much of +glittering gear and waving flaxen hair—it was Amlaf. + +“He has had runners in these hills. See, they keep up their stride +until report is made, when they fall anywhere for rest. It is well we +hid long in the herder’s hut. Time was given them to make wide their +search; it is over for this place, and that is well for us.” + +Yet, he watched long for slightest sign ere he crept through the tall +fern and alder and young oak on the hillside. On the ancient path in +the stone to the cell above he dared not venture until the turn of +the hill was reached, and no human thing in sight. + +Like creeping wild things of the wilderness, they thus made their way +beneath the leafy coat of green until the steep path was reached, and +it in the gray stone cliff narrow and winding and curving the hill +above the lough. + +Then Ruadan looked at her with the look of parting. + +“It is here I must hide you until I go up to that place,” he said. +“You see the steepness and the danger. This is the place to wait +where the leaves are thick.” + +Doirenn made appeal to go, but he would not hear. Then she kissed the +cup from which they had drunk, and fastened close the leathern bag +into which she had placed all sacred things but the book. + +“Take these holy things as warrant to a holy man,” she said, “lest +evil come to you for intrusion on his pious thoughts.” + +“And it is not evil you are wishing me then?” he asked, and looked on +her steadily, but her eyes turned elsewhere, and rose color flushed +in her pale face. + +“I would not that you die in your sins,” she made answer, and his +smile had weary bitterness as she spoke. + +“A hundred deaths of dread has a man died for you those summer days,” +he said. “Yet that man breathes human breath. The sacred things I +will bear as you bid, lest I could not carry them, and you also, on +the second journey—if I find your saint waiting you!” + +“And if your footing should not prove sure, and if death should wait +you on the rocks below?” + +He stood still above her, looking down where she knelt with the book +against her breast. + +“Here is my answer to you,” he said, and tossed her his dagger. “That +is the better part of Ruadan. Give the blade deep to drink if the +eyes of Amlaf, or of Ota the queen, look on you again.” + +“And you?” she whispered, “it leaves you without a blade for danger.” + +“Not so, O Doirenn,” he said; “I have a dearer thing.” And he showed +her the jeweled hilt of her blade of death. + +She went white and covered her face, and he moved carefully along the +narrow ledge with his burden and shield and spear, up and up until +he noted birds fly out from nests in the crannies far below. Then a +sharp turn came in the rock, and the cell sanctified by holy men for +two centuries was the end of the narrow way. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +A man knelt there by the stone trough which served as bed, and no +other thing was there but a cauldron on dead ashes, and cup and bowl +of wood. Some moss was heaped in a corner, and birds’ eggs were in +the bowl. + +“God’s blessing on the home,” said Ruadan in courtesy, but the +kneeling man whirled in terror. + +“Why have you come again? And why do you now speak in clear Latin and +not before?” he asked, and his voice was high and shrill like that of +an angry woman—much more like a woman even than was the deep voice of +Doirenn. + +“I am come because that is my task,” said Ruadan. “If you are Geroid +of Cluain-mac-noise, I have gift and message for you, and I am Ruadan +of Ardsolais.” + +The monk cried out in horror, and waved him away. + +“Man of blood and traffic in evil!” he said. “Begone from this place +of prayer. Twice come the Danes here in search, with tales of your +murders, and your stealing of maids. If they find you here it will be +evil to me. Get you gone!” + +“A man of blood I have been, and may be,” said Ruadan, looking in the +pale, narrow face and the eyes of terror. “But I am also a keeper +of sacred things, and it is your task as a man to help me in the +guarding of them.” + +“You! You were the outcast—God’s Dastard—the youth of holy training +who threw off the robe for temptings of the world,” said the monk, +and he moved the width of the cell away and spread out his thin hands +as a wall, lest Ruadan move a step nearer. “Go back to the world +and bring not your evil here where holiness has lived—here, where +in prayer I wait the crown of sanctity and the wings of angels in +Paradise!” + +“I will go back when I have done my task. I bring here gold vessels +of the altar that you may know my intent, and below a more precious +thing waits for sanctuary—it is the maid they told you I stole +away—it is Doirenn, daughter of Marvan. It is a body and soul to be +saved by you, and by me.” + +But Geroid fell groveling beside the stone couch, waving his hands in +wild protest. + +“Take your evils from this place,” he cried out. “Have I fought the +demons of woman-temptings for naught? Seven times seven days in +the spring of the year did I pray in water of ice to my armpits. +Nine times nine prayers have I likewise made to that end, for youth +is still on me! Is it from the King of Hell you are come to bring +temptings of women who breed the evils of carnal loves?” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Ruadan stared at him as at a wild dog he would throttle, and then let +fall the sack, looking at the wasted form and the wild eyes. He tried +to see where her human youth of the verses was hidden behind the +grievous mask, and could not. + +“I need teaching to tell me that love is of Hell,” he said. “In +a swoon of half death in a forest I had a vision of love with +a difference. It was a radiant love, bearing healing for human +ills—yes-and it shrank not from soiled hands, or blood-stained hands, +in the service—that was my vision. You, monk that you are, have had +more than vision: As children, Doirenn and you have gone with clasped +hands and no wall between you. She has heart-love for the remembering +of that time and she has come the hard way for your help above all +men. You look not so much to me, but the priests tell us you are made +in God’s image. No god of a man can be a coward, and we may have +enemies to overcome ere we get her to safety, but I am here to help, +and that is my message.” + +“Go you hence with your sacrilege. Holiness does no battle,” said +Geroid wildly. “Go you hence to your bloody wars for women and cattle +and the things of the world. Leave me in peace with my God, and the +saving of my soul.” + +Ruadan listened and laughed. + +“To save your own soul? By the Elements! I have belief in no man, and +in no god of a man who hides in safe sanctuary when white innocence +flees from the ravisher. To sanctuary here has come Doirenn who deems +you holy. If you cast her out, she has only Ruadan as safety. And all +Erinn can tell you Ruadan boasts no holiness.” + +“Get you gone! Your ways are bloody and fearful and your ways are +evil.” + +“Not less evil than the weight of my hand on you if you hearken not,” +said Ruadan darkly. “Two holy gifts have I borne to you through much +danger, for the cell of a monk would seem best hiding place. One is +this,” and he emptied on the floor of the cell the gold and gem-set +things of the altar, “the other is a human soul in a fair body, +which, O praying monk, is the holier thing for your shelter. This is +the time for the choice of a man.” + +The monk lifted the jeweled chalice and gloated over the golden +monstrance with each ray of the sun set in crimson and rose and +yellow gem. + +“The man who wrought this work had help of the angels of God,” he +whispered, and made the sacred sign as he lifted each treasure. + +“What of the handiwork of angels in the creation of the stray maid of +warm life, and music of voice and eyes of pureness?” asked Ruadan. +“Look at this hand of mine. It has been a craftman’s hand in the +work you adore there; it has been a bloody hand in the work you hide +from here, the work of the world! It is a strong hand and not yet a +conquered hand. Yet it shakes, as my soul shakes at thought of that +fair creation when God spoke Doirenn into this world of ours. Make +your choice of the holier thing, O monk she deems holy! This is the +time for your choice as a man—and by your choice and hers, Ruadan +abides.” + +“Get you gone from holy ground with your sacrilege of creation +and Hell’s vision of carnal loves!” screamed Geroid, and held the +monstrance of red gold between his own body and Ruadan. “The things +of holy altars I will hold at God’s will, but name no name of woman +in the ears of God’s chosen—they drive out the music of angels’ +wings!” + +Then a cry came to them—the cry of a woman, and close, and Geroid +fell on his knees in terror, and gathered close the glittering +jewels, and Ruadan unslung the short spear from his back. + +“It is the time for the choice of a man,” he said, and sped as a cat +along the narrow path to the turn where he had last looked down on +her. + +But a man on a black stallion waited there instead, and the face was +the face of Amlaf, brother of Ota the queen! + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +He looked up and laughed, and the thing he laughed at was Doirenn, +who stood on the narrow ledge waiting Ruadan, and in her hand was his +dagger. + +“You were so keen for his choosing that your heart could not wait +that I save your feet this hardship?” said Ruadan, darkly mocking. + +And the monk in the cave, and the prince on the black stallion, were +as far from them both as was fear, when she looked in his eyes. + +“I followed, O Ruadan, lest he do you harm for your life as a man of +sin. And I listened, O Ruadan, that your dagger might in truth drink +deep if you made me his portion—and you going elsewhere,” and his +dagger was held with the book, in love, against her breast. + +“To my heart!” he said, and circled her with his arm, and she was +borne along the path by him while his eyes searched below for glitter +of spears or followers of the prince. + +Amlaf fitted an arrow to his bow and waited the turn where Ruadan +would be fair target without hurt to the coveted maid of beauty. + +But the hand of Ruadan, thrilled by the love of her, was strong and +steady. His spear had been sharpened at the altar place of the old +gods, and the cast of it took Amlaf in the throat as he looked up +laughing. After that he laughed no more on earth but went to his own +Norse gods of the summer sailors. + +Ruadan stripped him of his warrior garb, and weighted the body with +stone, and cast it in the waters of Lough Dearg, while Doirenn stood +on the shore holding the quivering steed, alert at the presence of +Death. + +Ruadan looked about him, and looked at the girl, whose face was a +drooping flower, and whose hair was a golden veil. + +“Look up, O Doirenn,” said Ruadan, “for this is the end of the dream! +This is the shore on which I saw you with Bronach—washer of raiment +for the dead. Beyond this all is dark to me on the road.” + +“Not so,” she said. “We have walked together through the nights of +the evil star, but now the light is ours.” + +He caught her to him, and kissed and mocked her. + +“This is all your prayers and your glittering book served you against +enchantings,” he said. + +“They served me well,” she made answer staunchly. “In the sickness of +the wound I prayed for your life. Here, where you left me, I prayed +that Geroid might take into sanctuary the altar jewels but leave me +free for always to walk with you.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Among the Danes, that wood by Lough Dearg gained weird tales of Irish +enchantings, and the reason was that Amlaf the prince had ridden +along the marge for his pleasure one summer day, and never came again +into the sight of mortals. + +Belief it was in these enchantings and in the powers of the mystic +books of Christ’s men that went far to lead the invaders, also by +this time weary of their raiding, back to their own shores. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Far north in Connaught a youth in dress of the northmen was seen +with Ruadan riding a black steed with royal chains of silver in his +furnishings. The cropped hair of the youth was the color of the sun, +and Latin was his only speech. He was named Angus and called a prince +of the foreigners, but heart-companion to Ruadan. Not while Ota and +Turgesius held sway in Deasmond did Ruadan go south out of Connaught, +or let the youth see the lands of the south. + +And when he went again into his own domain of Ardsolais a woman of +mystery rode beside him, and for her radiance of beauty she was +thought a fairy mistress such as men of olden time had met at some +edge of the mortal world. + +He called her Brighde the Beautiful, and all the people were calling +her that, and she was his wife, and the cattle of Ruadan stayed on +his own hills after she came. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Because of the vanishing of Amlaf the prince no Danes climbed again +to the cell of the solitary monk, and after the weakening of the +Danes the stories of enchantment there went abroad far and wide, +and it was a place to shun both day and night, and no one was +remembering the young monk who, in that year of the fearful star of +Turgesius, had climbed that hard way for holiness. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +But in after years, a strange harmless babbler appeared one day among +a herd of cattle in Thomond, shouting to them of heavenly crowns and +wings of angels. + +He had no clear speech to men, and was called the “Nameless” for the +reason that no clan knew him, and he knew no mortal and no home. + +His dress was of skins, and his hair and beard were his only mantle +to the middle. Neither in Gaelic nor in Latin could his life be +learned, but no door was closed on him nor food denied him, for gods +and saints were known to come under secret and lowly guise to the +abodes of men. + +And on a fair day, after seven years, Doire, the childling of Ruadan, +divided a cake with the Nameless on the green, and then led him, as a +child with a new playmate, through all the garden and to the grianan +where the wife of Ruadan sat with her maids and discoursed of the day +when the master of Ardsolais would come again from the wars. + +All said, “God save you, and Mhoirre bless you,” to the visitor from +the wilderness, and food was given and the child watched in wonder +that a mortal could feed as the hounds fed. + +“The name of me is Doire, son of Ruadan, who is lord of the +mountain,” said the boy. “You have eaten my cake and come in my gate; +tell to me now whose son are you?” + +But the Nameless stared vacant and seeking, and made mutterings, and +all they could hear from him was “Ruadan? Ruadan—Ruadan?” + +Then the wife of Ruadan, who was called Brighde the Beautiful, called +to her son Doire, and whispered in his ear a secret saying, and the +lad ran back and spoke. + +“May it be that you were once the son of Kineath? And that your name +was once Geroid?” + +At which saying the Nameless stood up in fear as if for flight, +and cried out, “Kineath—and Geroid—and Ruadan! Ruadan and she who +was weighed in the balance with the jeweled chalice? Call you your +druids, or your priests of wisdom, that I uncover the place of that +hiding! Go you in haste ere the mist again covers the knowing!” + +In haste they did go—all the maids aflutter, and the wife of Ruadan +sat in the shadow ordering all things, speaking no word aloud. + +And Fergus, her cleric, came in haste from the oratory, and made +prayer, and hearkened, and the Nameless spoke in good Latin, and said: + +“Take with you this childling who lifted the mist from me. Go you +to the cave in the mountain over the Lough of Dearg; to the cell of +Senan the Saint find you the way; and in the stone trough of the bed +there find you the jeweled chalice, and the golden treasures. They +were the bribe of Hell to bring temptings of the world. Let them be +weighed; let them be put in the scales against my name and my soul in +the Day of days!” + +“Against whose name will I write it for that day?” asked Fergus, “and +against whose soul?” + +But at the question the Nameless turned away and shook his head. The +mist had again fallen, and he wandered again to the fields babbling +of crowns and wings. + +“He is but a strange innocent,” said Fergus, “and has no likeness to +owners of golden service and jeweled treasures. It would be as search +for the many-colored palaces of the magical Danaans under the hills +about us.” + +But the wife of Ruadan had a different thought. + +“What the search may uncover rests with God and Mhoirre,” she said. +“But a sign has been sent to the son of Ruadan, and to him the honor +will be if precious things or holy things are in that cell of a +hermit. Take horses and take men, and take Doire, our son, to that +place of the cliff on the shore of Dearg, and take well-cured skins +and ink for the record and witness. Every jewel write you down as +count is made, and every other thing of treasure. If it be that they +are holy things of Senan the Saint, their blessings may descend upon +another altar.” + +Thus it was done, and great glory went to the son of Ruadan, who +uncovered the jeweled chalice, and wondrous other golden altar +service buried under moss, and shells of eggs, and bones of animals. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Legends grew up about that finding, for after they were blest by +the cleric that no evil thing might leave smirch on their beauty, +they were placed with prayer in the oratory, and on the altar beside +them was found in the morning a jeweled book of holiness, thick set +with amber and pearl. No book had been found in the stone cell, +and Fergus, the priest, had never before seen or heard of it. Many +viewed it, and all thought it had, without doubt, belonged to Senan +the Saint, and after two hundred years of death he had come back to +gather together the things once precious to him on earth as a proof +to pious souls. + +This was the thought of Fergus, who had a pride in the holy honors +sent to the roof where he was sheltered. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +And when Ruadan came back victorious from battle with the Danes, it +was Fergus who discoursed to him of a great church as their shrine. +He made clear that the wife and son of Ruadan had strange gifts and +powers of knowledge. If they were christian gifts it was well for +their souls, but if the power was of pagan strength, then fastings +and prayers should lift the last doubt. He reminded Ruadan that his +own peace with the church was not yet accomplished, and that there +were strange tales of how the mother of his son had ridden out of +the wilderness on a black stallion and no clan and no country had +been named for her claiming. The trappings of her steed were those +of a king, and she wore coat of mail like a young warrior of the sea +gods, riding out of the waves. No word to her confessor told of her +life before that day, and there were times when the soul of Fergus +was troubled over these mysteries, and was craving more altars to the +saints at Ardsolais. + +“That is well enough,” said Ruadan. “She shall have a temple of her +own fashion for the housing of her sacred things—women and priests +have hunger for such. Guard you the souls by prayers in the temple, +Fergus, and my spearman will guard the temple if our shields are +lucky. That is the task of the man.” + +And with his wife, the Beautiful, in her bower, he laughed, and +stroked her white shoulder, and mocked as was his wont. + +“Thus I pay for temples to guard your soul from enchantments,” he +said, “for Fergus the priest finds you in a grievous way.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +She mounted the black steed and rode beside Ruadan with Doire, their +son, and sought a fair level on a green height where huge stone slabs +stood upright with other slabs resting on them like high altars. It +was the place of ancient fires and for that was called the Hill of +Lights. + +“Here, by this circle, are the hearts of the people,” she said, “for +at new moon they are coming, and at the rise of sun they are coming +in certain summer days. Why build the new altar in another place?” + +She paced with her child the great space where the new temple would +be built for sinners, and the eyes of Ruadan looked their love on +her, and on the son she had borne him. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +And in the edge of the wild field where the forest came down from the +mountains, the cattle lifted their heads as a man, hairy and clad in +skins, strode among them with proud authority shouting to them of +crowns and wings. + +“Whose is the voice?” asked Ruadan. + +And his “heart-companion” of the wilderness touched his shoulder and +spoke low and awed. + +“That is the voice of the man who saw no holiness in battle to +protect the helpless—it is the voice of the man who saw in love only +the mating of beasts—and his reward is his.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + + + +[Illustration: LIADAN AND KURITHIR] + +[Illustration: The Dream of Kurithir] + +[Music] + + + LIADAN AND KURITHIR + + “_I am Liadan + Who loved Kurithir. + It is true as they say._ + + “_The music of the forest + Would sing to me when with Kurithir, + Together with the voice of the purple sea._” + + +It was the time of Hugh Finnliath, Ard-Ri (High King) of Erinn, and +glad youth of May lay on the land. + +The hawthorn was in bloom against the hills, and the cuckoo was +calling as it flew in long billowy glides to its mate in the yew-tree +nest. + +As the bird to its mate, went the gray eyes and the heart of Liadan +na Donal, when she looked on Kurithir, the poet and friend of kings, +in Far Connaught. Fair and gracious was he among the friends of her +host, and fair and gracious was Flann Siona, prince of the Sionan, +beside him as they greeted her, and greeted Aevil, her sister, who +was beautiful as a night of stars. + +It was not the beauty of bronze-gold hair, or blue eyes of Kurithir, +by which she was held, and it was not the beauty of raiment and the +jeweled links of his garments, for the daughters of the Ui Maic of +Far Kerry were not without grandeur in the castle of Donal, their +father. Out of all the guests and the greetings, she knew not if +Kurithir, son of Doborchū, bent head or knee more graciously than +others. She knew only that his eyes looked deep, and looked steady, +into her own, and that without words they bore to her a message. + +The message was strange because her heart leaped in her bosom to meet +it, and that was a new thing in her life. + +And that message was this: “We have found the way to each other at +last, and both of us knowing it!” + +Other eyes saw that look, and the wild-rose flush on her white +throat, and Aevil, her half-sister, spoke bitter words when they were +safe within their chamber, and there was present only the dark nurse +of Aevil, whose name was Moria, and whose lore was deep in herbs and +curious knowledge of druidcraft. + +“Know you not that as elder sister my day of marriage must pass +before your day of courting?” raged Aevil. “For that reason I am +making this circuit of visits to see the lands and the furnishings of +our friends. It was in my charity that I brought you by me, and an +ill day it was to me!” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Liadan sat by the window and looked down into the enclosed garden +where a red rose tree and a white rose vine were twining against +the stone wall, and she mode no reply, for her thoughts were all of +Kurithir, and that look in his eyes, and she felt close to him as the +white rose twining to the tree of the red bloom. + +But Moria talked much as she smoothed the black hair of Aevil, and +vowed by the Elements that the beauty of Aevil exceeded by much all +other beauty at the Dun of Dearg. And that the eyes of Flann, Ri +Domna of Erinn, had not passed her by—nor had the other men. + +There was truth in this, for black and red and rich cream was the +beauty of Aevil, and her pride was great because of her beauty to +which all men did honor. Liadan had heard all her life that there was +no beauty in Connaught to compare with Aevil who should, for beauty +alone, be a queen, and Liadan was well content that the crown go to +her sister so long as she had her harp and her garden, and now—two +blue eyes for mirrors! + +But Aevil stormed and threw off the hand of Moria and would have no +caressing of words. + +“Well you know there is one man spoke of here for my meeting, and +that man is Kurithir the poet,” she said. “He is the man whose songs +are sung by many, and my greeting was spoiled by a gray rat!” + +“Only my eyes are gray, sister,” said Liadan, “and if you like not my +gray robe, it shall be put aside for our visit. What you choose shall +be done; all is one to me.” + +For the song of joy was so strong in her heart that all the world was +shining summer for her. Her slender gray-clad feet trod as on the +clouds of heaven because of that look in his eyes. She donned a robe +of green with a girdle of silver, and in the brown curls of her hair +she fastened green jewels from oversea, and in the rush light of the +great hall she slipped quiet as a moonbeam, but Flann and Kurithir, +who were foster brothers and friends ever, left all others to bow +before her. + +“We look for Maighdenmara in the old sea waves where the white foam +is,” said Flann. “Men never hope to see her drive in a chariot from +the forest.” + +Kurithir said nothing, but his eyes were on hers, and she liked that +best, and dreamed of him sweetly that night on her maiden pillow. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +In the dawn Flann and Kurithir walked along the sea cliff and spoke +as brothers in bond. + +“There are other maids and many for you, Flann. For me there is only +this one and I loving her.” + +“You speak your heart and that is best, comrade. My eyes will look +the other way, and her sister is a fair queen for any castle.” + +“I am thinking no castles,” said Kurithir, “I am thinking of a little +house under the oaks where the thrushes sing, and where heart can +hear heart away from sound of the steps of man. My harp I will take, +and hers. The hands of her were like white lilies on the strings when +she touched them last night. I could have knelt at her feet for joy +that we have found each other.” + +“It is good to be you, Kurithir,” said Flann, who was a king’s son. +“May you hear the thrushes sing.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +And Kurithir went back at sunrise, and watched her window in the +tower until her face looked down on him. Speak she dare not because +of Aevil and Moria. Go to him she could not for the locked door and +the key on the chain of Moria. But look at him with all her heart in +her eyes she could and she did, and a white rose she let fall from +her breast to his, and that was the first gift of Liadan and Kurithir. + +That day was fair with beauty, and all went riding gaily to a +neighbor castle of friends, and gaily home at the setting of sun; but +Aevil put Aillain, the son of her host, to ride with Liadan, under +strict word that their visit would end if he heeded not her order—for +Liadan must either be guarded, or sent home at the dawn; so Aevil +rode with Kurithir and talked much with Flann, and was a sweet and +gracious lady to charm all. But Liadan sat quiet, smiling ever like +sun touching mist of the morning. Her heart was full of joy only to +hear his voice, even though the words were to another—which is Love +itself. + +And that night was a very poet’s night of a young moon and the scent +of dew on the hawthorn, and under the tower Kurithir sang, and +touched the harp, and this was his song: + + Sweet-scented branch of silver + Abloom above me, + Lean low to love me! + + Gray bird of harmonies + Honey voice, morning star, + Wake to love’s dreaming! + +His voice and the strings of the harp were whispers soft on the +night, yet in her heart every whisper was held, and the fury of Aevil +was as a storm seen afar in the valley. For Liadan was as snow on the +mountain shining in the sun. + +When she left the locked door of her chamber, the dark woman, Moria, +carried her shuttle and thread, or her tablet of white birch and the +stylus, or the tiny harp of the six strings, but not apart the length +of a spear did she walk, and she listening. + +But the love of Kurithir forced him to the speech of a man to his +mate, and he spoke. + +“The song of the night was to you, Liadan, and all of me calls for +you more strongly than song can be telling. Liadan, marriage is well +for two singers who find the same song. It is by that choosing the +bird of the forest seeks ever its own mate, for the song is the soul +of the winged things. That is so of the birds and it is so of men, +Liadan. Thus the nightingale holds his song pure in rapture, thus +the children of us will sing our songs, and their own songs, in the +future years, Liadan.” + +The soul of her moved to him that she trembled, but the dark woman, +Moria, behind the arras, was ears for Aevil who walked the garden +with Flann, and Liadan veiled her gray eyes lest he read them too +well, and spoke in sweet courtesy. + +“Fair friend, it must be in the rath of my father I give troth to a +man and not in another place,” she said. “That gate will be open to +you on a day to come, and your singing will win you fair welcome when +you are coming there.” + +“Your words are as snowfall at harvest time and the sheaves golden,” +spoke Kurithir. “Your eyes make themselves shadows of gray and are +veiling their sweetness. But I am servant of Liadan what day of days +I may ride her way through the forests.” + +“The day may be long—the length of days rests in the heart itself,” +said Liadan. “A far circle of visiting is pledged to the friends +of our father. That circle must be closed ere we welcome poets or +princes at the portal of our own castle.” + +“Honey mouth, the sweet coldness of you would freeze the red rose, +and all its flame could not save life to it,” he said. “But within me +is a deeper flame, and I wait my day, and I wait some sign from you +for speech again.” + +But the bodkin of the dark woman touched the arm of Liadan through +the arras as a warning against other words, and she spoke no more but +bent her head over the harp as if alone, and Kurithir looked at her, +pondering, and then called for his stallion, and rode alone and apart +from the rest that day. + +But Liadan rode not at all lest the hand of another man touch her +hand, or the hem of her garment, or offer her cup which another than +Kurithir had kissed. + +But the harp of his in the hall was the only one she touched that +day, and she wished that forbidden druid power could be hers to charm +the strings into speech for his ear alone. With bodkin she traced one +word in ogham on the harp frame, but Moria watching! More she feared +to do, and her tablets of writing had been broken in the rage of +Aevil. + +The dark woman told to Aevil all that discourse of the day, and Aevil +laughed her victory. + +“Tomorrow’s sun takes us away from this place and this blind-eyed +poet,” she said. “I have a secret to tell, for Flann has desire of +me, and a king’s rath will yet be my abiding place. But I choose to +be away from the roof of my father ere these poet songs again make +night sleepless. My marriage comes before her betrothal. See you to +that!” + +The dark woman promised and praised the maid Aevil, and had joy of +the thought of Flann who was king’s son and of power to be. + +At the supper time, Aevil held up her square cup of mead and asked +a good wish on the road for the morrow. Her journey of joy was a +circle, and their chariot must start with the sun on the round. + +There were words of pleading from many, but Kurithir said no word, +only stared at Liadan for a sign—and she there frozen with the grief +on her! + +It was the first word she was given of the journey, but he could not +be knowing that, and his pride was a cloak as he stood before her. + +“Sun-rise or sun-setting makes no change in me but to leave me in +darkness,” he said, “and the servant of Liadan is ever her servant.” + +But Aevil laughed at his shoulder, and bade him not practice poet’s +art for the sake of practice, for Liadan knew the light worth of a +rhyme—and herself turned all things, from cock crow until moonrise, +to such usage! + +Then she sent Liadan to her chamber on an empty errand, and laughed +again at Kurithir, and watched him, and his face white. + +She knew that he felt hate for her, and would sing grief and disaster +on her but for the bond of one father and sisterhood with Liadan. +The dark woman plucked her by the sleeve and whispered warning lest +he do that thing and shame her before Flann and the host. Aevil was +green-jealous and was going far! + +But the laughter of her scarce touched him, for the reason that he +saw only the face of Liadan who had gone past him, dumb and without +word of courtesy, and she hard struck at the fear of great forest and +wilderness between them. + +It was that fear made her bold to dare what she dared not do before +the people. No tablet of writing could she send. No secret friend +could she trust in the castle of the Dun of Dearg where Aevil bore +casket of gifts for service rendered. + +But more quickly than Moria could follow, she sped to the enclosed +garden where the red May rose bloomed against the south side of the +wall, and close under her linen shift lay a blossom of it before the +dark woman, with dark words, grasped her wrist, and drew her within +the portal. + +“The fury of Donal your father will not be a summer storm to you if +he hears of lovers of yours before the Lady Aevil has her right as a +wife ahead of you,” she said. “The visits of honor are spoiled by the +endless twanging of the fool’s harp, and of yours, and the end of it +is coming!” + +Liadan knew there were dark words said of Moria in whispers by the +people of the hills of Kerry. Her love for Aevil was a real love, but +her hate was a thing to fear, and the soul of Liadan trembled, yet +the thought of Kurithir brought back life to her, and she spoke. + +“With your hands you will not touch me again,” she said, “and this to +your warning. As a child I mind me how, for curious reasons, you sang +sleeps upon me at noontide. I saw strange things in the sleeps you +sent me and some I remember. But I am not now a child and my life is +a different thing to me. No will of yours shall be on me again, nor +the will of any other mortal, save one only—and I loving that one. +My duty to Donal, my father, and Aevil, my sister, will be paid in +silence. But to the man who gives me heart-love there has been too +much of silence, and the end of that is coming!” + +The dark woman looked at her sideways and said no word lest the maid +grow wild and run shrieking, or do some other ill thing to shame +them. For the words of Liadan told her it was a woman deep in love +who spoke, and that at once both her body and mind were sacred to her +as love’s offering on an altar. + +And Moria went from the chamber in fear of the wrath of Aevil if the +lovers met, and in fear of other things! The key on the chain was +forgot at her girdle, and it was the first time. + +At the foot of the turret stairs she remembered the key and would +have turned back, but Aevil was there and heard her story and smiled. + +“Wait for the locking of the door,” she said, and frowned and +thought. “Since she is turned rebel on our hands, and a dagger is +forbid, we will try other ways, and ways will be found. Her poet is +sick with love and mooning alone, yet far enough from the turret. +Keep you ward, and send to me Aillain, son of our host. He mutters +poems of hers instead of grace.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +It was true Kurithir was alone, and a new thought with him for +company. The next house of the visit of the sisters was that of a +friend where a welcome for him was ever waiting. Yet at this time he +would not ride there without a castle servant to ask his presence. +But on white beech tablet he was writing that friend to send for him +quickly, and his own servant was put on the road with it, while the +others played chess, and took pawns, and looked love to women, and +Aevil laughed, thinking that he wrote poems on dull tablets when he +could find more human pleasures. Flann laughed when she laughed, and +knew nothing of the heartache of his friend. After their words on the +cliff there had been no more words between them of Liadan or of Aevil. + +Their laughter sat ill upon him, and he moved to a casement where +he could see the window of the turret chamber, and perhaps a light +there. + +No light was showing, but the soft note of the little harp was heard, +and its sweetness was dear to him, for it was his own song of the +night she had caught. + +“It is well Liadan is playing that,” said Aevil. “All the day she was +making practice of it because you, Aillain, gave it praise.” + +“I?” said the youth Aillain, and stared, and his mother heard and +laughed. + +“What does a manling do when music is made by fair lady to his +liking?” she asked. “A gold-caged thrush would be fitting for a +lady’s gift, or flowers for fragrance.” + +They made jests of him as at a lover they were training for love, and +the eyes of the youth laughed also, yet he was courteous. + +“No less than my duty, and the gift, shall be offered,” he said. “The +less garden bloom for the other ladies on the morrow.” + +Straightway he started for the garden in the dusk, glad to show grace +to so fair a guest. The sky had primrose tints in it afar, and the +golden curve of the moon was above dark ocean. Only one star shone +high, and shadows fell thick where the hedges were, and where a great +vine threw wide arms at the foot of the tower. + +A moment the boy paused to look up where the harp strings were softly +touched, then there was silence, and a white hand reached far out, +and a bit of fragrance touched his breast—it was a red rose, crushed +where it had lain under the linen of her warm bosom. + +The youth was mazed and stood waiting with staring eyes. Was it a +mocking the gay group would make because of his lack of years, and +his height of a man? This was the reasonable thought, for he had a +sweetly gay temper of his own, and was used to their baiting. + +But while he held the rose and listened for their laughter, something +finer came to him: it was the hushed voice of Liadan singing. A very +whisper of a song it was, and heard only by him, and by a man at the +casement. + + The mystic rose are you to me + In secret bower growing, + The grayling bird of grief am I + Not joyous taking wing! + + One star for both above the sea— + The trysting star! A grayling + Lets fall a rose and breathes her sigh: + Not joyous taking wing! + +The voice ceased and the harp strings gave a wail as a heavy hand of +discord crashed it. The boy could make nothing of that, and walked +slowly into the dusk of the garden, intent as before on the gift of +blossoms. + +It was a sweet song as she sung it, and a pleading one. He wondered +as to the meaning of the mystic rose. It was a new word to him and he +had an ear for words of beauty. + +Then there came swiftly the rush of a slender form into the garden’s +dusk. Like a low-flying bird before a hawk she ran, for the dark +woman was at the portal. + +“O rose of flame,” said Liadan sobbing, “that I should have given +snow for your fragrance!” + +The tall youth, Aillain, had plucked a hand full of bloom, but stared +at her strangeness, and drew back from her. + +“The roses are for your gift, fair Liadan,” he began courteously, but +at his voice she moaned in terror and caught his shoulder. + +“O rose of brief bloom for me,” she said, and fell in whiteness at +his feet. He bent to lift her, but the dark woman was first. + +“Silence is best for this,” she said to Aillain. “It is no new thing +and I can bear her alone.” + +She was very strong, and Liadan lay in her arms like a broken flower, +and thus she faced Kurithir at the portal; he was white as the maid, +as he barred her way. + +“Tell me of this meaning,” he said, and Moria laughed as Aevil +herself might have laughed. + +“You are a man and should know,” she said. “The boy is a new +plaything and she broke the lock to keep tryst with him. You poets +play over much at the love game, and oft choose your mates strangely.” + +“If you were a man my hand would send you to hell for that saying.” + +“Even that would not make her over, or change the heart of her,” said +Moria. “Give way that I may put her back under lock ere her sister +learns this newest shame.” + +He gave way, and paced like a chained thing the length of his leash +under the wall where he could see the light of her window. He +listened for her voice, but no sound came. + +Later he sought Aillain, but the youth had gone straight to Aevil in +his amaze and fear, and she had cunningly bound him to silence, as if +Liadan were some distraught creature ever to be guarded when the moon +was new. To Flann, Kurithir could not speak. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +In the morning Liadan was dressed by Moria for the journey, listless +and cold, staring. + +Aevil mocked her despair, and hummed the words of her trysting song. + +“Think you a man of pride waits for tryst with a maid so bold?” she +asked. “The rose alone might have won a hearing, but men are fain to +do their own wooing. Your song argued practice in love, so he walked +away, O grayling, you!” + +Liadan took up the harp and broke the strings. + +“It will make songs for no other man,” she said. “So much for love’s +practice on me!” + +Cold and white she sat for the braiding of the gold disks in her +brown hair, and cold and white for the girdling of the gray robe, +and the lacings of the gray shoes. After the breaking of the harp +Aevil mocked no more, for there were guests and a host to face in the +farewells, and it might prove a hard hour. + +But Liadan strangely bade farewells as a child is taught to do. There +was a faint little smile on her lips, and she looked into faces as if +scarce seeing, while the dark woman watched her curiously. + +“Her boast was that no will but his should lead her,” she said to +Aevil. “Look you! Whose will leads her now?” + +“What thing have you done?” asked Aevil, “for his is the one face she +does not lift her eyes for. What druid’s draught have you brewed for +her?” + +“No draught,” said Moria. “She gave you fear when she broke the harp, +and that was the time to give her the quiet. Look not fearful, a +weakness is on her from these days, but weakness goes again in youth.” + +Liadan was seldom gay, and none but Kurithir and Flann noted her +stillness. Neither spoke of it. And so she went away from them. And +the music was stilled in Kurithir. His harp was laced in its cover of +otter’s skin, and the message she had writ on it was hidden—to their +sorrow! + +When word came from the friendly house that he was ever welcome +there, but that the Lady Aevil, and her sister, the poet Liadan, had +not come their road, he bade farewell to his friend Flann and took a +boat for the sea. + +“The thrushes do not sing, even for poets, on the sea,” said Flann, +and that was the first time he mentioned the dream of love of +Kurithir. + +“There are no longer thrushes singing for me in the shadows, and no +dreamhouse of love in any forest,” said Kurithir. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Straight south he steered and then east, through storm and stress +seeking new ports, seeing new faces, hearing new songs but singing no +more. Women looked on him with warm invitings in many a harbor, and +one of sweet words and gray eyes sent him out into open seas against +wind and tide. + +“Other men are not remembering like this,” he said. “Back of the +look in every woman I see the look of Liadan, O lost gray bird of +mine—Liadan—Liadan!” + +To say her name brought her before him strangely. He leaned forward +in the dusk and brushed his hand over his eyes as if to clear vision. + +For there in the prow he saw—something! It was the faint gray shadow +of a girl with a broken harp. The harp he could see very clearly, for +the broken strings were black against the green-white foam. + +“Liadan,” he whispered, and moved to her, but white spray dashed +between them and no other thing was there. And that was the first +time she came. + +“She is dead,” he said, and the world was more empty for the thought, +yet strangely enough, when sleep came she began to come very close +to him, and very warm and very much alive. + +In the dusk of starlight he saw her, shadowy, with his earthly eyes +again and again, and at times he thought the fragrance of hawthorn +and roses of May was on the sea. + +“Is it the way of a madman I am going?” he asked himself, “for there +can no more be fragrance of roses here than there can be songs of +thrushes.” + +And that night in sleep he heard the thrushes! It was together they +heard them—her hand in his, and she listening. + +And the words he said to her there were words he had never said to +any woman in life. Her eyes shone on him like warm stars, and it was +as if they had both been waiting always for the words and the hearing +of them. And in the dream he sang to her, and she within his arms +warm there. In the morning he remembered that song—and he remembered +whispers of hers between the lines of it. + + O Liadan! + O mist of honey fragrance! + Within my dreams, + You drift the night with me! + + You are the star + Old sea reflects forever, + You are the grianan within my heart. + + The white-breast bird are you, + The whitest rose, + The ever-singing harp of silver string. + + You are my secret, + Breast unto my breast, + Until the lark shall call the sun, + O Liadan! + +It was the first time song had come to him since he sang under her +window at Dun Dearg of the sea cliff, and all the call of his heart +for her was wakened in new strength. He turned the boat and steered +west and then north, and every twilight she sat in the prow faintly +gray, and in every sleep his head rested on her warm bosom, and warm +arms were holding him, and her face was bending over him with her +eyes looking into the depths of his own. + +“Even though it be madness on me I will follow the way it leads,” he +said. “I will go as bid to the rath of Donal, her father. I will put +out of mind all else I saw or heard, for mystical things and deep +things are sending fair winds to me at every turn of tide, and never +a day but the seas are glittering fair like silver.” + +And it was so. Never a storm touched him after the night he saw her +first. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +In the nights he smelled hawthorn and May roses over the dark sea, +and there was one night when he was off Arran, and she sang to him, +and in the morning he remembered her song as well as his—and this is +what she was singing that night: + + I dreamed of the yew tree, + Its sheltering shadow, + I dreamed of your arms! + + I woke to the thrushes, + Their song was to nestlings, + And your arms about me! + +Then he felt her stir as a bird might stir against a mother-bird’s +breast, and her kiss was on him, and in that kiss he smiled, fearing +to open his eyes, fearing to lose the dream of her. But he whispered +in a dream song: + + My eyes are in shadow + But sun in my bosom, + My world—Liadan! + + To dream true is—loving, + Gray eyes of enchantings, + Gray lark of sweet singing, + —Your music to me! + +Into the deep harbor of the cliffs he sailed on a fair morning, and +men with shields and spears watched him as he climbed the heights, +and Flann was first with the greeting. + +“The summer raiders of Lochlan came down the coast to wreck and +plunder,” he said. “No roof is left of Castle Dearg; we drove them +off and sunk half their fleet, but much evil was done by them. Our +host and his people are dead, and Donal of Dun Conchinn is dead, and +many other good men have gone the Way.” + +“It was to the rath of Donal I was going.” + +“It is a late day to be going; death has been there, and veiled women +are there.” + +The heart of Kurithir went cold with fear to ask a question, and he +did not ask it, but walked silent beside his friend until they stood +under the portal of the tower where all now was blackened ruin from +fire and stress. + +He looked up to the window and then mounted the stone steps to the +chamber where once she had slept, and Flann in silence followed, for +their hearts had been close-knit. + +The furnishings were gone and it was a desolate place. + +“Come away,” said Flann. “There is no profit to a man in seeking +empty cages when the singer has flown.” + +But under the carved stone seat by the window, where no fire could +touch it, there was a little harp with the strings broken. Kurithir +knew that harp and every broken strand from the nights on the seas to +the south. + +Flann took it up and looked at the frame where “Liadan” was set in +silver wires deep in the dark wood; with the haft of his skean he +scratched it until it shone bright. + +“It is true,” he said, “I thought it was a woman’s lie to mock me—but +it is true.” + +“Who was the woman?” asked Kurithir. + +“It was Aevil,” said Flann, “and now with this before us, and Sun and +Day, and Earth and Wind, to witness, I will speak you the truth. When +you sailed south and gave no farewell to Liadan, who turned her eyes +from you in parting, I rode to the rath of Donal and made offers for +her as a wife. My promise to look another way was broke when you two +parted and no pledge between broke.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +There was silence for a while and only the eyes of Kurithir spoke. + +“It was all no use,” said Flann. “She would not say the word for all +Donal’s anger. I know not what his words were to her—God knows! He +was regretful for the words when dying and said it to me. But before +that day he offered me Aevil instead, and ordered Liadan to the +veiled women, and Aevil was a star of beauty, and was willing, and I +took her.” + +“And what was the lie of this?” asked Kurithir, holding close the +harp with the sweet name of her on the frame. + +“It was no lie. It was the truth. The harp was broke by Liadan that +no love song should ever be made on it after her tryst song to +you—and you walking away from it.” + +“There was no tryst song to me. The woman Moria carried Liadan from +tryst with another—and mocked me that I was yet sick at heart for her +love.” + +“There are dark things in this somewhere, and there are false things +somewhere,” said Flann. “Aillain, the boy, is dead, and dark Moria is +dead—it is late for the sifting of the wheat from the chaff.” + +“When were the deaths?” + +“He in the first raid, but she, sabbath a week since, together with +Donal, before our bowmen reached his rath for succor.” + +Kurithir remembered that day, and when Flann would have gone on with +speech of the fighting, and the retreat of the raiders to their +ships, he held up his hand for silence. + +“That was the night she came to me on the sea, Flann,” he said, “and +that is why I am here listening. Darkness is on my mind—a darkness +and a fog, but this is true as the Sun: the way of these broken +strings was never told to me, yet I knew that her harp was broken, +for at the sabbath twilight a week since, Liadan sat at the prow of +the boat with the broken harp in her hands, and the smell of the +hawthorn was there following, ay, and the song of the thrush in the +nights!” + +Flann peered at Kurithir in awe, and a swift chill touched him. When +he spoke again it was with the soft gentleness as to a child. + +“And where was this happening, Kurithir?” he asked. + +“It was off the south coast, and I have been sailing straight to find +her, night and day since that twilight,” said Kurithir. “Never was +there such a sailing, for the wind was ever with us, and I had but to +close my eyes to feel her near and to smell hawthorn and May roses.” + +Flann looked down into the garden where ashes and a fallen wall +covered the rose vines. + +“The roses of May linger not for anyone through the harvest time,” +he said. “Come Kurithir, what I can I will do to bring you to her in +time.” + +Kurithir followed after and carried the broken harp, and said over to +himself words of her tryst song which he knew now was meant only for +him. + +“It will be in time,” he said. “No human thing can part us now, for +our coming together on the sea had no mortal touch to it, yet we were +as one soul. Since she lives nothing can change that. She is the soul +of me.” + +“She lives,” said Flann. + +More than that he had no heart to say, but while food, and horse, and +servant were made ready for the journey through the wilderness, Flann +spoke apart to Ronan, his cleric and confessor, who had been with the +men through the battles, and shrived them as they went the last Way. + +“Is it madness of the mind is on him, or is it some spell of magic +that makes for him a vision far out at sea of that which is true on +land?” asked Flann. “Is it evil, or is it good?” + +“It has been both. The words of druids and the words of saints are +witness. It comes between a man and a maid. It comes not of earthly +marriage but rather of separation of the mortal body. It comes of +great strength and of much weakness. Saints have known it to the +glory of God’s mysteries, but it is not for the telling to every +asker of curious things. You have a kinsman in sanctuary who has +the right to tell you more than I have right to know. The craft of +idolatry, and the spells of druids, and power of saints, have one +likeness to the eyes of the unlearned. Yet is there a difference, and +a great differing, too! The mother of Liadan was of the race of Dana, +and she went the Way at the birthing. Her child came into life with +the sign on her of secret knowings. It is a thing of grief that she +was bred in the rath of that dark woman of Slieve Mis who could use +arts of her own on a child of secret vision.” + +“You mean dark Moria, the nurse?” + +“I mean Moria, the concubine of Donal, who went into death beside +him. It is an old story and strange. The Dun of Donal is far enough +in the wilderness to hide many secret things.” + +“You know that I have taken his daughter Aevil to wife,” said Flann +darkly. + +“I do. You were swift about it, else I might have spoke caution. +But the two are dead and God send that her evil died with her, and +that your children live by God’s grace. Judge you not Kurithir with +harshness because of his own words. The darkness is on his mind +concerning this matter. Few of us see as God means us all to see in +His own good time.” + +“God be with us till the Day,” said Flann. + +“By the Elements, and the Father and Son,” said Ronan. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +The raiders were gone from Connaught and the work of the chiefs was +done there, and Flann rode south and told Kurithir he rode to fetch +back his new wife Aevil, from Dun Conchinn, where death had been, and +many shadows. And Kurithir scarce noted that Flann rode neither in +state nor in joy. He rode silent and with dark thoughts, and with few +servants or comfort. + +But he saw to it that none but himself held converse with his friend +on the long south journey. And Kurithir went through the rivers and +wilderness as he had sailed north over the sea, thrilled by the +nearness of the sweet warm spirit of her. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +It was at rising of sun they reached the Dun of Conchinn, and saw +marks of the siege on it, and it was Aevil who met them in the hall, +vested in royal weaves and with a golden circlet of richness above +the black braids where pearls were woven. Already she was wearing all +gauds and trappings of queenship, and waiting jealously the day of +the succession of Flann. + +She stared in dislike at his company. + +“Have you fallen to meaner estate that you ride home with none of the +chiefs you led away?” she asked. “A servant and a horseman is small +retinue for Flann.” + +“Greet my friend and send for your cleric,” said Flann. “I have +questions to ask of this household.” + +“I give greeting to any friend of yours, O Flann,” she said, “but +your words and your looks coming back with him are not those of +Flann, the prince, who went away with his many men of the shields.” + +“If it is your will I will walk apart until granted welcome,” said +Kurithir to Flann. “It is you who know best the desire of my heart +and the way to it.” + +“We will find that way,” said Flann, “but the first thing must come +first! Send your maids to their duties. I want only your cleric, and +his tablets for writing. It is your own desires I make plans for. You +will not be wanting the enviers of a princess around you this day of +your days.” + +Kurithir was no less amazed than Aevil at the curious speech of +Flann, or at his long curious stare at the cleric with his tablets +and his scrivener. + +“Send your assistant out of the hall,” said Flann, and went on +staring, first at the comfortable, round old man, and then at the +queenly woman he had called a star of beauty. + +“Nealis of Desmond,” he said, “it is a long time you have been in the +Dun of Donal, and it is much you have seen of the woman who died with +Donal, and it may be much you had to know of her.” + +Nealis, the cleric, went the color of old wax, and looked at Aevil, +and Aevil flamed red while her brows were a straight black line of +rage. + +“What should he know?” she asked. “What should he know of my nurse +and my friend? Why ask a man of the household and pass me by?” + +“I asked for an answer—and I am answered,” said Flann. “Fear not that +you will be the one passed by! I will ask another question. Nealis, +it is not the husband of Aevil who asks you this, it is the man who +is Ri Domna of Erinn. Donal talked with you here when I offered +marriage to his child, Liadan?” + +“That is true,” said the cleric, but his small eyes looked right and +left like a trapped rat, fearing what the question might lead to. + +“And it was that time the word went out that Liadan was dying of a +secret ailment?” + +Kurithir sprang to his feet, but Flann put out his hand in kindness. + +“She did not die,” he said. “It was a crooked plan but of her death +there was no need, and the plan was changed.” + +He looked at Aevil, and the flame was gone from her face; she was +gulping as if to strangle back some fury of protest. + +“You were her confessor—also the confessor of Moria. You surely heard +things curious between the two.” + +“What should he hear more curious than other priests hear?” demanded +Aevil after one look at his pallid face. + +“It is not your confession, Aevil, for which I ask,” said Flann, “so +rest you easy. But it may be easier for Nealis to tell the thing +here where there are few ears than in open shame before the king and +before his spiritual superiors. Nealis, was it drug of herbs Moria +of the hills gave to Liadan, or was it the deeper craft of a mind +chained until life and death was all one to her?” + +“You are asking that which is not asked even by princes, and I would +it were not asked,” said Nealis. But his voice shook and Aevil glared +at him frowning, striving to make him meet her eye, which he would +not. + +“The witch is dead,” continued Flann. “I ask nothing concerning sins +of the living, but this thing I mean to know. It is not best to +depend on the grace of a Ri Domna’s wife. There will be no queen of +mine but by my will—and justice may come before my will, and before I +come to a king’s seat.” + +“Is that gray rat to come between you and me even with your marriage +gifts on me?” shrilled Aevil. “The High King may say something if you +take two sisters to wife at the same time.” + +“The sisterhood will come later,” said Flann in great quietness, and +at that Aevil choked, and the cleric looked at Flann. + +“It is little use to speak, since knowledge has somehow come your +way,” he said. “I know of no drugs, but the Lady Liadan lived as in +a trance when I was let see her. I was told it was a love sickness +and that life was hateful. To me she said nothing but that she was a +shamed maid, and that the man had sailed on the seas, and away from +her.” + +“She sees no man but you. Is she growing more weak as the days go?” + +“No,” said the cleric with the first straight look, “she has slept +well, and smiles now—and her maids no longer fear for her.” + +“When did this begin?” + +“It is strange to tell it, but the day of the battle with the +Northmen was the day she changed. A swoon came on her, when the woman +Moria died, but when she waked from it the trance look was gone. No +fear of the battle touched her, so the women say. She is pale as a +primrose, but she smiles again, and the maids now gossip that she +sings in her sleep.” + +“You tell more than you know, and you tell it straight,” said Flann. +“She had lived under the black shadow of Moria of Slieve Mis until +the life was smothered by that curse. When Moria died the shadow +passed. Do you see, Kurithir?” + +“I see and I know,” said Kurithir. “She was seeking me that first day +of freedom, and found me at the nightfall.” + +Aevil looked her scorn for the words she did not understand, and her +look was black at Nealis of Desmond. + +“There is one other thing,” said Flann. “The mother of Liadan was +known, and her race was known since Erinn had a name to it. But who +was the first wife of Donal of Dun Conchinn?” + +Aevil arose, trembling with rage, and her eyes glaring down at him. + +“Keep to your seat,” he said in the voice of a master. “I am to +know these things and the reasons for them. A lady out of Spain was +brought to these shores a bride in his youth, all are knowing that. +But where is there some man or some woman to tell me when she died, +and what of her children?” + +There was silence and the breathing of Aevil could be heard as she +leaned forward, her eyes on the cleric, and her hand slipping into +the folds of her robe. + +“I—I was not here at that time,” he said, stammering. + +“But you have seen records, you know?” + +“It—is true. I—” + +No more than that was said when Aevil leaped forward with a slender +Spanish dagger crashing for his throat, but Flann was quick, and +caught her arm. She struggled and fought, but he shook her as he +would a rat and flung her to the floor, where she lay senseless. + +“The dagger is a dainty toy and useful,” he said. “It was perhaps for +me she carried it.” Then he turned to the wounded and trembling man, +“Go on, tell it as you meant to.” + +“She knows,” he said, looking down on Aevil in her rich robes and +braided pearls. “The Spanish wife died, and died soon, without +children. Moria was then what she always has been, full of one +thought only, and that for her daughter here. Donal himself had fear +of her, and made promises to her and kept them. + +“But when men looked on Liadan they did not forget her. She came +before Aevil, despite the beauty of Aevil, and of that the troubles +began, and many of them. It was jealousy first, and after that there +is no knowing what it was, but it has brought terror, and it has +brought grief to this roof.” + +“Write this as you have told it,” said Flann, “and call the maids to +look after the daughter of Moria. See that a guard is at her chamber +door, and no more toys like this to play with.” + +Then he turned to his friend. + +“There will be no shadow between you ever again,” he said. “You have +been shown all the reasons.” + +“There can be no more shadows,” said Kurithir, and thought he spoke +truly. He followed Flann through the hall, and to the grianan on the +south wall; from there a troop of horsemen were seen lounging in the +shadow, and four more with furnishings for women riders. + +“It looks a holiday for gay gallants,” said Kurithir, but Flann had +no smile; he strode to the door and threw it open. + +The grianan was no longer the lightsome ladies’ chamber for +broideries or games or music. An altar was there, and candles lit, +and four nuns knelt where a priest recited a prayer, and their voices +responded. + +One voice out of the others pierced the heart of Kurithir, and he +broke from his friend and called out in love, but the priest stepped +between, and the eldest nun threw a gray veil over the primrose face +he knew. + +“Liadan!” he cried. + +“Kurithir!” + +She drew the veil aside, and the two lovers looked long at each +other. But even with love in her eyes she put out her hand. + +“It is for life, Kurithir,” she said. + +“I have come for you!” + +“Flann, my brother, tell him!” she said. + +“I knew of this,” said Flann, “but had hope to outride the ending of +it. This is why Aevil met us in queenly circlet and royal robes at +sunrise to flaunt before Liadan a final magnificence.” + +“We are here to guard a new sister on the way to sanctuary of +Clonfert,” said the priest. “From this day she has no life in the +world. Men are her brothers, women her sisters. There are no other +human bonds for her.” + +“But there are bonds not human, yet between two mortals,” said +Kurithir. “I have gone through hell to learn that truly, and have +sailed far over deep seas to bring the word to her.” + +“It cannot be said here,” said the priest. “You are doing sacrilege +in your speech. You disturb the spirit of her on her path to +Paradise. You to your confessor for penance, and abide by his ruling!” + +“Penance will I welcome for her sake,” said Kurithir, “and some +brotherhood will I find to give right of converse with this, my +friend. For that I will wear the robe and go into silence forever +after.” + +Her eyes were on his as she passed out the portal between the two +nuns, and the look in her eyes was the look of the nights on the sea. +Yet there was question in that look, and a wistful question. + +Flann bade them farewell in the stead of Aevil, and watched them +cross the plain into the forest. + +“The evil magic of Moria lives on, even though her body is dead,” +he said. “It was she put into the head of Donal this business of +sanctuary—and Aevil helped as she might, until this is the end.” + +Kurithir was silent, thrilled by that look, and dazed with the +temptings to follow after, to take her and reach the sea and some +land of foreign men, even though all the bells of Erinn rang their +curses on him. + +“Did you mean that as to wearing the robe of a brotherhood?” asked +Flann. + +“I would do more for one day of converse out of life with her,” said +Kurithir. + +That night he abode with Flann, and when the late stars were going +into the west, she came as on the sea and crept between his arms, and +lay silent there. + +No songs were between them that night and no words. She rested like a +tired bird after long wanderings, and in the morning he told Flann of +how it was between them. + +“She will walk free in a walled garden,” he said. “Peace she has and +no fear, and in the Dun of Conchinn she had many and strange fears, +and of them she would speak to me, and not in dreams.” + +“I am believing your word,” said Flann. “No other man could, but I +saw _the look_. In all of life I will see nothing again like that. My +feet are on the earth, and my cares are of earthly things.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +A runner from the castle of the kings came to Flann at the breaking +of fast, and he opened the seals of the tablet, and read, and took +Nealis the cleric, and went to the chamber of Aevil. + +“Daughter of Moria,” he said, “the dower of a daughter of Donal shall +be your portion. It goes with you for gifts to whichever holy home of +cloistered women you may choose from out all Erinn.” + +She crested her head like a dark serpent, and her eyes were points of +jet with jeweled disks on the band above them. + +“My Spanish blade is not in my holding else there would be another +man than you in line for the crown of Hugh,” she said. “You would +wall me from the world that the grayling rhymer come to you at last. +Late it is for that—and she under veil! All bells of church in Erinn +would ring to damn you.” + +“Liadan is not in this, nor can be,” he said. “You go to a cloister +for a dagger stroke to a churchman, with thought to silence his +speech in death. You could be killed like a wolf for that, and no +one to make further question. But Liadan wears the veil to pray for +sinners, and she would not have wish that you die in such sin as you +have known. You go also into cloister lest you bring to birth a thing +of poison such as your mother bred. You are of the women who know +lusts, but not love, and such should not be breeding.” + +“What then of the love of that grayling?” she asked in mock. “What is +the thing it breeds in men?” + +“Its breeding will last while speech of Erinn lasts—and after! +Liadan’s is the mystical soul. Aengus of the white birds is the +priest to hear her confessings. His is the key to unlock gates for +Liadan where your feet and my feet may not walk.” + +Then while she brooded there Flann turned to Nealis the cleric. + +“To you the records of this,” he said, “and let me not hear even +the name of cloister she is choosing. It is the daughter of Moria +who enters that silence, and is not the wife of Flann. See you to +that—and your life and her life to answer if there is mis-writing in +this rule of mine!” + +Aevil, glooming, took her last throw of the dice of fate. + +“To the ears of Hugh the king this may go on a day to be,” she said, +“and he may make other ruling against an heir of his.” + +“The king of Erinn has no heir,” said Flann, “and when the time +comes, it is a clean woman he will be choosing for the mother of +heirs. That is a riddle for your reading.” + +But she read it quickly and stood up, and cried aloud. + +“He is dead then—dead at last! And _you_ are the king!” + +“Since the sun of yesterday went down, I am king,” said Flann. “I go +now for the seat of the king, and the taking of the white rod.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Aevil, daughter of the dark woman, took from her hair the gold +circlet she was pleased of her pride to wear, and trampled it under +foot in her rage at the thing she had coveted and had lost. She knew +no record would be writ into the annals of Flann to show that when he +was only a prince, and had gay journeys for his pleasure, he had ever +taken to wife a daughter of Donal of Slieve Mis. + +But of Kurithir there were records, for there was grief on Erinn when +he put aside the music of the world and took a monk’s robe for the +cover of his youth. + +And the day of days came to him when he earned indulgence of his +confessor, Cummine, son of Fiancha, to talk apart in the walled +garden, and the converse to be of things spiritual with a noble +woman, and a youth between them as was custom with mortals in +sanctuary. + +And there Liadan came to him, and his hands touched hers after the +long days. + +“O Heart of me,” she said, “twice have I made earthly tryst with +Kurithir, and this time he is keeping it!” + +“And the May roses in bloom, and the thrush again singing,” he +said. “Speak again, speak, Liadan! It is long we have whispered in +the nights apart, and now you are in my touch, and I would hear your +living voice, Liadan.” + +“Kurithir, Kurithir, Kurithir!” she said. “There has been no music +like your name written in my heart.” + +“Your harp is with me. I mended the strings, and the wind plays on +them in the nights in my window, Liadan.” + +“I know,” she said, “and I wrote ‘love’ in _ogham_ on the frame of +your harp, and you only found it there when you came back from the +sea.” + +“That is true,” he said, “and you knowing it! You are in the likeness +of a flower, Liadan, yet are you strong as mortals are not strong, +and you found strong ways to come to me over ocean.” + +“I was dying that time, Kurithir, and the death shadow was on me for +the shame that you thought my tryst song of evil boldness. The dark +woman had sent me in sleeps to vision for her the unseen things, and +when her bonds on me were loosed, your bonds drew me, and I found the +way to you. You were the stronger then, Kurithir.” + +“Liadan! Liadan! We have only this day.” + +“Kurithir, we have all the days forever, Kurithir!” + +The sun went behind the world, and the birds called to each their +vesper song, and the moon of May grew warm through the dusk, and the +youth walked in the shadows while Liadan lay in the arms of Kurithir. +Their litanies of love were murmured there, and ever the wonder that +their souls had found the way of meeting. + +“You were the mystic rose, O Kurithir. The fragrance led me through +the deep to you.” + +“Oh, sweetest bloom! There was no fragrance on the sea till you were +bringing it.” + +“You heard the music, too, O Kurithir?” + +“With my lips on your rose-leaf body I was hearing it all the nights. +You brought it there.” + +“It was like this—the clasp thrill of your hand.” + +“It was like this—the yearning of my mouth.” + +“Sweet dream—O Kurithir!” + +“It was like this—O Liadan!” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +The moon went down, and the stars of dawn broke on the world, and a +veiled woman who had once dreamed of Erinn’s crown stood watching two +sleeping lovers in the convent garden. A youth crept from the shadows +at sound of her step, and lifted the discarded veil of Liadan. + +He spoke, and the lovers wakened and smiled at the waking, and at +the dear closeness of the other, but Liadan cowered in the arms of +Kurithir at glimpse of the mocking eyes of the watching woman. + +“Is it even to a cloistered garden that Aengus, god of Youth Dreams, +brings you the key for soul mysteries, O Liadan of Kurithir?” she +asked. + +“The Liadan of Kurithir is a new name to me and a proud one, sister. +Shadow there may be on it, but no shame.” + +“By the Elements, you dare it well, grayling, and well your lover! It +may be the prior and the abbess can give vouchings for you.” + +Cummine came to them there at the bidding of Aevil, and shouted holy +wrath at sight of the veil of Liadan. + +“It was not told me that a veiled woman was the friend he would +converse with in this sanctuary,” he said. “This is a shame beyond +words to both our houses—and beyond penance.” + +“I could kill you here, Liadan, before their hands touch your sweet +body, Liadan,” whispered her lover. But she shook her head and took +her veil from the youth. + +“In that way we might lose each other in some dread darkness, +Kurithir,” she said. “But now we will never lose each other. Give me +sweet farewell, O Kurithir.” + +“Liadan—O Liadan!” + +“Kurithir!” + +They bound him there and took him away for slow torturings and +penance in a stone cell of the “Solitary Ones” on whom silence is put +forever. + +They stripped her in shame that she might walk in only her +winding-sheet of the grave, and that walk was nightly, and her +slender bare feet on the rough stones to the place of tombs. Before +all the line of cloistered women she walked thus until the stones of +the way were red from her bleeding feet. + +After that they took her to a stone cell at the edge of the forest +where holy women might not soil their eyes on her. Only her confessor +and a poor lay sister came to her window there. She was under penance +of silence, and writing-tablets were hers for speech. + +She wrote prayers on the tablets, and she wrote confessions. There +were times when she wrote poems. + +The years left no trace of age on her—she was ever the primrose face +of May. Marvels grew up around her because of that—and because of +other mysteries. + +At a time when the Danish raiders were stealing up the Sionan to the +heart of the land, Kurithir wrote the number of their vessels and the +number of their shields ere they had fared as far as Killaloe from +the sea. When questioned, and told to speak, he asked that Flann, +king of Erinn, be sent a warning and gather shields, for Liadan, of +the cell in the forest, had seen them coming, and asked him in the +night to send word to Flann the king. + +When the men of Flann took the battle path and proved the truth of +it by a battle with the foreigners, and brought back slaves and many +spears, Flann himself rode to Clonfert and talked with the abbot +there, and silence was lifted from Liadan and from Kurithir. + +The son of a dead prince of Tormond was being disciplined at that +time for the reason that he wished to revoke the gift of his life to +the cloisters. The gift had been made by his kindred when he was a +child, and was not binding on his soul. He had been with the spearmen +for the defense against the Danes, and there was a wound in his +shoulder, and he talked as prince to prince with King Flann. + +“Since my days of a child I have lived this life, and the schools of +it delight me,” he said. “I have joy in the work of the annals and +their making. I may come back in gladness to cloisters when the snow +is on my hair, but they call me ‘God’s Dastard’ for the reason that I +would walk free into the world in my youth to win what youth may win.” + +“It was not always so with him,” said his confessor darkly. “There +was a time indeed when he was quite content.” + +“Yes, when I was a child,” said the soldier-monk, but his face went +white and he looked elsewhere. + +“Come, tell me of it,” said Flann, and walked away with him. + +“You are a man and not a monk, Flann, and I can speak. I was a child +here—it is not so long ago. I saw the love-night of Liadan and +Kurithir.” + +Flann looked at him and the tears were thick in his eyes for the +penance done for that one night of a May moon. + +“Then you saw that which was holy, for there was no evil ever in +the soul of Liadan,” he said. “You will come to my castle and make +books as you will, or range free where you will. I heard of the hard +penance given to that lad to force his speech of that night.” + +“The scourgings were given, and were heavy,” said the youth, “but the +speech they did not get.” + +Flann took the youth away with him and later placed him back at the +head of the province where his jealous kindred were dividing his +goods and his lands. + +So, by this and by that, Flann left trace of the heart-faith he gave +to Liadan, and to his friend who had the love of her. + +He lived as a king lives, and took to wife Maelmara, the queen of +Hugh Finnlaith, who had no knowings of druid power or of jealous +loves, and children grew around them to strengthen their bond. + +But when the Night of nights was come to Liadan and Kurithir, and +their souls met at last tryst, and did not come again to either body, +it was Flann the king who did them honor. It was by his will that the +building of their tomb was at the cell of Liadan in the edge of the +forest where the thrushes sang. + +It was also Flann the king who had their poems of love writ on fine +vellum, and set in a golden, gem-crested casket, that the memory of +Liadan might live. + +But in the wreckage made by wars and plunderings of the men of +Lochland the treasure books and annals of beauty were wrested from +many a castle and monastery, and stripped of their cases of silver, +and pale gold, and copper into which jewels were craftily set. Among +such plunder of priceless worth fell the royal gifts of Flann the +king, whose memorial slab at Cluain-mac-noise is a wonder of beauty +after the passing of a thousand years. + +And of the veiled poet-maid whose soul he saw rightly, there has come +down through the centuries only fragments of her love lines, and +among them her wistful unashamed confession: + + “_I am Liadan + Who loved Kurithir, + It is true as they say._” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + + + +[Illustration: DERVAIL NAN CIAR] + +[Illustration: March of Battles] + +[Music: _Eleventh Century._] + + + DERVAIL NAN CIAR + + (Dervail of the Shadow) + + +Ardan, the fosterling of Donough O’Carroll, King of Orielle, watched +with longing the carving of the stone as leaf, and bud, and traceries +grew under the precious tools of Brother Cormac for the new temple to +God and Mary. + +“To me the doing of that work would be dearer than to wear robe and +circlet of the king,” he said. + +“The cowl of a monk to you if cold stone contents your youth,” said +Cormac. “Hard and cold it is. The crown of a king means warm robes, +and warm cherishing on snowy nights, and—and all the other comforts +a king can command. Go you to your verse-making and folly. Your head +is o’er soft if you would trade a king’s crown for a mason’s tool—and +neither crown nor trowel yours for the trading!” + +“But to dream beauty and then form it out of the stone—that is to be +as one of the _Daoine sidhe_” (Gods of the earth). + +“You will burn in hell if you believe in the pagan ancient gods; not +even must their names be said. To make speech of them calls them +near.” + +Then Cormac crossed himself, and muttered a bit of the lorica of +Phadraig the Saint, and looked at the lad whose face had a pale dark +beauty, and whose gray eyes looked black under heavy lashes. + +“Take clay and make your dreams,” said Cormac at last. “If well mixed +the mud will take all shapes. What are we all but the dust of the +earth?” + +“It is not in mud I see dreams,” said Ardan, “but you give me a +thought, O Cormac!” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +The white snow of the past night lay, rose-tinted, under the path of +the early sun, and, singing low to himself, Ardan began to gather the +whiteness on a great slab of gray stone near the south wall. + +“It will not be mud of which I build my dreams, good Cormac.” + +The monk watched him idly for a while, and then tossed to him a +trowel from among the tools of the builders. + +“It will take no harm from the snow,” he said, “and will save your +hands. But make your play quick, for the sun travels north to bring +the end of the cold moons.” + +“You mean he comes to wake Cethair, spirit king of the forest, out +of his winter’s sleep,” said Ardan. “Cethair but breathes over the +fields, and all the snows melt, and all of leaf and bloom comes out +for his carpet of green fragrance.” + +“There is no king but King of Heaven and Turlough, Ard-Ri of +Erinn—our own kings of Leinster and Orielle, and such,” said Cormac, +but Ardan was deep in his new play and had no words of argument. Once +Cormac looked and saw he had set upright a slender straight sapling +of yew in the packed snow of the slab, and once he noted that +the hands of Ardan stripped from the sapling all but two branches +reaching out east and west as the arms of a cross, and after that +Cormac carved at stone traceries, well satisfied that the fosterling +of King Donough was, after all, but making a holy thing. + +That was a comforting thought to the good Cormac, who had love for +the lad who was known only as Ardan of Ardbreccan, and whose stay +near them had not been so long. He had been the ward of the holy +and learned O’Cahsahde of Ardbreccan, where his childhood had been +lived between gray walls, and under the great oaks’ shade. At death +of that holy man, who was called “Dall Clairineach” and known of all +scholars, his ward Ardan, with wealth and comfort, was left to King +Donough with instruction that he was the son of a mother whose dying +hope had been that sheltered holiness be his share in life; and no +more was known of him than that. + +But his breeding spoke of gentle blood, and Maureen the queen made +choice of him for comradeship with her own children, and her own +maidens in the garden games, and the gracious sweetness of him won +its own way in king’s palace or monastery walls. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +In the shadow of the wall he made his snow form—that the rays of +gold of the sun not melt the white of it; and Donough O’Carroll of +Orielle, and Diarmod of Leinster, his overlord, passed that way and +spoke of the handsome boy and his destiny, for the work he did made +him look like a monk, and his father had been known only to the holy +Dall Clairineach of Ardbreccan, where many sons of princes wore the +robe of scholarship and holy sanctity. + +The two kings went their way, and Cormac was called by Duighal the +prior to another place, and the boy was forgot by all, and the snow +image was not seen by any until the morning after, golden lances of +the sun touching it when coming first over the edge of the green sea. + +And then, at sight of it, Cormac the monk cried out in awe, and his +cry called others from the chapel. + +Duighal the prior was there, and the two kings were there and Ardan +stood in the shadow of the wall in a queer trembling of joy—and +mayhaps some hunger, for he had worked till the setting of the moon, +as in a trance, fasting. + +“Is it a miracle of Brighde, the Foster Mother of God, as the blessed +mantle was given her?” muttered the prior, and others thought it +Mary, Queen of the Elements. But Diarmod the king stood beside +Donough and stroked his dark beard, and his eyes shot green fire. + +“A miracle it may be, holy father,” he said, “but the miracle is +in the gift given the mortal hand placing it there. Where is the +Ardbreccan fosterling who heaped up the snow on this slab but +yesterday?” + +Cormac the carver of stone pushed forward Ardan, whose teeth +chattered as he knelt under the eyes of all the brethren and the two +kings. + +“This is the lad, your royalty; always he is making the coaxing word +for my edged tools that are not for a child. It is true I tossed him +a trowel yesterday, but this thing of whiteness with jeweled robe of +dewdrops could not have been formed by mortal hand and mason’s blade.” + +“Speak, if you did it,” said Diarmod of Leinster. + +“Of snow I did it with a tool cut from wood. In the light of the moon +I worked on the mantle with clear water from the well. The freezing +water there made the jeweled fringes to the robe—it was no miracle, +O King, and I will do penance that I made the thing on consecrated +ground. The fever took me to work, and I asked no permit.” + +“You need ask none forever in Leinster,” said Diarmod. “Rise up to +walk where you will in our domain, and work when you will.” + +There was a buzzing as of bees among the monks who looked at the lad +and at the white limbs of the snow creature, tip-toe with wide-spread +arms like a bird lifting for flight. The mantle of it spread from +wrist to wrist across head and shoulders and hung truly like jeweled +wings in the early risen sun, but the white breasts and limbs and +body were bare against the mantle save for the girdle of maidenhood. + +The prior Duighal was the one with a frowning face at the words of +Diarmod, and he looked from the king to the white wonder, and then to +the faces of the monks, bent and shifty-eyed as they glanced sideways +at each other, and then at the white snow of the round breasts. + +“Penance for all whose eyes are smitten by the sight!” he thundered. +“This is no holy thing—no white picture of saint: it is the work of +the Evil Father forming temptation! What wench has bared herself for +you that you know the way of that?” + +His staff was lifted as in threat above Ardan, who gazed, round-eyed, +at the faces of the monks, and the holy fury of their shepherd. +Donough O’Carroll stepped between the lifted crook and the builder of +the mystery. + +“Look again, holy father,” he said. “The boy has not been tempted; +that understanding is elsewhere.” + +“My word with Donough,” said Diarmod. “The lad says he worked in a +fever a day and a night—” + +“And fasting, too, your royalty,” said Cormac. + +“And fasting, too,” said Diarmod. “Look at him: it might be words of +foreign tribes we speak for all he understands. Look at him! It was +only a game of chance that he formed a virgin maid instead of a white +bull—or a white fawn of the forest.” + +“But the bulls roam the hills uncloaked,” said Donough O’Carroll with +a laugh; “so also does the fawn and its dam. Speak, lad—we know it +was no wench came to you here in the cold of the night—and to a wench +no girdle would be given. How got you that mystery as you got it? +This is sanctuary—you can speak.” + +Ardan stared at the listeners like a trapped thing, and then knelt +before Donough. + +“I am under bonds as a son to you—and I meant no evil. I have the +mind dark on your meanings. I crave your pardon, and the pardon of +your queen for her fosterling. It was at the bathing pool in the +summer time. Her maidens were in the water, and like that she stood +tip-toe on the high stone at the pool’s margin. Like a bird with +wide wings she stood ere the mantle slid from her shoulder. Proud +she stood, and I from the thick green of the other shore saw her +thus—more of beauty in her than snow and ice can tell! I went deep +into the forest that day—lest they see me and deem me a spy on their +pleasure-place. That is all, O Donough! If I have done a wrong deed, +I ask to atone to the priests and to the maid.” + +“Her name has not yet been spoke,” said Donough, and Diarmod made a +quick step forward and laid his hand on the head of Ardan. + +“To your feet,” he said. “Is there name to a living maid for the +double of that? Is there a name?” + +Ardan turned his gaze from the eager king to Donough, and then to the +frowning prior. + +“If it might be spoke in another place?” he plead, but the prior +lifted the staff. + +“Here in this place where the evil thing was wrought,” he thundered, +“here begins your penance with open confession before all!” + +Ardan turned to Donough O’Carroll. + +“If first I could speak of the word to you alone?” he said. + +But Donough laughed at the pleading, and lived to know sorrow of the +heart for that laughing. + +“As you have shown her breasts and her body to us, give us the name.” + +“But—let me entreat—” + +“The name, lad, the name! What is she called?” + +“She is called—Dervail.” + +The voice of him went low as the breath-whisper. Yet it was too loud +for Donough, whose face was thunder-black and threatening. + +The prior heard and turned on the monks, with words of censure for +hearkening, and his orders brought them to heel like a pack of +hunting hounds on the wrong trail. + +Diarmod heard, and his eyes, with the strange green fire, narrowed as +he looked at King Donough. + +“What sweet hidden thing have you put away for holidays, good +friend?” he asked. “The lad only spoke in whisper, yet the sound of +it echoes among you like a thunder-clap in the hills.” + +“It is not hidden by choice of mine, Diarmod,” and the voice of +Donough had the gloom on it. “We will to break fast and then—” + +“The lad at our table for the food!” decided Diarmod. “Look not so +down, lad, because you held beauty in your mind more close than most +of us. The monks today dare not bury you alive as they once did to +sinners. Their forbears would have left you pinned to the earth for +a smaller thing than a naked virgin in their cloister—even the prior +will have dreams tonight!” + +Then he walked around the white figure to see the solid backing of +the cloak to the slender body, and smiled at the craft of it. The +mystery of it was going, yet he glanced from under his brows at the +lad, and had wonder. + +“Lucky for me that I abode the night with you, Donough O’Carroll, +else would I have missed this in life,” he said, “and no man can hope +to see it twice. This will be a melting day, and the wind has turned: +it comes the sea-way since the dawn.” + +“The sea-way,” said Ardan, “the eastern sea-way—the path of sorrows.” + +“Why do you give that word?” asked Donough O’Carroll, staring at him. + +“I have no knowing why I spoke it,” said Ardan. “I thought I heard it +somewhere. And look you! It is true: I fasted and half froze to build +that while the joy of building was with me—and like a white jewel it +was when the sun touched it this morn. But the sun ray is gone, and +the wind of the east brings the melting with it, and the jewels of +the mantle are dripping tears already—tears! I should have wrought +with metal tools in stronger stuff.” + +Cormac had come back with a stout, long stave under orders of the +prior, and stood waiting in courtesy the going of the two kings. + +“Go you to your food, lad,” he said kindly; “the tools you shall have +at need. But go you, for your fasting gives you the sight of things +you know nought of at all! The Hidden People of the Ancient Days are +putting speech on you; go to food, and drink, and human thoughts.” + +“I would rather do that,” said Ardan. “I had the Dream of things with +me when I built this, and my heart would sorrow to watch the white of +it melt gray in its own tears. She is still the white bird tip-toe +for flight!” + +Donough O’Carroll looked at Ardan as if he was seeing him for the +first time in life, and Diarmod the king tore himself from the +gazing, and strode beside Donough with the swing of the man who had +found things easy in life. + +“Diarmod MacMurrough, have you given heed to the words you have heard +beside that white wonder image?” asked Donough. + +“I have that. Some of the words are as full of wonder as the image +itself,” said Diarmod. + +“Take them to your remembrance then, for no idle words were said +there. That boy had the right knowing, and was right in his silence, +but I made him speak. It is my grief.” + +“It is no grief of mine,” said Diarmod, and laughed as one who holds +his own thoughts. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +At the angle where the path narrowed to the portal, Donough, in +courtesy to his overlord, stepped a pace aside and behind. A sound +came to him of wood striking on wood, and he looked back, and he was +glad the lad was making reply to some asking of the king, and did not +see the thing he saw. + +Cormac was doing well his task: the white wings were shattered, and +the slender white body broken. There was nothing left of the Dream +but the dark cross of the young yew tree dripping drearily against +the gray stone of the wall. The wind from the east carried the +melting mist with it, and there was no longer any sight of the sun +anywhere. + +Donough O’Carroll went into his house that day with a heavy gloom on +his face—a strange gloom for one shown honor by his overlord. + +The woman who loved him looked her amaze that he put aside the bread +she offered, and called first for the wine at morningtide. + +“Let be, Maureen,” he said, and spoke to her lowly. “Take your heed +of our friends if I limp lacking in courtesy this day. I feel ‘fey’ +with some happenings of the morn, and would that you send best +messenger and swiftest horse for Kieran Dall of the caves. The king +must be told some truths and some sayings. And it must be a holy man, +and a wise one for the telling.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +The coming of Kieran Dall was at the nightfall, and the O’Carroll had +a day of fever and fuming with his overlord who had moods of haste +for the thing he wanted. + +“Why should the name of a strange maid so witch your thoughts from +Mor na Tuathal and the daughters of princes?” asked Donough, and +Diarmod laughed his happy laugh by which hearts had been won. + +“Why should the lad who knows not love have made her his Dream? +Answer me that, and you will have your own answer! What put silence +on the monks when her name was spoke? There are mysteries in it, and +riddles are sometimes witchery.” + +“Mine is not the telling of the riddle, but it will be told for you,” +said Donough. + +When the supper was over, and only the two kings and the blind monk +called Kieran Dall were in the great room which was for private and +secret things, their talk began. + +“It is for a curious thing I have sent for you, O Kieran,” said +Donough of Orielle. “With me is my friend, a hunter from the south. +He is a MacMurrough, and I want him by my side when I hear the story +of the maid called Dervail nan Ciar.” + +“That maid is of your fostering, since the death of Ethnea your +sister, to God her soul! She is called the ward, or the daughter, +of Murtagh of Meath—is Dervail of the Shadow. Beauty was hers by +birth, and wealth is hers by a dower of fear. Of that you should +know somewhat, O’Donough, as you should know why the wife of Murtagh +has fear of her and would give all wealth of the valley of the Boyne +rather than have her under the roof of Meath. What new thing can a +hermit of the caves have for your worldly knowing, O Donough, prince +of Orielle?” said Kieran Dall. + +“It is not of the new I would hear—it is of the ancient old. It is of +the prophecy; it is of the reason why that blood is feared and must +not repeat itself in Erinn. It is the year and the time when she was +to go from my castle to the walls of holy sanctuary, and the dower of +fear to go with her.” + +Diarmod, stretched on a pile of wolf skins in the glint of the +firelight, looked up and gave Donough a smile at that. But the +sightless eyes of Kieran could not see the look, or the mockery of it. + +“True, it is the time,” said Kieran, “and the reason of it goes back +to the dim old days when men who walked the world took mates ofttimes +from the Hidden Tribes. Aye, that was the way of it more oft than in +the days in which we live. The dark mist of the earth-mind was not so +thick between us in them times, and there were other matings not to +be spoken. Women of the sea and wolves from the forest have helped +man bring forbidden lives—lives without souls—on the earth. The +saints know it, and God knows it, and the tribes of that people have +often strange evils in their blood.” + +There was silence while the blind eyes stared into the red ash as if +seeing visions. + +“How far back can you be going into the dim days of that time?” asked +Donough. + +“The mind can go far back on paths where speech must not follow,” +said Kieran. “To give words to things gives power to them as well. +To give names calls up the shadow—white or gray—of the soul that +answered to it on earth. That is a true saying. And there are them +not to be called back—the names going out in shadows! Under a like +shade the child Dyveke Og, called Dervail, was born into Erinn. Her +birthing belonged in another land, and not here—not here at all. + +“Among the druids of the dim days there were sacred things, sacred +rules, and names, and priests who were kings. I am not naming the +name of one, or the name of his tribe, but there was one who was +Highest, who was given ‘the sight,’ yet the rules were broke by him, +and broke for a woman who brought temptings. The name of that woman +is not to be spoke, but she was a queen in her own tribe—and it was +a tribe of the blood of the wolves of Alba. To Erinn she fled as for +sanctuary—and brought her temptings. The madness of love she brought +on that priest who was king, and he was netted by her as a fish is +netted in a deep-sea net—and was borne by her kinsmen across the sea +to their land. Her kinsmen were the barbarians of the east, and he +was held by them as hostage while Erinn paid eric in skins of the +deer and otter, and gold from the rivers of the west. That is how +it was until a helot of Alba made way through their traps and their +walls and brought the word to Erinn; and a sad word it was, for +there was no truth in that people! The priest-king, netted through +love, had neither feet, nor hands, nor eyes left to him. Their women +tortured him, yet kept him alive as mockery of a king, for a king +of Erinn must be without blemish. Speech was left him, and nothing +else of a human was left him. He made a rune, and word by word the +helot learned the words of it and brought it to Erinn. A long rune +it was, too. And first of it was that no further eric was to go out +of Erinn for him to the red brutes of the eastern shores. He alone, +by his death there, would pay the price of his fall—but it was worth +the summer and winter of torturings if he alone could pay for the +lesson to Erinn, and to the men of Erinn. He laid on his own clan a +heavy rule that by Sun and Moon, Earth and Air, Fire and Water, and +the lives of their children, no bond of faith be made with the men of +Alba, and no marriage with a woman of Alba, for the blood was not the +blood of clean people, and the eyes of that people had no vision of +clean faith in bonds of fealty. + +“In that rune he had the vision of the greatness of Erinn if tribe +by tribe they made bonds only with each other for the glory of Inis +Fohdla, which, even in far ancient days, was named that—the Isle of +Destiny.” + +“Why is Erinn, in the ancient runes, called by that calling?” asked +Donough. + +Kieran Dall shook his head. + +“I do not know. God knows! Men who named the stars called it by that +name, and had ‘the sight.’ A land was given to the Hidden People, who +were great people; they have not known death, yet have never left +the land of Inis Fohdla. In the years ahead they will again have a +birthing, and the hidden things of the wise are in their keeping +until that day. For three centuries Erinn has been the school for +the sons of Brythen and France, and other foreign people. The Dane +invaders were driven home by Brian of the Tributes, and Inis Fohdla +pays tithing to no viking of the foreign in our day; it may happen +that we are near to reading the riddle of Inis Fohdla and that +naming; it may be so if the faith is kept in peace, and the rune of +that king of the tortures be not lost again as it was lost by Cuan +the Dark in the days I hold in memory.” + +“Who was Cuan the Dark?” asked Donough. + +“He was of the blood of that priest-king of the rune; he was also of +my blood, but his own name is not spoke. He was of the sacred line +into which no blood of the enemy must flow lest it bring the curse of +a thousand years’ helotage on Inis Fohdla.” + +There was silence as the slow words of the blind hermit sunk to the +minds of the two kings. + +“A thousand years!” muttered Diarmod. “How could Erinn be held as +tribute-payer for a thousand years to a king of the foreign? Thorgils +and Ota the queen did hold the Sionan and many harbors, and the tax +paid to the Danes was a heavy tax. But years more than one hundred +are gone since there was taxing like that. How could it be coming +again?” + +“I have not the sight for that,” said Kieran. “It was the prophecy, +and the penalty spoken in the ancient rune if that line of the kings +should take mates from the red-wolf women of Alba.” + +“But—it was of one line alone—one family—or one clan,” said Diarmod. + +“Aye—it was one alone, but that one was the sacred line of the +priest-kings. Their rule was the rule for the men of the crown and +the temple, and the people of lower rank would follow. It was before +the time of christian men in Erinn. It would take more than the time +of one winter night to tell you all the difference in minds and +lives between that day and this day. But through all the changes the +line of Cuan the Dark kept to the law of that rune—eight times one +hundred years was the time it was held to and the line was clean, and +the record of that line was proud. + +“And then?” + +“Then the young had the teaching that no thing could be truth but the +truths spoke by the saints of the New God, though truth was in the +world before Mary came to the birth. + +“Truth is truth for always, and even the pagans had many true things +in their hearts. But the young are light of mind, and do not see +these things. So it was with Cuan the Dark. + +“To Spain he sailed for a matter of import, and I was beside him. To +the land of France we went, and I walked the lines of mighty Carnac, +and thought of kindred wonders at Knocknarea in our own land. There +were women everywhere, and they were the days of his youth, and he +gave them love, and good-will, and farewell! So it was with us, and +home he sailed, glad and free of heart; and it was here in Erinn he +met that trial he was to meet. He broke the geis laid on his line, +and on his birth, when he looked on Dyveke the Dove, child of Gorm, +son of Knud of the rath of Knud. + +“The mother of Dyveke had been a woman out of Alba, blue of eyes and +flaming of hair, and in her own land she had been to the front with +her kinsmen in battle. But Gorm the Dane had his way with her and +stole her to sail the seas with him, as was well-fitting, for each +was of a tribe drinking from skulls at their joy-feasts, and fierce +alike in their lovings. + +“Sons they had, but they never kept life long; that fierce mother +held her strength for her own passions. There was a saying for that +among the Danes. Then Dyveke came to birth, and the mother went out +of life. It may be there were fairer things on earth than Dyveke; but +I never saw them. + +“Dyveke means ‘dove’ in the wording of her father, Gorm, and no +breast of dove was whiter, and no flight of dove had more of +grace—and no love-call of a dove had more of music than her voice. + +“From her grianan she smiled down with look of longing on Cuan the +Dark, who sat on his black racer below, and the madness came on him +there for that look and for that woman—and the madness stayed. + +“None of his elders was there—I alone who knew the geis was there—the +_geis_ every son of our line was bondman to. + +“But he was deaf to my words when she spoke! + +“A noble of the Danes named Thorold had heard, in the far north, of +the beauty of her, and came with gifts and with offers. She took his +gifts and gave him love looks as she gave to Cuan the Dark. The boats +of Thorold the Dane were anchored in the bay, and the word went out +that it would be with Thorold she would sail as wife. + +“That was the day Cuan the Dark changed to a wild thing showing his +teeth—the girl Dyveke had looked love on him, and he had that madness. + +“I made him listen to the record of the ancient horror when a woman +of Alban birth had brought death in life to a prince of his line. + +“I held him as I reasoned with him, speaking over the names of the +men who for the hundreds of years had taken the vow and the bond for +his own life, and the lives of his children. He fought me and growled +back that the vows were pagan vows—not christian—and not binding on a +christened man. + +“I spoke the rune of the priest-prince who had warned his clan to +make no bond forever with the fierce Albans of the jealous eyes: + + + * * * * * + + Thus shall it ever be: + Honor and sanctity + Shed on the sons of Eire. + + Sleep with the sword between + Sons and a foreign queen! + To daughters the blue dirk’s sheen + Sooner than blood unclean! + + For Fohdla the Fair + Hold blood and the land, + Else victors of Erinn + Swarm red on her strand! + + For eric is breaking; + For soft heart in taking + A mate out of Alba + A thousand years’ snare! + + A thousand years’ yoke + On the bent neck of Erinn; + A thousand years’ tribute of blood, + Inis Fair! + +“That was the _geis_ made binding by the priest-king in exile ere +they cut out the tongue from him, and left him to rot when his clans +heard of the maiming and sent no more gold of the ransom to the woman +who had netted him. She was a queen; she had heard of his beauty and +his sacred knowings, and had the jealous eye for that which was too +fine for the vision of her people. Aye—she netted him and tricked his +clan to pay eric against the day of his return. And in the end he fed +with her wolfhounds, and was torn to death in their fightings. That +is how it was; but he had the clear vision of the future years before +his going! That rune I told, and the vision I told, to Cuan the Dark +that it make strong his geis to hold against the charm of Dyveke the +Dove.” + +“Did it hold?” asked Diarmod. + +“It did not hold. He broke from me and shouted that there were +christian bonds between Erinn and the ancient enemies to the east. He +would follow the christian bond, and make a forgetting of pagan geis +laid upon princes of his line. That is how it was. I was the one who +sent for the elders of our house, but it was too late. She was in his +dun at Cualann ere their coming. There it was the men of his line +put against him the ban of the unnaming, and the forgetting. That is +where her lover, Thorold the Dane, stood him siege for her and made +break in his walls. The curse of the _geis_ came in quickness to +Cuan, for it was the hand of Dyveke, of the whiteness of doves, by +which a knife found his heart, and his head was tossed by her from +the tower to the feet of her lover, Thorold! + +“With Thorold she sailed out to sea, but the girl child she had borne +to Cuan after that beheading was hid in the cell of a monk who was +let near for some shrivings. Thorold was raging like a maddened bull +for the death of the child not his. Two were born that night. One was +dead; it was given into his hands, and the fierce soul of him was +content with that, not knowing. But Dyveke, the white, knew somewhat. +She had heard the unnaming and the ban of his clan against Cuan for +her sake. She had heard the _geis_ of the rune, and she had bitter +hate for the banning of her, or of her blood, and it was a bitter +curse she put against Erinn at her going away, and a bitter prayer +she made that the seed of Cuan might raise up hosts of wolves to tear +each at the throat of the other till the geis of the rune held true, +and Erinn was broken, and her neck under the foot of the foreign men +of enmity.” + +The two kings looked at each other across the light of the fire and +Diarmod turned to the portal as if a cold wind had struck him. He +moved more close to the hearthstone and drew over him a robe of otter +skin. + +“And that was the ending?” he said. + +“God and Mary knows! Mayhaps it was the beginning! It was the year +Adrian, Pope in Rome, signed the grant of Erinn to King Henry what +time he could win warriors for its conquering. The conquerors have +not yet sailed from Alba, but the eyes of Alba are jealous eyes, and +the grant was given the year the child of Cuan, Dyveke Og, came, born +living, into the land of Erinn.” + +“Young Dyveke?” repeated O’Carroll. “That name for her was never told +me.” + +“Your sister, the Lady Ethnea, had hatred of it, and Dervail was +the name she made choice of instead. The mother of Cuan had kindred +in the Ua Machflain, and to King Murtagh went the Lady Ethnea with +concern for the dower and station of the unwelcome woman-child. A +dower was given for her life in sanctuary, and that dower was doubled +by Ethnea who had love for the father of the child. The ward of King +Murtagh she has been called, and it may be she is thought of his +breed. But Duighal knows she is Dervail nan Ciar, who had no right to +live; and King Murtagh has no longing to see the evil face of her—she +is of the shadows, and to be forgotten in walls of sanctuary—and the +walls built high.” + +“It is the first full hearing of the child I have asked for, though +I had fear of the truth,” said Donough. “From the monastery she +was taken to the castle of Ethnea, my sister. At the dying of that +sister, she was brought to Maureen, who thinks her a bud of the tree +of Machflain of Meath, to end in the convent of sheltered women.” + +“Aye—that was hope of the prior when he gave penance to the monk who +carried that white wolf’s whelp to his cell for safety! Aye—the years +pass, and she has reached the age. No sons and no daughters should +come to Erinn of that breed of Dyveke. I saw what I saw of the broken +_geis_, and my hair went white in that seeing, and for that the fear +is on me for that breed.” + +“Then it was not in the young years the sight dark came on you, +Kieran of the cell?” said Diarmod the king. + +“It was not in the young years. It was by the hand of the one love +of my kinsman, Cuan the Dark. Her lover, Thorold, found me out where +I was putting a cover of earth over his headless body. The brute men +of Thorold held me, and her white hand drew the hot iron across my +eyes. She was hard, jealous, and she forgot nothing. She was Alba! +She had the name of Dyveke the Dove, and her looks were sweet looks, +and her voice had the music of birds, but her heart was the heart of +her foremothers who ran with the wolf pack.” + +Diarmod laughed low. “Your words are not the words of a priest of +Mary,” he said. “An army of men with your heart would be a good army +for battles.” + +“Battles for Erinn were dreams in my life,” said Kieran. “Dyveke knew +the dreams, and let me have my blinded life for the mourning of them! +I wear the robe and do penance for my sins and for the sins of Cuan +who died unshriven. But there is no sin in the strangle of a wolf, +and no seas would be too wide for her following if I had but the +sight. May she burn in hell all the years there is shadow on Erinn!” + +“Be it so if she brings that shadow,” said Donough, “for that is no +sin to say.” + +“Truth for you! And the same to all who would walk in her thoughts! +In the name of the Elements, and Mary, and the Father and Son!” + +“In the holy names,” said Diarmod the king, and rose and stood by the +fire with the otter skin robe about him in a quick tremble of cold. + +Donough O’Carroll looked at him, and poured wine from the flagon into +a jeweled cup. + +“To your warmth,” he said. “We have talked the fire low on the +hearth. Empty the guest cup with me for comfort of the body.” + +Then he poured a cup for Kieran, thanked him and asked what gift he +could give him for the story of the blood of Dervail nan Ciar, whose +true name was Danish dove. + +“Give your gift to Erinn for me, and make your own choice of that +gift,” said Kieran, “but let it be a good ship to take the wolf’s +whelp as far out of the land as the shores of Egypt, and that is a +far sail for a good ship; or failing that, build a wall of stone, +doubled, around the convent where she is barred from the sight of +men. If she has what her mother, Dyveke, had, say prayers to Phadraig +and to Brighde that the curse of the eric be not laid on Erinn.” + +“That besides the doubled wall?” said Diarmod, who was warmed by the +wine, and spoke lightly. + +“Aye—besides the double wall! The paying of that eric is beyond +thought. It is the yoke of a slave and a thousand years of blood on +the bent head of Erinn!” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Kieran was led to rest by a servant of the castle, and was not told +that Diarmod the king had been a listener to the tale of the rune. + +Diarmod paced the room and quaffed another cup of the red wine of +Gaul. + +“Is it not enough that the priestly rules are ever near to ban +anything of beauty coming a man’s way?” he grumbled. “But a hermit +must bring runes of a thousand years to strengthen that ban! The tale +would witch a man to follow her if but to see if she had the wonder +in her of Dyveke the Dove—and tame that wonder as a falcon is tamed +for the wrist of the master.” + +“But that is a bird you will not take from its cage, Diarmod?” said +Donough. “Take to memory the _geis_ of your own line against the +hunting of birds—it is more than a thousand years, yet the bards are +telling the legend even in our day—and it was a white bird in the +legend, Diarmod, a white bird coming to earth with love-words and +warnings to your ancestress, who was queen—and this white bird of the +cloister you will not be seeking cage for, Diarmod?” + +There was silence but for the crackle of the new wood heaped on the +fire, and Diarmod looked long into the red heart of the flame before +he spoke. + +“No, Donough—one veiled maid of the cloisters brought shadow enough +and blame enough to me—that is long since, yet never forgot.” + +“It is Dhira you mean?” + +“It is Dhira. Rest to her soul! She was robbed from me again by Dall +Clairineach and hid in shadow to her death. No, I will not take +another maid from convent walls—and no guest of yours from your +castle; but if she is fair of body as that white mystery in the +cloister, it is as well I have not crossed her path a-nutting in the +forest.” + +“You put light in my heart at that saying, Diarmod, for I saw the +thought of you. But there are women always for you; women a-plenty.” + +“Of a sort,” said Diarmod, who had to wife Maelmor na Tuathal, sister +of Laurance the saintly, and a queen-woman in her own way, and a +pious, of a sort, “but white birds with reaching wings do not wait on +every road for a man.” + +Donough O’Carroll went to his rest with content that night, and +unburdened the cares of the day to Maureen, his wife. + +“Get the maid, Dervail, on the road to sanctuary of Cluain-mac-noise +in the dawn of tomorrow,” he said. “Our shelter has not kept her name +from the ear of the king. Strange happenings have been, and curious +portents. She is not one to win friend for any king of Erinn.” + +“In truth she is the fairest thing in all your province, Donough, my +heart,” said Maureen, “but, like a bird, she is—untamed.” + +“Do not make that saying of her to me,” said Donough, “or sleep could +not come to my bed this night. Too much I have heard this day of +bird-women, both doves and falcons, and I would that the maid was +ugly as a mud-hen among the bogs. Woman, let me have sleep, and pray +that Saint Brighde speeds her in safety on the road from us tomorrow. +If she is in truth of the blood of Murtagh of Machflain, King of +Meath, the time has come for his claim of her. The mystery of her is +abroad on the winds, and the very name of her sounds temptation to +Diarmod!” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +It was in the mist of the gray dawn when Ardan crept like a thief +down the turret stairs, and to the castle wall on which the grianan +of the queen gave entrance. The door of it opened from within, and +to meet him came the maid called by Maureen the fairest in all the +kingdom of Orielle. + +Like forest pools were her eyes—gray with a glint of blue; her mouth +was the rose for beauty, and her hair held the warm flame of red +gold; heavy it fell either side of her face and reached below her +girdle. A cloak of royal blue touched the stone floor, and a veil of +silvery gray broidered with blue was held by the wire-spun circlet +of gold about her head. The falling of that silvery veil gave her +a strange mystical look to Ardan, and the dignity of the cloak hid +every maidenly curve of her young body. + +“Argatonel,” spoke Ardan as he stood staring at the beauty of her, +“‘Silver Cloud’ in truth you are, Dervail; and you look as if you had +slept in a fairy’s rath and woke changed and not young any more.” + +“Sleep I did not at all—for the doom of going away was put on me ere +the turn of the night. That was the time I sent the maid Kauth to +seek you. The castle of the holy women at Cluain-mac-noise is to be +my prison. Some sudden thing has stung the prior, Duighal, and his +monks are to be my guard to sanctuary. It will be my grave they take +me to!” + +“I am to blame—to blame!” said Ardan. “I, too, must go a road this +day, but it is to the Culdees of Saint Hilary. For my fault I am to +study in a new place and among strange scholars.” + +“Why are you to blame? You that were my comrade?” + +“It is forbidden that I tell you all, or think of it—but I made an +image of snow like a white bird that yet was a maiden. I thought of +you and made it all of whiteness, but like you, too, in beauty. It +was in the cloister. Duighal the prior says it is an evil thing to +image any but sainted women, and a penance is put on me that I go.” + +“But you—you have no unhappy heart at that going,” said Dervail, +and sighed as she looked at him. “You will walk free to make other +beautiful things in other places.” + +“I will remember you in the far places, and the beauty I make will be +thoughts of you.” + +Dervail smiled on him with closed lips and eyes peering sideways +through the silver veil. The veil made a new mystery of her face. + +“Argatonel,” he said again, and was thinking of a rhyme for it to +make a poem as a farewell gift, “Argatonel!” + +“You do not love me, Ardan,” she said; “you only love beauty.” + +“But you are that beauty.” + +“You do not love me; you do not know I am alive! You look at me as on +a saint, high on the church wall. I would rather dance free with the +Ever Young People in the Hidden Hills!” + +He did not know what to answer. Cormac had said hell waited for +people of pagan thoughts, and Cormac had a soul of good intent. + +“You are my best comrade, and as my sister,” he said; “my grief is +much that you go unwilling—I would that you went not out from here +until a marriage feast gave you to some righteous king. You look like +a queen with that cloak and the veil of the silver cloud.” + +She laughed a little bitterly. + +“I said you did not love me, and I said true; you are almost of my +age, yet you would pick a king out of the world for me! I steal ere +the dawn to seek farewell of a poet, and his only seeking is a rhyme +for my name—not to be found!” + +“But I have found it!” he cried in triumph. “I will write it for you +ere the troop leaves the portal. I will sing it in the lonely west +where I go for scholarship. Dervail, what other thing could I do to +show my thoughts and my heart to you?” + +“I do not know. It is a boy you are, and my thoughts are of a man’s +thoughts. Look: I am cloaked and shod for travel; there are swift +steeds below, and there are boats at the sea’s marge. Beyond where +the low sky takes the silver of morning, there is another land. Had I +the strength of a man beside me, it is there I would go.” + +“With the troops of two kings of power to claim you for the church? +Who would dare give shelter to you in such flight?” + +“Two kings?” she asked, puzzled and frowning. + +“Diarmod of Leinster is guest of King Donough.” + +She laughed again. + +“So: that is why I have been kept to the grianan of the queen for +three days! It has been so always when guests of might are housed +here. What crooked stick of the forest am I that no prince or king +must look my way?” + +“The fairest things of earth are God’s offerings, Dervail,” he said. +“I think of you as abbess of some white sisterhood of Mary. On some +day of days I will surely see you so, and kneel for your blessing. +You will be ever the white bird and the silver cloud to me.” + +“That makes the cold stone no softer a pillow,” she said. “You live +in dreams—sometimes you have made me see the dreams, but this no +dream today. They take me for other prison and call it serving God!” + +A clink of metal on stone sounded above them where the flying +buttress carried a windowed room as a canopy above where they stood. + +Dervail sped quickly back out of sight, but Ardan stepped further out +to look above. What he saw there was Diarmod of Leinster with his +finger on his lip. Horsemen clattered through the castle gate, and +Ardan looked down at them from the edge of the wall. + +“The castle is awake, and there is no other moment for speech,” he +said. “My heart goes with you on the road, comrade maid of mine. May +that road lead you to peace!” + +She stood looking at him moodily while he lifted the hem of her cloak +to his lips. + +“Almost I see you here a queen in the queen’s grianan,” he said. “You +look it in that robe you wear. Have you no farewell to me, Dervail?” + +“For that I came, Ardan, and may it be so to you! I would you could +teach me the content of dreams—my dreams lack content. Farewell, +comrade! In the gray days I will think often of the white bird by +which we are exiled. Fare you well, Ardan! Go you the way of your +white dreams!” + +There was a weariness in the sweet voice. So few days before she had +run races and tossed the ball in the games, but the Dervail in the +silver veil at the dawn was a different maid. + +The veil—the silver cloud—Argatonel!—in a moment more he had out +the inkhorn and quill and was tracing on the smooth stone the first +words of the rhyme singing in his ears—he had promised her a verse of +farewell. + + The sun has set at morningtide, + Argatonel! + The wall between is high and wide, + Argatonel! + Above it stars of heaven may rise + In witchery, + But none so bright— + +The rhythm of it sang itself, and he was glowing with eagerness when +he became suddenly conscious of someone near, and turned to find +Diarmod smiling at him in great good humor. + +“I had joy of my eavesdropping, though I could get no glimpse of her +face,” he said. “Anyone seeing your tryst might have had his doubts, +but I’ll go your warrant to any father alive who has sweet-voiced +daughters in want of a playmate.” + +Ardan bent knee to him, and thus turned from the words, roughly noted +in ink, still wet. Little escaped the eye of Leinster, and a step +took him beside it. + +“What’s to do here? ‘The sun has set at morningtide.’ That is against +nature. How could that be?” + +“My King, I cannot make you see it when you did not see her face—and +she goes at morningtide.” + +“So, that is it! My grief, to hearken to a tryst with a lad when it +was the strength of a man she gave call for! And this—Argatonel?” + +“It is the silver cloud of the veil she wore—the veil by which she +was hidden from you above.” + +“Very good—it looked, indeed, a veil of silver over hair of gold. Go +on—finish your lines. Here is a scrap of vellum of no import; write +it across that. Your craft is curious, and has interest to me. You +shall write lovepoems for my daughters. Go on! ‘But none so bright—’” + +And Ardan, encouraged by the king’s mood, plodded placidly on. + + But none so bright as are your eyes + Of mystery. + Argatonel, white wings to you! + Argatonel, deep heart to you! + O Silver Cloud, that wraps the world, + God’s Sun to you! + +He finished writing and read it aloud, and the eyes of the king were +on him curiously. + +“That, and a maiden tryst at dawn, and you fasting!” he said. “What +works then might you not do with good meat under your ribs? I’ve +a mind to take you with me, if only to feed you, and watch your +growth. Come! We’ll talk of it and eat. Clean white vellum shall be +yours for your love-lines, though the maid read you true, my young +cock-robin! You had no heart-love to give your Argatonel; your only +seeking was some fair thing to sing about.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Thus it was the friendship began between Diarmod the king, and Ardan, +the fosterling of King Donough of Orielle, and thus it was that they +went out together at sound of the gathering guard in the castle yard +that morning, and from the shadow of the portal Diarmod looked on the +unveiled face of Dervail. + +The rising sun touched her hair to a glory, where it fell in braids +to the saddle cushion. The deep pools of her eyes held shadows, and +the black lashes were wet against her rosebloom cheek, yet the head +of the silver veil was not humbled, and her chin was lifted in pride +as she looked about her on the household back of the spearmen, and +her maid, and the page holding her restless steed as it pawed the +earth, and grew restless under the tinkling sweetness of its bridle +bells. + +“Truly you said it, Ardan; she is the sun at morningtide,” said +Diarmod the king; but when Ardan attempted speech in reply he was +silenced lest a note of the music of her voice be lost. + +“Think of me as Regina in that new life,” she said to Queen Maureen +at the farewell. “I wear the blue mantle that Mary the Mother may see +I serve her in a royal way. The gray of life has no liking for me, +and to the last I will wear colors of the deep sea, and the sky.” + +“What a queen can do will be done that no gray robe is yours until +the day you make choice of it,” said Maureen in kindness. “A writing +to that end goes with you to the holy women.” + +“All have spoke a farewell but yourself, King Donough of Orielle,” +said the girl Dervail, with proud coldness in her voice. “I give +thanks to you for years of sanctuary. Am I to have no host’s gift of +the stirrup cup at my going?” + +“A white road, and a white welcome to you,” said Donough, whose +tongue was stiff with fear that she go not quickly enough. The wind +of the morning had caught the silver cloud of her veil, and swept +it back over the golden circlet; she looked a girl queen beyond all +queenly beauty, and too fair for the men of Leinster to view. + +Donough waved forward the bearer of the cup and the wine, and lifted +his hand to pour the draught, but Diarmod, who stood in the portal +with Ardan, came forward, and the hand of Diarmod was before that of +Donough. + +“That the right may be my right,” he said and filled the cup. + +The servitor dropped to one knee, and the King and Queen of Orielle +bowed low, and Dervail saw them, for the first time, stand aside for +another man in their own castle keep. + +The wonder of it filled her, and her lips opened for question, but +Diarmod stood at her stirrup. He gave to her the verse of Ardan and +lifted the cup, and when their eyes met she forgot that a king and +his household bent low while only one man stood. + +“Will you not kiss the cup?” he asked. “It is my grief that it is the +farewell, and not the welcoming.” + +With both hands she reached for the cup, with both hands he held it +up, but their eyes never parted. Their look was a long, strange look, +and the smile was gone from her face. + +“I speak thanks to you, O my lord,” she said, “and the cup of parting +will be remembered by me.” + +The prior rode through the portal with six stalwart monks at his +heels. + +“I go north for pilgrimage to the shrine of Phadraig,” he said, “and +we will add guard to the new nun for Cluain-mac-noise.” + +He did not look at her at all, and his speech was to Donough +O’Carroll. + +Diarmod turned darkly on the cold-faced prior. + +“Six of my own men will ride with you as far as the Shannon,” he +said. “They are the best of my horsemen, holy father, and will bear +to the abbott a message. A gift will go to the abbess as a dower for +the Lady Regina, for such is her new name in religion. This on the +word of Leinster.” + +The prior stared at him, and bent head in brief courtesy. Never +before had Leinster dowered maids, except they, in one way or +another, were among his possessions. + +But Diarmod, with full knowledge of the sharp ears and keen dark +thoughts about him, followed his mood because of the red mouth of +Dervail, and her trancelike gaze. He slipped a ring of gold from his +hand and put it on hers. + +“This my gauge of the promise,” he said. “Let it go with the dower. +In sanctuary pray for Diarmod of Leinster.” + +“Diarmod!” and her voice was a whisper of wonder, but her face held +liking, and swift joy, and hope. It was plain to see that cold +sanctuary was none of her choosing. “Diarmod, O some time Ard-Ri of +Erinn!” + +Fire of pride flamed in his eyes at her words. She had voiced his +secret hope that the cloak of Leinster like the mantle of Brighde’s +legend might gain magic growth to cover all the land. + +“The prayer of you for that day, O Regina,” he said, and lifted the +cup to drain the leavings of her draught. “By the Elements, I wish +for you all you seek in life!” The emptied cup of silver he put in +the hand of Kauth and stepped a pace aside as Duighal the prior +spurred his steed forward, and spoke to Dervail without glance of the +eye. He had known Dyveke, her mother, in her day of beauty, and had +seen the christening of the wolfs whelp—also he knew the moods and +loves of Diarmod of Leinster. Kindling for the pit of hell were both +of them! + +“Veil your face from the eyes of man, girl, and ride forward with +your maid,” he said. + +Dervail lifted her hand to the veil, but lifted proudly her head as +well, and cast one slow look over the awed group. Between the church +and the king none dared speak, and Maureen grasped the arm of Donough +in fear. + +The eyes of Dervail rested last on Leinster and her eyes spoke for +her as she drew the veil and shrouded the beauty of her face. + +Two by two the riders passed the outer portal, and yet Diarmod +stood, stroking his beard, and staring after the blue cloak and the +shrouding veil. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +“What is your will for the day’s hunt?” asked Donough at last, and +Leinster swung on him as if to find vent to his humor. + +“What joy in the hunting of deer when Paradise opens portals a man +may not enter?” he demanded. “You played well to get my promise +before my eyes had looked on her! You played well, Donough!” + +“But the promise was a good one, and you will live to give thanks for +the making of it.” + +“It will not be this day you will hear such thanks,” spoke Diarmod +shortly. “The beauty of her is beyond belief, and it is not her +beauty alone! There is something—something—” + +“True, there is,” said Donough, “there is the beauty of Dyveke, her +mother, but she is stronger than Dyveke, for she has the charm of the +man named The Dark, because he was made Nameless, and those that were +loving him could never see charm in another man. My sister, Ethnea, +was one. Her life wore itself out making prayers because he died +unshriven, and there is Kieran Dall, devoted even to vengeance if +need be!” + +“Oh, you make it strong, and I have given my word,” said Diarmod, +“but it is well it was you and the church I promised. Had it been one +man claiming her—Murtagh of Meath or _any_ man—I would be gathering a +troop now to bear her back, and the monks with their prophecies might +carry their runes to hell.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Two years Ardan lived between the castle of Diarmod and the Culdees +of Saint Hilary’s cloisters, and then, with Diarmod’s sanction and +help, he joined a group of pilgrims for Tours, and thence on to see +the glories of Rome. + +Five years of books and songs and travel he had, but ever close was +the craft of carving, and Diarmod’s attempt to make him a bard, and a +bard only, had not been a success. + +“Let me work out my poems in stone if I can find them that way,” he +said. “Some need a pen, some need a brush and color for the telling, +and surely the stone has its own hymns—and it endures.” + +“It is not a bad thought,” agreed Diarmod. “If the ancient books had +been carved of stone tablets the Dane raiders would not have carried +away so many of the treasures. And in our own day O’Ruarc of Breffni +is laying tribute on many an abbey of the north. The Culdees had best +save their parchment and use the chisel.” + +“I saw him when I was a child at the ford, O’Ruarc,” said Ardan, “and +had bad dreams. He had only one eye, and an evil look. The monks told +tales of him, but they say his castle at Lough Gilla has the riches +of an emperor.” + +“Well may be! His men hold the fords of the north for heavy toll, +and his robbings give him jewels enough to cover the many women he +steals.” + +“As I mind him, he would get them no other way—none would go to Lough +Gilla for love of him.” + +“Aye! But he has his ruler, strong as he is,” said a monk of the +north. “I heard of her in Armagh from a wandering bard who boasted +that he traveled north in poverty, but by her grace he wanted for +naught on his way back. Some message was his to bear for her, and he +was fair delighted by the rare beauty of her. Songs he was making +of her milk skin, and her gold of hair, until men fell in love to +listen.” + +“Where found Breffni such pleasing treasure?” asked Diarmod. + +“I know not—God knows! There are tales told. One is that a boat +of the Danes was wrecked on the north coast, and she was of that +wreckage. Another is that he got her when he sacked the abbey of +Clonard, and the new house of the nuns there. That may be. Her name +is Regina, and that is no name of a Danish maid—it is christian name +for a queen.” + +“Regina!” + +Diarmod whispered the name under his breath and stared at the guest +of the north, but Ardan cried out in horror of the heart, and turned +to Diarmod. + +“My comrade maid, the white-winged one of sanctuary! Is there word +from King Donough as to that?” + +“There is no word,” and the face of Diarmod had brooding blackness on +it. “To me he would not be sending that word. He would go first to +Murtagh of Meath, and abide by his word, and the word of Duighal the +prior. There is no love in their hearts for Breffni. It may be they +care not for her taking, if she is taken far enough north—and the +mountains and the bogs between!” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +After that, Diarmod said no more, but left guests and tale tellers +and singers to have their own cheer of the night—and went to his own +chamber. There he sent for Ardan. + +“You have art enough to pass for a wandering singer, a cunning +worker in gold, or a carver of stone,” he said. “O’Ruarc adds to his +craftsmen as he can, to change treasures of the abbeys into gauds for +his women. Go you north into Breffni, and learn the truth of it. Here +is gold for your faring. Guard your own life for me, but venture all +else to bring me word.” + +“And if Donough is on their track?” + +“No word to Donough of this matter! If she is safe again in his +castle, or safe in the convent, come you back to me in silence. If +the tale be true, find her and bring me word of her need.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +So it happened that Ardan had crossed the Shannon at Ath-Luin when +the wandering bard from the north found the way to the castle of +Diarmod, and craving audience, knelt and offered a ring. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +“This from her who calls herself Regina,” he said. “The dower given +to the convent for her has gone to Lough Gilla Castle with many other +things. The ring of the south should not be among the plunder of the +enemy, and for that reason it is sent back.” + +“Is that the only word?” + +“All that was given me.” + +“Is she—in prison?” + +“She is the wife of Tiernan O’Ruarc, King of Breffni; she rules all +within the castle by his love of her.” + +“He has then taken a nun to wife against all rule of Rome? Has there +been naught of protest from King Murtagh of Meath?” + +“Nay, O Diarmod, no vows had been laid upon her. She was free to be +sought in marriage to any man, and O’Ruarc was the man.” + +That rankling thought was not good company for the man who had let +her ride out from O’Carroll’s castle into the new prison, and the man +who got her was his enemy! + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Two days Diarmod fumed over the thought, and then rode with his +spearmen and bowmen to council with King Donough. + +“Is it in silence the men of Meath and men of Orielle let the +plunderer from Lough Gilla strip the holy churches and carry away the +cloistered women?” he asked. And Donough walked with him apart that +Queen Maureen might not hear. + +“As to Clonard Abbey, it is true, and we should stand against this, +and send a spokesman to O’Ruarc; but as to women there was only one, +and that one is his wife. There is no profit in going against that. +She is Queen of Breffni and content enough. Since it is so, what call +for speech of it among the people? It is well her own name is lost +from her in those changes. To ride to her rescue would but bring her +back for other princes to fight for. She is too fair for peace to be +her dower in any land. Let that hawk of the north keep her safe at +his own nest.” + +“She has brought him lucky fortune, since he sweeps all of church +wealths into his chests and goes scatheless, and it was a different +prophecy of her told by Kieran Dall.” + +“We are born, but not dead yet,” said Donough, “and it is ill profit +to think of her now—and her a strong king’s wife.” + +“Yet I am thinking of her, O’Carroll, and the promise holds me no +more. From your castle I would not take her, nor from the church, but +she is with neither. She and the other stolen things are now free to +who can take them.” + +“No man will fight for her when her name is known, and Turlough +O’Conor will not be the man to let Breffni be robbed of a covenanted +woman. Murtagh of Meath knows it, and cares not how soon she brings +ruin to O’Ruarc—if bring it she does—_he_ is not of the line +forbidden to her blood.” + +Diarmod glowered darkly and showed contempt. + +“The short sight was on me when I let her ride away, and foolish was +the tale of Kieran Dall. Strong houses have ere this taken mates from +the Lochlannach. Why should a ban, forgotten for a thousand years, be +uncovered for her house or for mine? My own thought is that her dower +was the dower of a king’s daughter, and a gain for any holy group of +the veil. Without doubt she was a chance child of Murtagh of Meath, +and the tale of Kieran Dall was made to fit. I have had no other word +concerning Cuan the Dark; it is some old world tale of druid power.” + +“If ban, or banishment and un-naming is pronounced in secret against +a man, it is more than death against him, Diarmod. There is no record +left that he was ever living. The father of Dyveke had youth with +him—he was the firstling of a devout house, and was meant for holy +life—there may be many who think he is living out his years in work +and prayer among foreign pagans. As a man he has left no name and +no record. Now that O’Ruarc has the maid, and caused question of +the source of the dowry, there is but one thing to do in the house +of Machflain. She is called ward of the King of Meath, and daughter +as well. It is a rich cloak to cover her white shoulders and cover +a buried and bitter scandal for the house of the man called ‘The +Dark.’ It will never be safe to lift that cloak, Diarmod; too many +pious hands have helped weave it, and work over each rough seam with +careful broiderings. Hidden forever now is father or mother of hers. +She is no longer Dervail of the Shadow; she is daughter of Murtagh +Machflain, King of Meath, and is wife to Tiernan, Prince of Breffni. +The whole of Erinn is between your shore and hers, and no cause for +your thoughts to cross over.” + +“Yet are they crossing over,” said Diarmod, and looked at a ring of +gold. “There is no joy for her there in Breffni, and her own thoughts +are crossing the wide land.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Donough O’Carroll was not easy in his mind after that speech. He had +remembrance of the words of Malachi, son of Murtagh of Meath. He +also was afire because of her beauty, and the little love he had for +Tiernan O’Ruarc. He also could see no reason why the maid, and her +dowry as well, should go to a prince so well hated. For the truth of +her was not told by Murtagh of Meath to any of his household. Duighal +and certain monks knew it, and among them they hoped to hide the fact +that the child of Dyveke lived though she should have died. Some +fear of Dyveke’s curse was on Murtagh, and for that reason the maid +was dowered for sanctity as had been his own daughter, with little +thought that his enemy of the north would sweep hawklike on Clonard +and bear away the troublous maid with all her mysterious wealth. + +“Hark to me, Diarmod,” said O’Carroll in all kindness. “Murtagh +Machflain is well pleased that she is taken to the far end of Erinn +by a man—any man—strong enough to hold her there! You are not the +only man she makes restless by a look, or a word, or it may be a +pledge! If it is adventure you hunger for, forget her beauty and seek +victories in the west where the men of O’Brian are ever snapping like +wolves across borders of Connaught or Leinster; I am with you to join +shields with Turlough O’Conor against them at any dawn you name to +set forth. Make yourself strong with allies ere you venture a hosting +into Breffni. With care you can be chief king of Leith Mogh.” + +“You have the King of Meath and all the bishops on your side,” agreed +Diarmod of Leinster, “yet if I was a wifeless man, I would make her a +queen of more than Breffni. Tiernan of Breffni will yet pay with his +life for having her before me!” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Diarmod had never forgotten her words of admiring when she greeted +him as “Ard-Ri of Erinn.” It was but a tiny seed let fall from her +rose-leaf lips, yet had it grown in his mind, nourished by the +records and legends of his own royal line until he saw no head of +Erinn more fit for crowning! This was a dear secret thought of his, +spoken of to none, yet when he heard Turlough O’Conor called “King +with opposition” there came flashing back to him the music of her +words, and with them a long look ahead to the days when Turlough was +gone! To be chief king of Leith Mogh—all southern Erinn—would seem to +Donough a natural ambition. But to dream of the crown of High King +over all would put fear in the mind of every friend who was loyal +to Leinster. No thought of it had come to any heart but his own—and +hers! + +That was the hold she had over his dreams; she had voiced the secret +thing much desired. And in his dreams she became a part of that which +was desired—the beautiful part! + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Yet Diarmod of Leinster did consider the words of King Donough, and +did join shields with Turlough against the men of O’Brian to the +west, and did make himself allies for the days when need would be +his, for that was his way. The strong family of Mor, his wife, he had +in bonds to him, and strong churchmen he had; if ever he ventured +to follow his dream he meant to have help of Rome through princely +clerics. + +He took credit to himself for joining shields to Turlough the king +at that time. His mind was to go north, but the counsel of Donough +brought him thought and remembrance that Murtagh of Meath was no +strong ally even if he should make choice of the road of spears into +Breffni for the maid of beauty. Though reinstated in his holdings, no +one was forgetting that, for the blow to Gelasius the bishop, Murtagh +had suffered for a space the loss of all kingly rights, and the +devout and the spiritual fathers held it against him. It was no good +time for making bonds with him, even if he and Malachi, his son, had +been eager—for Malachi held no great strength of his own. The time +must be on another day. + +But in all his thoughts of her there was the curious certainty that +their own time would come. She was the music singing far in the +forest of a fairy rath; she was the veiled maid beyond the lattice; +she was ever Argatonel, the silver cloud out beyond the nearer gray! +His men of the spears and battle-axes would have had curious thoughts +if they had known that the music to which the great Diarmod of dread +kept pace on his warhorse was the song of the boy, Ardan, in boyish +praise of her beauty. + +He had forgotten that song, or thought he had, but in some far corner +of his mind it lay sleeping, and the thought of her whiteness in the +arms of that red terror of the north wakened it, and gave it music +until he heard the feet of his men and the feet of his warhorse +marching to it! + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +And the young maker of the song? + +His travels abroad made the wandering northward an easy path. +He slept at monasteries, and was known only as ward of “Dall +Clairineach,” who had been the scholarly abbot of Ardbreccan. But +that name, given the learned O’Cahsadhe, was a key to every door. At +Armagh, Ardan was even trusted with messages to other retreats of +religious men further along his way, and at one monastery was offered +a Saxon slave as gille, and a letter to Tiernan O’Ruarc, prince of +Breffni, giving thanks from a fortunate prior to whom he had sent +vestments and altar candles! + +This lucky chance brought aid to Ardan and much comfort. He had only +to say, “A letter from a grateful priest to a gracious prince.” And +over mountain or moor the message was given a pleasure path. Near his +own domains the O’Ruarc did not plunder or lay waste, and the way to +Lough Gilla was an open way when within the Breffni borders. + +But the Prince of Breffni was not at home to receive the priest’s +letter of thanks. He was gone north to the shrine of Phadraig in +Lough Dearg, as was his custom after great hostings. Even his +enemies never could say the O’Ruarc shirked pious pilgrimage, or +rich gifts of hospitality. The flat top of a great hill above Lough +Gilla was seen afar as a landmark and named the “Table of Breffni.” +It fitted in well with the giant cromlechs of the ancients to which +the Saxon slave made curious circles of respect, and told to Ardan +the faith for which the ancient gods had left such monuments. It was +different from the faith of the saints by which Ardan had been given +instruction, and he chided the slave and made a prayer, and went on +between hills touched golden by the carpet of gorse, and touched blue +as peat smoke when seen afar along the fair waters of lake and river. + +The letter from the cleric opened the portals of Breffni for Ardan, +and his own youth and sunshine of face made him welcome alike to +steward and warrior. The cleric of the castle was less friendlike, +and had searching and priestly questions, and another man in +scholar’s robe gave long looks to him, but no question. He was called +Duffagan, and had been of the captured at Clonard—a silent student +to whom Tiernan gave care of the plundered books, because of his +learning in such craft. + +No word did Ardan send to Dervail, but with a bard of Breffni he made +pact of friendliness, and told him of Erinn’s music in monasteries, +and the courts of princes in Gaul and beyond it to the east. An Irish +air he had brought back from Rome set to words of Italy, and he sang +it to the delight of all in the great hall. After the supper and the +songs of olden days, the little harp was given to his hands, and he +took his turn in making music, as was the custom and joy among those +of the musicians and poets. Young lovers would thus sing their +thoughts to the one maid most longed for, and maids and women of +the household of Breffni had their pleasure of the evening in that +pastime. The castle took to itself neither silence nor added prayer +for that Tiernan, the lord of it, had fared north for penitence at +the shrine of Phadraig. + +It was a gay and very beautiful hall where the music was made, for no +stone of the wall but was covered with hangings of rich weavings from +the lands foreign, and under foot were many skins of animals, and one +of a great white bear was beneath the feet of Dervail where she sat +on the throne seat. + +At the far end of the hall she sat with her maidens, and the chiefs +and ladies of Breffni’s household. Wearily enough she sat there above +the others, and brooding she sat in a robe of white, heavy with gold +threads and girdled with green ropes of gold-set emeralds from the +Kerry hills. Her veil was of white, and fell from a crown of gold and +glimmering green jewels. Her chin rested on her hand, and she had a +sidelong look for a chief who sat near her, reciting some late glory +of her lord’s victories. + +Ardan noted it all afar off where he hid himself with the younger +singers. The song that came to his mind was of a white bird weighted +with golden chains. But in the old Irish tales of chained doves +or swans there were ever two birds chained together with golden +links—and she was alone. In his heart he was glad it was so. He could +not think of her in another way. She was still to him the lone white +bird, though a jeweled queen. + +But it was not of that he dared sing when the tiny harp was put in +his hand, for he was to the others only a chance bearer of a letter, +and traveling in no great honor. And she was wife to Prince of +Breffni and sat on a throne. + +And the thing he sang was the farewell song he had made for her in +a far dawn when she had worn a silver-gray veil instead of a queen’s +crown. And he had named her silver cloud—Argatonel. + + The sun has set at morning tide, + Argatonel! + The wall between is deep and wide, + Argatonel! + Above it stars of heaven may rise + In witchery, + But none so wondrous as your eyes + Of mystery. + Argatonel—white wings to you! + Argatonel—white road to you! + O Silver Cloud that wraps the world, + My song to you! + +He marked the very heart-beat in which she knew the song and the +singer, though she did not turn head or glance to where he was, and +her attention was given entirely to converse with the chief of Mac +Roigh and his lady wife who was an Irish princess out of Alba, where +Irish tribes had gone in a far-off time. + +But when the song was ended, Dervail turned as if for mere courtesy, +and spoke. + +“It is a fair, mellow voice, and a new song for us,” she said. “Bid +the singer come for speech.” + +The steward of the castle brought forward Ardan, and told his name +and errand, and showed the letter and spoke. + +“I bade him wait the return of our Lord of Breffni, and while he +waits we seek to give him fair courtesies, and the usage of a chief’s +son.” + +“You serve your lord well,” said the queen. “He shall be of our +household. Whence come you, strange singer?” + +“Late from Rome and other far lands,” said Ardan, his eyes on the +golden hem of her robe, and not lifted to her face, for the eyes of +the others were looking, and had nought else to do but look. + +“Do pilgrims to Rome come back with songs of gallantry to bright +eyes?” she asked, and smiled, and the younger maids pressed close to +listen. + +“A pilgrim sometimes carries the songs, and the memory of eyes, on +all the wide circle from the white strand of Erinn to the harbor of +return,” said Ardan, and she laughed at that, and bade him to a seat +near, and told him he should sing for her again, and he might teach +one of the maidens the song of “Argatonel,” for the air was a sweet +air, and a plaintive. + +Then, having shown him this much of courtesy, her mind in appearance +strayed from him to matters of more import, but the youths and maids +circled him, and had their pleasure in questions of far lands, and +Roderick, son of Turlough, the King of Erinn, was there, and spoke +of Rome and the scriptures of the Irish sent eastward to carry both +religion and book craft to the Germanic peoples, and their neighbors, +the Gauls. + +“For that purpose was Erinn the savior of learning for all Europe,” +said the Mac Roigh. “In the wars of the Huns and the Northmen the +great eastern land was swept bare of scholars, and Greek was lost to +the Gallic tribes until our books and our men carried it back again.” + +“Strange to hear—that is,” mused Roderick. “As strange as to think +that the Gaelic and the Latin we speak and read could be lost to our +children in another day.” + +“It may be that the waters on every side of Erinn will be the wall +to keep that loss far from us forever,” said Mac Roigh, “but in the +great foreign land there is neither wall nor waters of separation. +The tribes overrun and melt into each other, or they fight and +harvest the enemy as grain in a field. It is all and always change +there; thus were their settlements of religious men reaching out for +the Irish scriptures made here in sanctuary. Gelasius the bishop was +telling us of that at Clonfert.” + +“I had thought,” ventured Roderick, “that between the Danes and +raiders of Norway and their Saxon mates, Erinn had work in plenty +to save even life, without the strife to save learning enough to +civilize her invaders. It’s a good gift they got from us when our +saints taught them religion. And it was an evil payment they made to +us with their ships full of raiders.” + +“Our well-beloved Dall Clairineach told me Erinn was set apart like a +jewel in a lost casket,” said Ardan. “The old south sea-way to us was +lost to the traders of Europe through the time of the great wars; our +land was out of the path of battle and was forgot. When they found us +again, it was in a different way—an island beyond an island in the +sea! While they had fought and made destruction of all things, our +men of many crafts and many books had worked to garner and build. All +the learning was here to start anew the broken, foreign tribes.” + +“More than some godly souls made welcome!” said Roderick. “I ever had +wonder on me to know what penance was given Forgal the saint when the +Pope at Rome reproved his heresy in writing that the world was round +instead of flat as we all are knowing it.” + +“Forgal had lived on the coast here at home,” said Cineath the +cleric, “and took note that the masts of a vessel at sea are seen +before the body of the vessel is seen. Yes, he was given strong +reproof for saying it, but his writing was not changed because of +that—he left it as the words were written. In all else it is known he +was a true scholar, and a holy man—the blessing of God on his soul, +and on us!” + +The talk went on thus, and the queen and her ladies listened. Ardan +could feel her eyes on him, though never once did he meet her gaze +with directness. He did not obtrude his speech, except as one of the +men of rank asked of his journey afar, but he knew that he did not +seem out of place near her throne, and had a pride in that. + +“You speak of the wise and holy abbot of Ardbreccan,” said Mac Roigh +as the time for rest came, and the prayer of the cleric was ended. +“Was he well known by you?” + +“He was as my father while he lived, and left me to his close friend +when he died,” said Ardan. “His fancy was to make me as a scribe and +genealogist—but why should I, a son of no family, turn genealogist?” + +“No family?” said Mac Roigh, and looked at him. “If you were not of +blood and race, think you so renowned a man would have found in you +the stuff for his science? And you wear the colors of a noble.” + +“Youth thinks not so much of these matters, and I was but a youth +when I turned from that work,” said Ardan. “Instead of a devout +priest with quill and ink pot I am a priest’s message bearer to royal +houses.” + +“We will see you again tomorrow,” said the queen graciously. “If you +ride, you could attend on the ladies who fancy sport with the falcons +on the moor.” + +“I ride,” said Ardan. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Three days they were speaking like that before princes and chiefs, +and three nights he was led by Kauth, her woman, to Kauth’s own +curtained room of sleeping, and there Dervail came to him. Kauth was +their guard, and their nights were of whispers. He heard there her +dreams of strange greatness, and knew that Breffni’s crown was as a +golden rung in a ladder she meant to climb. + +“And you, Ardan, will climb with me, for it is true what the chief +of Mac Roigh has said: no youth below the noble rank of _aire-desa_ +wears the colors, and is taught music and chess, shooting and the +riding of horses—swift riding beautiful! You are fitting in all ways, +and have the trust of Diarmod, and that is a thing lucky. When the +day comes I will have you near the throne and my eyes are made glad +that you have visage and speech of a prince. It will be well for you.” + +“Your talk is in circles,” he said. “You are queen—yet you talk of +the day when you win the throne! I come through all the wilderness +for the reason that you were a soul in prison—and it is a different +thing I find. You have freedom for the first time, and are using it +on men.” + +“I do the things of my girl dreams,” she said. “I never was told how +women had power and here I am learning. When I go to Diarmod—” + +“No,” he said, “it is not good to dream that. There is Prince of +Breffni and Mor na Tuathal between you two! Her people are of +greatness in power, and even a strong king might not stand out +against them. She is his wife, and her brothers are his watchers.” + +Dervail lifted a feather, and tossed it upward. + +“She, and her brother abbots, and sainted priests will weigh not so +much as that against my wish, when I wish it,” she said. “I am out of +the convent walls forever and am learning the power of women—and the +strength of it is sweet.” + +“And what answer to Diarmod who would save you again for sanctuary if +your prayer was for that? for without your word he may not take this +road.” + +“The time will come when I send him signal. It will be—it will be a +white pearl of royal size. There are creels of jewels here! I will +be sending one to him more beautiful than the one given by Gillebart +of Limerick to Anselm the archbishop oversea—and that one was called +a royal gift to the prince of the English church. Yes, it will be a +pearl I will send when I send the call for him. It is a fine thing +for me that I am able to bind my friends with a queen’s gifts.” + +“It—is not a queen to whom he was sending me, Dervail. It was a +veiled maid of the cloisters, and she calling for champion.” + +She laughed low, and looked at him in pride. + +“Every man in this keep would be champion of mine if I called—and if +I gave him my smiles,” she said, “but not one is strong to control +all the others. I have given much thought to that matter and secret +knowings have been spoken to me by a man of the Old Wisdom! Diarmod +is, of all Erinn, the one of strength; and he will be stronger in +days to come, for his gathering of spears will be a great gathering. +The spears he gathers will make a new ruling for all Erinn. And I +was knowing that thing before the day I laid sight on Tiernan the +ravager.” + +“You are talking of dark, hidden things, Dervail, and they are +forbidden.” + +“They are true things, and the stars tell them! A secret man, who has +the name of Duffagan, told me that thing in Clonard. He was a scholar +but no monk, and Kauth gives him fellowship. When O’Ruarc would in +willingness bring any retainer of mine, I brought him as husband to +Kauth, and that was saving his life. He has a fever on him for old +books, and his was the task to carry north the annals most rare. He +has the trust of O’Ruarc who thinks him a book fool; but he knows the +stars and the tides, does Duffagan Mac Knea, and he knows the tides +of men’s lives as he does the tides of the sea! When he tells me it +is time to send call to Diarmod of the Spears, it will be gladness +for me to be sending it. And until that day comes I am waiting and +learning and dreaming my dreams.” + +“Mac Knea,” said Ardan, “that means ‘Son of the Night’—it is a +curious name to put on a man.” + +“Yet it is fitting,” said Dervail, “else he would not be having it. +Words have power, and the wrong word he would not have on him. He +has a wisdom not to talk of to every bird crossing over, and none +of these people are knowing it. They laugh at him, and call him the +little dark spider sitting ever alone in a corner with watching eyes; +but a spider spins webs beyond craft of mortal.” + +“It may be evil craft you praise in him! How then if you find it so?” + +“It is true craft,” she insisted. “Already it has proven itself on +me. Of Tiernan’s hosting I was warned by him. I was ready on that +day, and it was no weeping novice he found in me, but a king’s ward, +with the rights of a noble. He was my key to the world, and I used +him. I came not out of the walls a captive: it was the wife of the +Prince of Breffni who rode beside him.” + +“A mystery are you to me, Dervail,” said Ardan, “and not the caged +bird I crossed the kingdoms to find.” + +“The caged bird!” she said. “Ardan, have you memory of the snow bird +you made of me in the cloisters?” + +“I have the memory—and the guilt,” he said. “When I listen to you I +think I was ‘fey’ that night I worked on it. I had cold and hunger +and my soul afire. Had I made likeness of the Holy Ones with such +perfectness, the monks would have made a saint of me; instead of +which they banished us both far as was in their power. And—they did +not break down its white wings of ice quick enough to save it from +the eyes of Diarmod!” + +She gave a little cry at that, but it was a sound of joyous triumph. + +“Again has Mac Knea proven true,” she said. “He told me it was by +some work of another that Diarmod’s heart turned to thought of me. +That I did not believe, and so I have said; but it was true! You, +Ardan, made one image of me poised for flight—you must make for me +another—when I have reached the end of the flight and picked my +throne.” + +He thought she made a jest of him, but her beauty was so great that +he was content to look in silence, as he thought that no queen ever +told of in song or annal had such beauty as hers. Not fair Dierdre of +the sorrows, or the wondrous Brighde who was goddess of beauty and +art, or that Grania whose beauty and courage were as one when her +beauty won a crown, and her courage dared toss it aside as a ball in +her great game—and her game was Love. + +He sat thinking these things, and knowing that all the beauty of all +of them could not equal the beauty of Dervail. It was seemly enough +that her fame might indeed grow great as she hoped, and her name be +widely known among the rulers of Erinn. + +So deep was his dreaming of it that he kept no count of his silence, +or her curious looks. + +“Of what are your thoughts when you stare past me as if there was +naught between yourself and the skins on the wall?” she asked, and he +roused and looked at her. + +“I am thinking there was never your equal for beauty in all the wide +world, Dervail,” he said simply, “neither them that are living, nor +them who are gone the Way.” + +“You are the same Ardan,” and her smile was strange. + +“You think I fail to make note of beauty because I do not play the +sighing champion for your favor,” he said, “but you read me wrong. +As ward of Murtagh of Meath, and foster child of Donough of Orielle +it is a pretty puzzle to me why each king was not striving to make +best marriage for you with ally of his own. They shut you in high +walls for life without choice of yours—and would have forgot you were +living if—” + +“If the Son of the Night had not made the key to come to my cell!” + +“What would you say?” + +“Three new moons was his work to help it to come that way,” she +whispered. “He made secret prayers for that thing—to the four ways he +was sending that call for the man—and Tiernan was the man to hear it, +and to come there, and Tiernan was the key!” + +“More like it was that Tiernan sent your master of druid lore to spy +out the wealth of Clonard! You were part of that wealth, Dervail.” + +“I have wonder if that be true,” she mused, and her eyes were looking +sideways in thought, but the red-rose lips curved over the white +little teeth of her, and the blue eyes had laughing pride. + +“Even if it be so, the rule of Tiernan is over with that man, and +mine is the rule,” she said. “He pins his life to my service. Tiernan +is now but a man on our chessboard. And you are wrong in one thing: +Tiernan knows nothing of Duffagan’s hidden wisdom; no, Tiernan has +dread of such learning, for he was born at Whitsuntide, and it was +foretold that by a man and a woman of druid craft would his downfall +be if he followed their steps. That is why, after every hosting, or +every great killing he makes faithful pilgrimage to the shrine of +Phadraig. Great and rich gifts he will be leaving there to prove he +is christian surely. No—Ardan, Tiernan of Breffni has fear, and has +horror of all ‘Old Wisdom,’ and the life of Mac Knea would go out +like a rushlight in the wind if Tiernan knew.” + +“And you! Is there no fear on you?” + +“At first there was fear—and great fear—but not now. The strength of +the stars is with us, and that lifts and bears me above the fear. +The ‘Old Wisdom’ has made me Queen of Breffni and that, Ardan, is my +first move in the game, and it is a great game.” + +“If someone should be telling Tiernan O’Ruarc?” + +“I would kill that one, Ardan, and you alone have my secret.” + +“Suppose I tell it to Diarmod?” + +She looked at him, and thought a bit and laughed in silence. + +“That would be favor to me,” she decided. “He has no love for me—yet; +though he has much thought of me. That telling would give him more +thought, for I will spend one secret night on Tara with the man +whose name will go down the centuries with mine! Take that saying +to Diarmod for me, Ardan; it will tell him that no pale-blooded nun +has come north to rule in Breffni. Let him give dreams to a night in +Tara!” + +“Tara has been desolate these many generations.” + +“Yet his fathers did rule there, Ardan, and it may be my own did! It +is the place for Ard-Ri of Erinn, and it may be a great rule will yet +be built on its ruins.” + +“It is a dream, Dervail.” + +“Duffagan is saying all great things of life have been grown from +dreams, and that the moon and the stars govern our dreams.” + +“I would see this priest of the forbidden ere I journey south, and +tomorrow is the latest I may linger. It is no wish of mine to see +Tiernan of Breffni, whose plunder is sacred things of altars.” + +“Yet are you loyal to Diarmod.” + +“What then? Diarmod gives endless wealth to holy houses. His own gold +has built monasteries and churches for the glory of saints.” + +“Ardan,” said Dervail, gently smiling, “all this is truth, yet +there are other truths of him; when a lord of the south refused his +daughter to Diarmod in the days of Diarmod’s youth, he gathered +spears and took her with the veil and the vows of a nun on her! In +amorous fellowship she was held in his castle and wedded there to a +lord of his choosing. That is the custom of a king who has power, +Ardan! He takes what he wants! I hear much of the power of Diarmod of +Leinster. He has their hate, but their tales are tales of praise to +me, for they tell of his strength.” + +“Their hate may build untruths against him. When was this ravaging?” + +“In Kildare, and her name was Dhira. Her house was the house of +Cahsadhe, and one hundred and seventy lives were sent back to God in +her capture. She lived a hidden woman after that time, but the story +could not be hidden. That was before your birth, or mine, Ardan.” + +“Dall Clairineach surely had knowing of that if it was a true thing, +Dervail, yet yours is the first word of it I am hearing.” + +“It is not for nothing Diarmod founds monasteries and religious +houses! You have been bred in them, Ardan, and it is a place for +holding secret things.” + +Kauth slipped through the arras to tell them the cocks were crowing +and the old day was gone. She looked strangely at Ardan, and to +Dervail, when alone, she said the youth had much of beauty, too much +for such distance of converse as was his custom. + +“True enough,” said Dervail, unbraiding the pearls in her hair. “But +there are other men for other uses, and this one has such honestness +he would be useless to me except in his own spirit. Because I tell +him much, he thinks I tell him all; and in his prayers my name will +not be forgotten.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Kauth, who had been lay sister of Clonard, was given higher place +than the place of a serving-woman in the castle of O’Ruarc, and her +dress held three colors. She rode abroad with Dervail when the days +were fine, and ever stood between when man or woman made approach to +the hall of the queen. + +Thus she rode obedient with the glad riders of the springtime in the +forest, and with adroitness found way to lose herself with the queen +and Ardan, and all three rode in the edge of the great wood, and +looked out on the moor where women with their young were gathering +gorse bloom and marsh marigold to keep luck in the house when hung +over the door on May Eve. Others were plucking primrose for the +doorstep, and youths were seen bearing holly and rowan and a young +tree of the yew for the circle dance of the many stars around the +Still Star of the north. + +“It would seem a strange nightfall to be out in the wilderness,” said +Ardan. “All christians are together elsewhere on the eve of Beltain.” + +“Duffagan Mac Knea gives me word that the prayers are the same, and +only the difference is that saints’ worship is given instead of +druid. The dance does not change, and the harp music does not change, +and the faith does not change. I have spoken at every chance with +these people concerning all things, and not yet has Duffagan told me +anything not of easy proof.” + +“But the castle cleric, Cineath, has he no reproof?” + +“He knows Duffagan only as student and scribe, who has gone into the +foreign world to the shores of the Nile, and tells no cleric of the +deeper things learned there.” + +They had reached a hill of three circles, and Kauth, who rode apart, +came close and slipt from her horse. + +“No animal must press foot up above,” she said. “So said Duffagan to +me. Since the end of yesterday has he been here, and fasting. It is +new moon, and Beltain.” + +Dervail sat on her white horse and looked up at the steep sides of +the hill, and looked beside her at a huge square stone, pierced, and +once rudely carven, but now covered with lichen gray and green and +russet. It was high as her own head and she on the back of the horse. +Other stones of the same bigness were seen as if standing guard +around the circle of a great earth temple. + +“There were great men in the world when that thing was done,” she +said. “It was not two or three people who were coming here then to +take note of the sky and the clouds over the new moon.” + +Ardan said no word. He saw Kauth take from under her cloak a white +pigeon wound about with white and saffron bands. She placed it in the +hands of Dervail and pointed upward. + +“Not empty-handed must you go there,” she said. “Pluck a rowan or a +holly branch for the hand of your friend. I have my happiness in lack +of knowledge, and will be your guard of the horse below.” + +A dim path went up through the wood clothing the steep, and at the +first terrace they saw other tall stones like sentinels circling the +hill. Ardan felt as if he had passed some strange dread portal into +an ancient life; far above he saw that which he had heard of in Gaul +but never dreamed to see in Erinn. + +It was a temple in the open with the sky for roof. Great squared +pillars arose in a circle, and to the east a sanctuary was made by +a huge slab overhead and two uprights on either side. An altar was +there on a raised floor of stone, and Duffagan the silent, in white +robe and saffron bands, stood there watching the sinking sun, and +striking flint on flint craftily where the silken strands of the wild +flax made tinder. + +A tiny spiral of smoke curled and drifted along the stone slab above +him, and the two at the edge of the circle stood still and spoke no +word. + +A curious hoop of hazel wands was beside the altar, and two balls +suspended at either side—one of yellow, one white; twigs of rowan +were there, and twigs of yew. + +The priest lifted the hoop and whirled it sunwise through the smoke, +and Ardan knew it was symbol of sun and moon circling thus through +the smoke of the earth altar. + +As the last fire of the sun went beyond the great sea of mystery, the +blaze of the temple leaped up—it was as if stolen out of the western +sky! + +Dervail thrust spray of holly into the hand of Ardan, and went +forward with her offering. + +Ardan could hear the low murmur of a prayer or incantation as water +from a shallow cup in the stone was sprinkled in a circle about the +slender blaze. + + Sun and Sky, + Moon and Earth, + Fire and Water, + Living Green! + +As the priest lifted his eyes, Dervail went forward with her strange +offering. Without fear she walked, yet with a look of question. And +Ardan knew it was for the first time. + +“As Life I make my offer,” said Dervail. + +“As Life I give it again to the elements by which life endures.” + +The voice of the man had a sweet singing note in it by which Ardan +was won in surprise. He had expected roughness or harshness in an +un-christian priest, yet Duffagan, who was also “Son of the Night,” +was gentle beyond belief. + +So amazed was he at this that he scarce noted the firm, quick stroke +of the flint knife until the wings fluttered once, and then were held +close and steady while the blood trickled from the slit throat to the +altar where the fire was. + +Dervail stood, serene, yet pale of face, for it was a place of +curious imaginings. Ardan saw her cast quick look over her shoulder, +and knew that, like him, she felt the movement, or the very breathing +of a multitude circling that high place of ancient mysteries. Once he +thought he heard the sound of shrill singing far off, to the tramp +of thousands of feet, but in another moment he knew it was a distant +shepherd’s pipe, and the wind hurtling through the forest below. + +Wind caught the flame and blew it against the hazel hoop of the +symbols. Dervail led Ardan forward. + +“Once I was to come to this place where you read the stars, +Duffagan,” she said. “I am here to keep faith, and I bring my one +friend who makes offer beside me.” + +Ardan’s hand held out the branch of holly, and Duffagan stripped the +leaves, and let them fall one by one on the blaze. His watching of +each new flame was curious. He did not speak until there were left +only red embers of the twigs. + +“Good it is that your soul is strong in faith, O Queen,” spoke the +strange, gentle, even voice. “The trial times of life will call for +much strength of yours, and it is well to prove faiths. I have fasted +and prayed here, and have read the sky at this new time of the moon, +but this is not a moon in which change will come to you. It is a moon +for patience. Your friend who has come as a new star in your sky is +safest if his going is soon. There are watchful eyes in the head of +the cleric of Breffni. Take you leave as if careless of time, but +ride for life when you have turned a hill!” + +“Cineath the cleric?” mused Dervail. “He is a ferret for Tiernan. I +will provide for you extra horse on the way, Ardan.” + +Ardan gave curious glances to the man whose words she heeded, and +made promise to act on. Dark he was, as his name denoted—dark, and +small, and gentle—and his dark eyes had a strange, withdrawn look as +if looking at the two mortals, yet listening to unseen things! + +“The Great Bear of the stars points again to the east at fall of +night,” he said. “It is the mid-sign between heat and cold, and is +the time for searching. The old learning has been lost for the reason +that no royal protector dare stand against the craft of the saints +and their followers. But many, Dervail, will have your name in their +speech, and you will cause much wonder in the minds of many. That +is a thing I read in all castings for you, and it may come to pass +that you will be the royal one who dares openly sanction that ancient +hidden wisdom to which each simple heart makes secret prayer.” + +“With aid from you, and guided by the powers unseen, I have brought +here in secret my vow offering,” said Dervail. “That is my pledge—a +fair white pledge—not to go backward on the road we are walking. In +one year—two years—a thousand men and women will face sunwise about +the circle where we alone stand now. You will be the honored priest +of divinings, the thousands will give you their strength when their +fear is lifted—and lifted it will be if you show me the time and the +road for Tara.” + +“That will come—and strife will come—and terrors. Great hostings will +come, and kings will fall; but you will live through all, and your +name—your name—it is a name whispered secretly now, but in days to +come there will be shouting of that name—Dervail—Dervail—Dervail!” + +His speech was half whispered, and he said her name as if repeating +echoes of it afar off. A faint smile was on his lips and his face +serene. + +For the first time Ardan spoke. + +“For what reason is Tara the key to any greatness when Tara itself +was cursed by Ruadan the saint, and is deserted ground, and crumbling +walls in our day?” + +Duffagan did not at once make reply. It was as if he had drawn out of +hearing. Then he came back and spoke. + +“Tara even in desolation is a word of power. Images of greatness +belong in that place—and some mortals see them! Tara is the mid-court +of dominion, and the Ard-Ri should face the sunrise from that center. +Tara is a symbol, as are these things before me symbols of the +heavens and the earthly life. By symbols spirit is caught in the +silence and held, breathless, for the union with knowledge. Tara +holds a message for the woman or man who would rule Erinn—and the +message cannot be carried to another. Each finds there that which +his own soul can circle. Dervail has made record that it is the rule +desired by her. My task is to study stars, and phases of the moon, +and find the safe time for such journey.” + +“Will he, my friend, be beside me?” asked Dervail, and Duffagan +peered at her in the falling twilight. + +“He will not be there. His road touches yours strangely, and a veil +between! Is he of your kindred?” + +“I have no kindred,” said Ardan. + +“I think that is not true,” said Duffagan, “for I see you bear +shadows or burdens of kindred.” + +“Where do you see these things?” + +“I read it in the leaves of your holly when the flame curled them +into shapes before burning; if not kindred to Dervail, it is to some +mortal close to Dervail.” + +“We are going, Duffagan,” she said. “The dark will be coming, and the +spies of Tiernan on the road. I come to the sunset of Beltain because +of your prayers here, and in other days many will follow me.” + +“They will,” he said. “I hear the voices of many calling your name.” + +He held his hands out over her head in blessing, and made gesture of +the way they should circle the altar and the path of descent. He did +not look at them again, and as they passed without the great circle +they looked back. He was holding at arms’ length the hoop of the +hazel, and looking through it at the faint silver line of the new +moon against the dark purple of the western sky. + +Dervail drew near to Ardan, and laid her hand on his as if to know +a mortal beside her, for red light from the sun long gone reflected +itself on a cloud in midheaven and fell on Duffagan. It turned his +robe and the stones about him into soft light of flame—and left a +strange image. + +“It is as if a furnace of fire had opened at his feet, lighting him +only, and leaving all the other pillars in cold gray,” said Ardan, as +he watched the light fade again. + +“Strange signs follow Duffagan, or, does his thought compel them? +He has fasted since set of last night’s sun, and will have no feast +until tomorrow. All this he does for the craft he follows.” + +“His belief is strong as though his birth had been in Phadraig’s day, +and not in this,” said Ardan. “It is a strange end to my last day +with you, Dervail.” + +She pressed his arm and walked beside him into the shadows of the +wood. + +“Make me a song of this place, Ardan. A song of the old, old days +when sharp edges were yet on these great stones, and this hill was +saffron and white with the robes of Ancient Faith people.” + +“That is far to go for a song, Dervail. I have made you songs most of +my years, but this is not the place I would seek for songs of you, +lest they be sad songs.” + +The wife of Tiernan peered at him from under her golden mane. + +“Is it fear on you, Ardan?” + +“I think it is not fear, but this mystic hill is not a place to seek +lightly on the eve of Beltain.” + +“What could come to us?” she asked and clung to his arm. “Ardan—many +times you have come close in my thoughts of old in my dreams. But the +words of Duffagan of the veil between—what meant he by that? Look, +Ardan, what other man would not turn warm when my warm hand touched +him? Yet you are cold; what is it, Ardan? Did some veil indeed fall +between at that altar? See, my hand did not touch you as we went up; +yet were we more close than now, Ardan.” + +“Duffagan has given you dreams and fears, and it is best not to speak +of them now in this place,” he said. + +“What could come to us?” she repeated. + +“What could not? Is that altar jewel you wear so holy that it is +strong enough to guard you in all places?” + +She drew away and stared at him, and drew her robe more closely over +her breast. + +“Have you ‘the sight,’ Ardan? Times are when I think it. You know +that great jewel of white diamond and red ruby?” + +“I heard of it at Armagh. It was the wondrous star of Clonard, and +strange wealth to wear riding the forest.” + +She laughed at that, and shook forward the gold of her hair over her +breast. They were again near to Kauth, who stood with the horses. + +“Tiernan forbade that the altar jewels see the light of day in his +absence,” she confessed. “But what use has a pilgrim of penitence +with gems of richness?” + +He did not answer, but helped her on the horse. The question of the +jewel had changed the momentary love-light in her eyes, or the claim +of warmth for warmth. He knew she had been touched by fear in the +druid circle, and it had driven her to his arms if he would have her +there. + +Kauth looked at them as they came down, but had no question. Though +drawn to Duffagan as a mate for his comfort, she had no wish to know +the secret things of his dark delvings. + +They rode hard and fast until in sight of the castle, and then Ardan +spoke. + +“I will carry your message south, Dervail, and I will go tonight +instead of on the morrow. I have seen your hopes and your dark road +to them.” + +“And your thoughts are baleful and apart from me!” + +“No. Call on me for that which I dare to serve you. But you have +taken yourself out of the world we know together. It may be I cannot +follow. Your strange Duffagan says there is a veil between our roads +of life—and neither of us can prove that this day. But take deep +thought to what you do, Dervail. Duffagan spoke of symbols, and I saw +one when you offered the white-feathered thing there for the altar +knife.” + +“Ardan, what did you see?” and he knew she was thinking of that +strange _crowded_ feeling within the circle. The unlaid ghosts of the +centuries swept to the altar at the call of blood. + +“I saw the white bird of a boy’s dream of beauty in a cloister. I saw +the caged bird I rode north to seek sight of, and to lead spears of +aid to—and I saw a queen who offered that bird as token for ambitions +of earth power. It was only a symbol, Dervail, but you placed all in +one under the knife there! Your white bird was a symbol instead of +the children other women, in other ages, have borne up to that druid +rath for sacrifice.” + +“Ardan!” and her white hands were flung out toward him. “That will be +the veil between, and I will be a lone woman—terribly lone.” + +“You will be queen of beauty and power, Dervail. But put your all +of white dreams and of heart-love on that altar, and you will then +indeed be alone in life and in death!” + +She drooped there, her hair a veil about her in the gloaming, and her +hands clasped over her knee. + +Two kerns ran out the castle gate and stood with lights at either +side to light her entrance. She straightened and tossed back her +hair, and rode forward in pride. + +“Yet the dream of Tara is a great dream for a life,” she said. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +The harvest of the year was not yet garnered when the pearl of +Dervail went south to Diarmod of Leinster by the hand of Duffagan. + +It found him flushed with the victory of Moanmore against Turlough +O’Brian, and strong with the thought that O’Conor of Connaught owed +him and owed Meath too much of grace to lift sword or spear if the +sacking of Clonard Abbey by O’Ruarc was avenged at last by the lords +of Leinster. + +In every secret way Diarmod and Malachi, Prince of Meath, had +gathered strength and made bonds in friendship for that hosting when +the time came, and the messenger of Dervail told the day O’Ruarc was +going north on a hosting of his own against a rebellious sub-chief +who had taken sides with O’Lochlainn of Ulster in his claims to the +rule of Ard-Ri of Erinn as against Turlough O’Conor, whose word was +the most weighty in all but the northlands. + +The days of going and the days of return had been reckoned with care +by Duffagan, and there were plenty for the task. + +As to a joyous fair rode the men of the spears of Diarmod, and he, +kingly in pride, in the midst of them. Years sat light on him, for +the message of Dervail had brought back his youth. It had come at a +time when the music of life was dulled by the discords of rule, and +the watchful eyes of Conor, the heir-apparent. But the dream of the +forbidden maid brought deep longings, and her secret call to him +brought again the fairy songs of youth to his soul. + +Fierce was the assault on Breffni, and lightning quick the conquest +of the castle where Kauth had seen to it that every lock was loosed. + +No woman was touched but the wife of O’Ruarc, who was bidden forth +with her chosen woman, as hostage to Diarmod of Leinster. + +In garb royal, clad in the cloak of seven colors, walked Dervail out +from under the roof of the prince who had been her Key! + +The men of Leinster and Meath gave long looks to her as she walked +between the rows of them to the champing racer straining on his bit, +and their eyes turned to each other, dazzled by the brilliant beauty +of her. No such hostage had ever been given from prince to king in +Erinn. + +It was the hand of Diarmod touched her foot in the mounting, and they +two were speechless as their hands met. It was the wild dream coming +true, and the stars read by Duffagan had all her faith in that moment! + +Kauth mounted her horse, and among her goods fastened to the saddle +was the gift-cup given by hand of Diarmod in the castle of Donough. +The sight of it helped Dervail to her voice. + +“It has not been drunk from under that roof,” she said, “but now we +will be drinking from it again—and at the well of Nemnach in Tara we +will drink.” + +“Your word is the word—and will be,” said Diarmod the king. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Murtagh, King of Meath, knew nought of the hosting until the spears +of Leinster were north of Ath-Luain, and there was none for comfort +but Donough of Orielle—and him only with the hope that Dervail would +seek shelter from all men in the abbey of Mellifont. + +But Malachi, Prince of Meath, rode back the richer for the plundering +of Breffni, and spoke his content at the sisterhood claimed for +Dervail. + +“No queen so queenly in Erinn,” he made boast, “and it is a foolish +thing to hide, as you have hid—her daughterhood! Take pride that she +is of our line, even though a shadow is on her dam—whom no one is +knowing! She will yet be queen for Diarmod—and our house remembered +because of her name.” + +“That has been a long, dark, fear of mine!” said Murtagh the king. + +But Malachi had no knowledge of the secret held by the older man, and +thought it a foolish saying. + +“Meath has been made strong for us by this act,” he boasted. “The +troubles of yours with the clerics will be at an end, for Diarmod has +made pledges for Meath. From Clonard to the Shannon you are to be +protected by hostage; from Clonard eastward to the sea I am to divide +the rule. This makes stronger the border; thus much of gain already +for your tie—whatever it be—with the wife of Breffni.” + +Murtagh frowned at the words and walked apart, deep in thought ere he +spoke. + +“I wish death in peace,” he said, “and I can have that best by +forgetting the tie. Pray God she makes choice of a cloister!” + +But she made choice of a different thing; from the rath of Malachi, +whom she now called “brother,” she went for some secret thing to the +ancient rath of the Kings at Tara on Midsummer’s Eve. There went +Diarmod to keep tryst with her, and drink from the well of Nemnach. + +Until the morning star shone over the plain to the east they were +alone on the height where his forefathers had been high kings through +the centuries, and the look on his face was a look of entrancement +when he came down from that place, and Dervail beside him. + +“She is my mate, and no woman before has been that to me,” he said +to Malachi. “The clerics must find a way for it, for she is queen to +me.” + +Yet, because of fear for her at the hands of Conor, the son of Mor, +who was moving toward death, he took her not among his own children +at Ferns, but in gorgeousness and much comfort placed her in the +castle of O’Faelain in Kildare with a loyal guard, and the hostages +of a princess claimed for her safety from Rhudri, lord of the castle. + +Thus came the daughter of Dyveke south into the region where the +Danes had their holdings under Leinster, and where her mother had +cursed the land, and all kings and all clans of Erinn! + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Great wealth had been taken out of Breffni by Leinster—not only her +own dower wealth, but rich plunderings of Clonard, and the droves of +cattle taken were the wonder of the country in crossing. + +Like fire in the forest after falling of the leaves ran the story +of that hosting, and of the vengeance on Breffni for the sacking of +Clonard. Murtagh of Meath, and Donough of Orielle, and Duighal the +prior went into prayer and deep converse over it. All things within +human power had been done by them for the hiding of Dervail—yet had +she ridden free and set their world afire! + +But prayers of piety could do naught to stem the flood of rage +unloosed by her ambitions and the pillaging of Breffni. Turlough +O’Conor, the high king, took sides with O’Ruarc. Erinn was divided +in the struggle. The enemies made by Diarmod in his proud domination +turned their spears against him, and annihilation threatened on every +side. Turlough, the High King, sent a priest to deliver the doom of +Leinster unless Dervail and her dower were returned to O’Ruarc of +Breffni. And troops of Breffni followed the messenger. + +Diarmod raged like a wounded bull. + +“My men will die for her, though they may not save her,” he said. “I +cannot be the one to make choice; that is hers to make. But the army +of Turlough and Breffni have crossed the Shannon.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Rhudri of O’Faelain came riding a foaming steed, and stumbled, dazed +and spent, before Diarmod. + +“My plea is to serve you in some other way,” he begged. “More than my +troops are needed in the guarding of Queen Dervail for you. Her name +has carried on the wind to strange places, even to the cells of monks +in the wilderness. One of them, old and blind, and housed for charity +in my hall, made his way in secret to her chair, an evil knife under +his monk’s robe, and—” + +“Harm to Dervail?” thundered Diarmod, and the speaker quailed—“the +lives of your household will answer!” + +“No harm has come to her beyond the baleful deed done under her +eyes. Her dark friend, Duffagan, gave his blood instead of hers, and +wounded the monkish murderer to the death. But the dying monk said +some things of horror for her ears, and all who lavished courtesies +on that fair lady now flee from her! It is a mystery—like rats +seeking holes, they scatter as I turn my back. To save her there in +life and dignity is beyond the power of man without guards—without +servants.” + +“What is their fear?” + +“They will not voice it. May happen it is the death of the monk, or +his words not heard by me. It may be the death of Duffagan of whom +they had great awe. At her feet it is he died, and her own robe red +with the blood of them both, yet there was no shrinking of her and no +scream.” + +“She is a fitting queen, and royal her daring,” muttered Leinster, +“and it is a baleful task to speak any going backward on the road for +her! There is none to bear that word but one friend, and he would be +loth, though constant. You, Donall, send to Glendalough for Ardan, +the fosterling of Donough.” + +The lord of O’Faelain put out his hand to stay the son of Diarmod. + +“That message has gone on swift feet,” he said. “It was the first +request of Queen Dervail.” + +“Gone? And for what purpose?” + +Donall the Illegitimate looked at him and gave quiet but scornful +laughter. + +“Ardan has a good shape and good looks,” he said. + +The great hand of Diarmod smote him on the mouth, and the dirk of +Diarmod was out. + +Conor, the heir-apparent, caught his arm and was flung aside, and +Rhudri of O’Faelain stepped between. + +“Take time with you in counsel, Diarmod, ere you slay a son for sake +of a hostage you will be forced to return.” + +“Hostage?” said Diarmod, glowering. + +“Is not that word the right word?” asked Rhudri. “It is the only +one used for our queen guest in our keep. Connaught and Breffni are +moving their troops to win her return, for the loss of Dervail is a +greater blow to the pride of O’Ruarc than the loss of Longford and +Leitrim. Is not hostage the wise word? Hostages are ever to be given +back again, and in safety.” + +“She was hostage of Destiny to me, and not to be given back ever in +life,” said Diarmod. + +Conor got Donall, with his bleeding mouth, out of the hall, and +Diarmod sat steeped in gloom, turning over in his mind the attack on +the life of Dervail. The word “hostage” as applied to her to cover +her flight was a bitter word and—heavier than all—the thought of +her going again out of his life, and she the glory of his dream of +kingship over Erinn! + +He arose, frowning, and with set jaws. + +“No other must tell her since it must be told. I ride with you.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Ardan was first at the castle of O’Faelain, and there was sickness on +his soul for what he met in that place. + +Herdsmen and kern, ploughman and smith, raged like a sea of storm +about the walls of Faelain, and the name of Dervail was shouted +in hate heard even at a distance. At times it would die away to a +murmur, and then some wild voice would shrill aloud and the wave of +sound would again roll upward—“Dervail the Shadow! Dervail of dark +crafts! Dervail, the curse of Leinster!” + +At sight of the scholar’s robe of Ardan and the foam-wet steed, the +mob made way, and held parley. + +“Be our spokesman to the white slut who is harlot of two kingdoms,” +they said, “and we will let you pass safely. You are of the +cells—they will let you speak. Tell the woman, and tell the governor, +that none of our men will fight to hold her for Diarmod. The High +King of Erinn is against him, and much of Leinster is against him. A +free road to her if she takes the Breffni way; and death on her if +she makes a stand in Kildare! A holy man is done to death in there by +her dark comrade, and the curse of all saints is against her forever +for that! Dervail! Dervail, the malediction of men!” + +They let him pass, and inside the gates white, stricken faces turned +to him. The guard held spear and battle-axe against a rush of the +crazed household. They pointed dumbly within when he spoke the name +of Dervail. Only one man of the guard led the way, and he halted at +the portal of her chamber. + +A horrid weeping was heard within, quivering sobbing and choking. It +was the woman Kauth, who had seen Duffagan dragged into the court +below, and there hung in ghastly manner against the castle wall for +the killing of Kieran Dall. + +But the more ghastly thing was that Kieran had not yet died. He was +coming out of a swoon of pain, and was prodded by Dervail, who sat +beside him, dagger in hand, and steadily, in a dull, weary tone, +making question. + +“You lie, monk, but I would have you damn your soul with other lie +at the last breath! What reason to ban my race more than the race of +another? What reason to ban my mother? Speak ere I rack your wounds! +What reason—blind monk?” + +“The reason—the reason—Dyveke—is—proving—itself—in you! Your hand +gave death—to him—to the father of your child, ere you went to your +lover Thorold, fierce Dyveke!” + +“Again you lie yourself to hell! The name Dyveke is a name I never +heard; I am a queen—Dervail the queen! Speak again the name of the +race of the father of Dervail—speak!” + +The woman Kauth never ceased the dreary, smothered keione of +despairing, but neither Dervail nor the man with the black wounds +gave heed. He had again sunk half out of life, and the breath of him +was a hollow rattle. + +“Speak, monk!” And again the prick of the knife was in his flesh. +“You said it; say it again! The race of ancient kings? The branch +sanctified in secret ways? It exalts me, that blood—and you shall +speak! I am Dervail—I would know of that race. Speak! Speak again!” + +There was a struggle, a twitching of the body, and a whisper. + +“The race—dies out! Hark you! I hear wild waves on the shore; they +are shouting curses—hark you! Dervail—Dervail! Dervail! The world +rocks with that name of evil— + + For eric in breaking + - - - - + A thousand years’ yoke + On the bent neck - - of Erinn! + A - - thousand years’ tribute of blood + - - - Inis Fair!” + +Then there was only the rattle—and after that no whisper, and his +head lolled sideways and was pricked by the dagger to no good. And +Ardan made the sign of the cross at sight of the thing she did, and +caught her hand in horror. + +“Dervail! He has gone to God—and was a holy man!” “He has gone to +hell—and was a liar! Also he was a cheat! He died too soon, not +telling all—only fragments of his hate for me. He brought death to +Duffagan, and he brought that pack of wolves howling below—and +without Duffagan the road I crave is a dark way for me! Is Diarmod +dead that these things are?” + +It had been a long night and a morning she had sat there with her +blind victim, and she viewed his dead face with disdain. And from +weariness she was as in a daze. She looked at the blackened dagger, +and again at Kieran Dall. + +“Who was he that a place was made for him at the table of a noble?” +she asked. “Who was he that he was filled with hate against me in the +lands of Leinster?” + +“He was a prince whose name was hidden under the robe, Dervail.” + +“Learn all for me and tell me! He made speech of things to madden my +soul! I want Diarmod, and I want you to go to him! Hearken to the +cries down there! It has been since sunrise—and ever more coming. +Hearken to my name! Dervail! Dervail!” + +“That is the thing prophesied by Duffagan, whom they call your ‘Dark +Comrade.’ He told you in Breffni he heard the echoes of your name in +countless voices on the winds.” + +“That is true,” and she crouched there looking over her shoulder at +him in a strange and fearful way; “but—but _Ardan_—this calling is in +hate! They are not human beings down there—they are a hunting pack, +howling for victim!” + +“They are mortals, indeed, Dervail, but they are made mad by fear. An +army of men are bearing shields against Leinster for the sake of you, +and there is only one road of life and safety open for your feet.” + +“And that road, Ardan?” + +“That road is north into Breffni.” + +“No! Not with Diarmod for my safety; not with his words of bondage +still sounding in my ear!” + +She rose to her feet as if the very words gave strength to her, and +her eyes looked proud even while her face went pale at the louder +screams of fierceness down below. + +“Dervail, that dream has died with your Dark Comrade; such is my +thought. Diarmod is no longer safety for you. His own life he may +not be saving. Between you two, all Leinster and Meath can be made +desolate.” + +“What then? When he is triumphant, more than Leinster may be his. His +vows to me were made in Tara, and who more fit than he to rule again +in the ancient place of the great kings? No! The dreams did not end +with Duffagan—they endure! Beside Diarmod I will ride to find them!” + +Ardan turned to Kauth. + +“Bring cover for the dead,” he said, “and robe your queen for a +dreary journey—and a speedy one.” + +Kauth covered the dead face of Kieran and then backed, sullen and +defiant, against the wall. + +“I have no queen in this place,” she said. “Because of her, Duffagan +is beheaded, and his head on a pike below. I saw what I saw done +on that holy man who is dead, and I hear what you hear below in +the shoutings. I think it is truth they tell down there in their +cries—she is a malediction! Death to all is her one thought, so that +she walks safe—that is her thought. In thrall to her was held Tiernan +and Duffagan—they were a bridge for her feet. But I am no longer in +thrall to her! I have seen unholy and unlucky things, and the words +of dead Kieran are a curse against Dervail for always. If you, Lord +Ardan, are brave to walk beside her now—you are the only man brave +enough for it.” + +“Madness has fallen on her,” said Dervail. “The death of her man took +her little wit.” + +“Not all of it,” said Kauth, who had a most evil look with her red +eyes and swollen face, and her grin of malice. “This is the one man +who never took the gift of you at your offer—and he is the only one +of all your lovers to brave your enemies to reach you this day of +your days.” + +“Go!” screamed Dervail in white fury. “Scullion, whom I lifted and +strove to make human! Join your mates below ere I have you thrown to +them from the battlements!” + +The woman slunk to the far end of the room of shadows, but cowered +there, fearful of going down to the screaming mob. Dervail turned +away and covered her ears with white, jeweled hands to shut out the +clamor. + +“Ardan,” she whispered, “it is not all a lie she tells. They _have_ +scurried away from me like rats after a singeing! Rhudri of the +Faelain has gone, and every woman of them is out of sight.” + +“I know the truth of that,” he said, “for the men of the woodland are +bearing brush and straw and great timbers. They will smoke you out +unless you take the Breffni road with me, and the choice must be now.” + +“The choice?” she muttered, and walked wildly from window to window +looking down on the horrid, waiting, upturned faces. “The choice? +Ardan—soul of me always! Yours was the choice for me, and mine the +rebellious heart! Yours was the true vision, for the vision of +Duffagan has led me here to this trap! Yours was the hand I should +have held to; yours was the white way for me, Ardan, the white way of +the sun; and I am at last saying it!” + +She flung herself on his shoulder, and her tears of self-pity touched +his hand as he took her in gentleness toward the seat by the window. + +But the seat was not reached, for the reason that Diarmod and +O’Faelain came into the room at that minute, and Diarmod, in a rush +of rage, caught the shoulder of Dervail and flung her until she +stumbled and fell across the dead body of Kieran. + +“The shouts below are the shouts of the prophets,” he said, “O royal +harlot, who, in making choice, passes no man by!” + +Ardan turned toward the king with lifted hand of protest, and Diarmod +whipped out his dirk at that moment and thrust downward a mighty blow. + +“You to the white way of your choice!” he said. “You to your white +road—the two of you!” + +Ardan fell under the weight of the blow, and blood stained his white +garment, but a strange thing chanced at his falling, for the dagger +was caught and wrested from the king’s hand. + +“A deep stroke, Diarmod, and an unlucky one. The youth is under +misjudgment; my faith on that!” said O’Faelain, lifting Ardan and +tearing open the white undergarment. + +He crossed himself at what he saw there—and it was strange enough. + +The slender blade of the king did not go deep for the reason that +the point was bedded in a golden ring, and the ring on a golden flat +chain fastened around the neck of Ardan. + +O’Faelain undid the chain and handed it to Diarmod with the dagger +pendant. + +“God and Mary have no wish that you do murder or vengeance for this +woman—and the sign of it is here,” he said. + +Ardan struggled to his feet—bloodstained and pale, his hand +staunching the wound. + +“You have robbed me of a thing precious,” he said. “To a king and a +lord of Erinn it can have little worth, but as for me, if it is my +time to die, I would wish to go into death with that token.” + +Diarmod looked from the gold ring on which there was graven a circled +star and words in _ogham_ and as his eyes met Ardan’s eyes, he was +more blanched than Ardan, and his voice was husky and strange. + +“How is this precious to you—this thing more ancient than you can +know?” he asked. + +“It was on the breast of my mother at her death, and more than that I +do not know. Dall Clairineach bade me use it as a token to any king +of Leith Mogh if danger threatened me. For myself I would not use +it—but if it has virtue I will use it that Dervail the queen rides +safe.” + +“She will ride free,” said Diarmod in a dull, strange way. “Look, +Rhudri—see my punishment.” + +O’Faelain looked, and crossed himself, and lifted the hand of Ardan +to his lips. + +“O perfect prince—and the first born,” he said, “you are a grace, and +no punishment.” + +Dervail leaned forward, breathless at the words and at the look of +Diarmod: she was forgotten by him and by O’Faelain. Their eyes saw +only Ardan. + +“You knew your mother?” asked Diarmod. + +“I did not know her. Death took her. Dall Clairineach alone knew my +blood, and he gave me no word. I am of his clan—so I am thinking.” + +“You are of the race of Conaire Mor, and your mother was Dhira of the +Dark Hair whom they forced from me and hid away—a veiled woman! None +told me there was a son, but her son could be only mine. You are the +heir of my youth.” + +“Dhira!” said Dervail, her head thrust forward like a golden-headed +serpent with its stroke of poison. “_That_, Ardan, was the nun he +took from sanctuary—that was the thing of which I told—and the thing +you would not give your faith to—and you the living witness!” + +Ardan looked at Diarmod in frowning question, and it was the eyes of +Diarmod that wavered and fell. + +“This is between these walls,” said Ardan, and reached his hand for +ring and chain. “Beyond the portal it is never to be spoke. If the +token brings me fealty of a guard I will make use of it to lead this +queen back in safety to her kingdom.” + +“See to it, Rhudri,” said Diarmod. “All that he asks of Leinster is +his. You had my love, boy, and today I am knowing that her eyes were +ever looking out on me from your own.” + +Ardan made no reply. He was staunching the blood with linen torn in +strips by O’Faelain. + +“Diarmod,” spoke Dervail, “has an old love weakened you to pleading +for crumbs? Is it true that Turlough O’Conor and Tiernan of Breffni +have cast the shadow of their spears against you and weakened your +courage? You hear Ardan say he will guard me out of your kingdom, and +you speak no word of protest? Did I then ride south beside you for +only a holiday or a fair?” + +“You came, a stolen queen as hostage,” said Diarmod, “that is the +tale to tell. The hours are past for words of that: you must go with +the prince if you would keep life in you; the spears of two armies +are already across our border to force your return to Breffni. I will +have vengeance for the loss of you but that will be on another day—on +this one there is only flight in all haste for you.” + +Thus he spoke, but his eyes were on Ardan and she saw it. + +“You are not Diarmod the king this day,” she said. “You are only a +man in a trance who has the looks of Diarmod. This dead monk had +devil’s words of you, and of me. He called me ‘Dyveke the Dove’ and +said you were under _geis_ to hold no white birds under snare. He had +lies of old magic, and a curse for me in all of them. Are you knowing +that baleful rune he mouthed? Know you that he met his death striving +to do murder on me?” + +“It is known, and it is a sorrow,” said Diarmod, “and his is the +first death of the many ere the end comes; thus has his life paid +for his prophecy. Ulster will join me to war against Turlough and +O’Ruarc; in another year Leinster will have allies and strength, and +you will again ride south to rule.” + +“Your lips speak,” said Dervail coldly. “You are not the king of the +night on Tara.” + +Rhudri returned with a frightened maid and the cloak of Dervail. + +“I pledge myself to send your goods on a morrow,” he said; “it cannot +be now. While the humor of the mob gives sanction to your going, is +the time to go.” + +The smile of Dervail was bitter and dreary as she looked at the three +men. She was no longer the first thought in any mind there. Ardan the +prince, and the first-born of Diarmod, was suddenly most wonderful +and pleasing in the eyes of the two men. Even the disdain of Ardan +gave them pride in him. + +“You to have royal rule when it means naught to you!” she said, +looking at him, “and I to be robbed of it when it is breath of life +to me!” + +“I claim no rule—nor will I,” said Ardan. “My mother died in +sanctuary, and thus will I. Enough sons are in Leinster to divide the +spoils. Cover well your head in the veil, for rain is falling. Give +extra cloak to the maid, and I ask grace for her, and comfort if her +courage lasts through the trials of the way.” + +“She shall have honor that she heeds your word, and the children of +her shall have honor after her, O prince,” said Rhudri O’Faelain. + +It was an awkward moment and strange, as Dervail stood, veiled and +gray, beside the body of Kieran, waiting to go. + +“The curse came when he came,” she said, looking down on him. “It +seems a thousand years past—and it was but yesternight.” + +Smoke drifted up on the heavy air, and curled blue-white through the +windows. Some of the mob, impatient of delays, had fired brush, and +the falling rain drowned it, yet it bore its warning! + +There was a lull in the shouting as the guard of the king formed +without—and then the great gate of the castle opened and a horse was +seen with woman’s furnishings, and a roar went up. + +“Dervail! Dervail! Dervail, the accursed of Leinster!” + +Dervail stooped and picked up the dagger let fall when she ceased the +torture of Kieran. + +“Dervail, there will be another day for us,” said Diarmod the king. + +“Your lips speak, O king!” said Dervail. + +She felt sullenly that the dark-eyed nun—long dead—had thrust herself +between them at the end—and in a strange way she felt that the monk +who had saved his last breath for curses had some way brought all +this evil to be when he sunk his knife in Duffagan: that, and his +words of mystic things, had changed the world for her. + +He had caught her imagination and enthralled her soul by the mystic +things he left in shadow, and the shadow and fear remained on her +like a heavy cloak of gray. + +Suddenly she turned to Ardan. + +“Use your new strength—do not let the king show himself beside me. I +do not choose he should hear the wild beasts and their hate of me.” + +“It is their fear of you, Dervail.” + +“To the blind monk the thanks for that; but do not let him come.” + +So, in the gray rain, drearily falling, she rode out beside Ardan in +the center of twice sixty of the king’s guard. Her name was echoed by +them a thousand times with all the terms of evil they could invent or +remember, and more than once a bowman sent an arrow hurtling overhead +as a warning to haste. + +Once she looked back, thinking to see Diarmod on the wall, but she +saw only Kauth staring down over the gateway on which the head of +Duffagan was spiked. + +It was the first day of the deaths of the prophecy, the “thousand +years’ tribute of blood,” for Dervail of the Shadow! + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Many souls were sent for judgment in the slaughter done by +Diarmod—and done against him in his revenges for the shame of losing +her again to Breffni. + +So great was the rage against her that even the castle of O’Ruarc was +no safety. Widows and the children of slaughtered soldiery cried out +against the curse of her beauty for which men died, and she became a +secret woman in the sanctuary of Cluain-mac-noise from which great +wealth went out through her hands for holy walls and holy vessels, +and endless prayer. + +And ever, for the rest of her life, on the sweet spring nights of +Beltain, she knelt on the cold stone of the chapel floor to undo the +false magic of Duffagan on the hill of the druids. He had seen truly +there, yet his reading of what he saw was not true; and the proof of +it was the bridge she had built for evil to cross on. + +It was not that she doubted the magic of druidcraft, but it is an ill +and unlucky thing to go to the old gods after the saints have rung +bells against them. Even the true things are twisted after that. + +Her beauty was still on her, and the dreams of Tara were not dead. + +But the fear of the words of Kieran remained as the shadow of a gray +ghost, sending her to frightened prayer. + +The curse of the blind monk was too heavy to be cast aside even by +penance, and she walked veiled and dreamed of a day when Diarmod +would again be chief of victories and change the gray cloak of dread +to the royal robe of seven colors. + +When the word came of his solemn banishing out of Erinn by vote of +the Irish nobles, she brooded, and reckoned the wealth still hers, +and waited message. + +When he came again, with his English allies and the curst name +“Diarmod of the Foreigners” on him, her step was light with hope, for +the soldiers out of England would make him king indeed over all the +proud nobles who had banished him away! The dream of Tara was still a +sweet, yet fearful dream. + +But when the death of Diarmod was come to him in horror, and the head +of Tiernan O’Ruarc was sent to England, while his body was hung by +the feet on the north wall of Dublin, then again did wild rage of the +Irish burn high against the name of Dervail of the Shadow. + +It was sung in songs linking her ever with the hated invaders. Even +through convent walls that hatred came—hatred against her and against +the arch-traitor who had brought the English enemy to help win the +throne of Erinn, because of her beauty and her daring dream. + +In secret and in darkness, she was guarded to Mellifont and a new +name given her for safety, and among the nuns she was never known to +have worn the royal colors of a queen. And the dream of Tara was a +gray horror—yet it had been told by Duffagan that kings who battled +for her would sink in death, while she alone survived—and it was so. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +But a monk whispered her name in the sunny walk of the garden one +day in spring, and she looked again into the dark eyes of Ardan, who +should be King of Leinster. + +He held out to her a pearl and a ring she knew. + +“These were to go back to you, and I made promise,” he said. “I was +with him at the last, when no one else was with him.” + +“Did his blessing come with them?” she asked. “It is said he died as +Kieran died—cursing Dervail.” + +“They should not have told you that.” + +“Nay, none are telling me; it is on the air wherever the invading +enemy are known and hated—Diarmod and Dervail, Dervail and Diarmod +of the Foreigners! In my dreams I am hearing the curses on the two +names!” + +“Duffagan made such prophecy of your name and its echoes in the druid +circle.” + +“He did. Give the pearl to some altar and wear you the ring of your +father. They are tokens of fear to me—fear of what I dared in my days +of daring.” + +“There are other sons to wear the ring. Mine is now the monk’s robe. +I am a builder and a carver of stone. If the churches rise against +the invading English, I will be a soldier to help undo the curse of +Diarmod.” + +“And the curse of Dervail,” she said, and wept. + +He made no answer. + +“Ardan,” she said, “Kieran the monk said, a thousand years’ bondage +on Erinn for me, a thousand years of the yoke—the yoke on the bent +neck of Erinn! You have had the true vision all our lives; you were +the only true thing, Ardan. Can you read the days to come, and tell +me the end of that curse? For the yoke is on Erinn, Ardan.” + +“I dare not read, or make prophecy, Dervail.” + +“A white road to you! The bell of vesper sounds, and it is +Beltain—and a time of fear to me! Ardan, I have long had a thought +unspoken. A tomb will be mine some restful night. I would that your +hand had the carving of that bed. Your hand, comrade, will carve the +tomb? It will be the end of the flight of the bird, Ardan.” + +“I will do that: I saw the form of it when we rode out through the +smoke and the furious pack there at the castle in Kildare.” + +“And it will be—?” + +“The circled cross—and a gray falcon there with broken, trailing +wings, Dervail.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + + + +[Illustration: RANDUFF OF CUMANAC] + +[Illustration: Coulin] + +[Music: _Fourteenth Century._] + + + RANDUFF OF CUMANAC + + Such is the record of Kearmit; + —Kearmit the holy of Cumanac, + Truthful the word he has written + Truthful the warning. + This is the warning to pass through all lives to our people: + Leave all unchristened the axe arm of Erinn forever! + + + From Archibald T. De Nise, Attorney-at-Law. + To Major Matthew Forbes. + +_My dear Major_:—A week ago when we ended our after-dinner talk (in +the small hours of the morning), I little thought that I should +so soon have evidence on your side of the argument concerning the +shadowy other life in our midst. I can’t say that the new evidence +has convinced me, but it certainly has me rattled. + +I am sending you brief excerpts from a curious old Irish volume I am +eager to have you see, and also, a verbatim copy of the letter which +came with it. I recall that your family was of the last hereditary +historians of Ireland in the seventeenth century, and with your +bookish tendencies, added to your predisposition to delve into the +uncanny, it gives me a hope that your inheritance of knowledge may +help me to a glimmer of light in this case. + +I am sure that in reading the letter I enclose, you will not fail +to recollect the statement of your friend Dartan, whose portrait of +“Girl with the Hound,” was in the spring exhibition. He told us that +the addition of the hound to that picture was at his suggestion, and +that it required considerable time and trouble to find the right +type of hound for the desired composition. By this you will note that +the hound did not enter that family through any special desire of any +member of that family. + +It is easy to decide that an impressionable mind, under the influence +of powerful inherited tradition of brutal ages, could work itself +into a state of self-hypnosis wherein the dream became the fact. I +tell myself that such is the reasonable solution of the mystery. + +I work it out beautifully along those lines as I would a theoretical +game of chess—and then that red-eyed hound of the picture walks +across the board, and makes chaos of my chess men! + +You know how much the unusual personality of the boy has +interested me from the beginning. The excitement over him has been +tremendous—the absolute lack of motive—her beauty, and his youth (he +is not yet twenty-three)—all this would be enough to make the affair +celebrated even without the very important financial position held by +his brother. + +I have begged the boy to help me clear up the mystery of it all, and +he evidently thinks he has really given me that help in the letter I +enclose, but to my mind it furnishes two mysteries instead of one. + +When you have read it I want you to call me up, no matter what hour +of the day or night it is, and then come and talk it over—if ever a +friend needed a lifeline in the strange sea of the uncanny, I am that +friend. I worked personally all night on the copy I send you—it could +not be given to a copyist. + +There are many who are confident that he is not the guilty one, but +that his finding her there, in that condition, shocked him out of +sanity. He gave himself up at once and accused himself without any +excitement whatever. He has steadily refused to tell his motive for +the act, and has made not the slightest attempt to vindicate himself +at any time—not even soliciting the help of an attorney. + +When I offered him the services of my office he only said: “It is +a kindness of you to give help at this time, and there is money in +plenty to pay you, Mr. De Nise, but the work is not worth the doing, +and it is I am telling you it.” + +More than that he has not said, and his speech has the unusual +quality of fineness in it, at the same time that he uses curious +phrasing suggestive of a brogue, though it is not a brogue. Perhaps +it is that Irish music in his voice makes him fascinating. I have +heard nothing quite like it. I hope you remember that in our former +talk I spoke to you of it, and you said that prior to Elizabethan +days, much learning and most of the music of England had been +borrowed from the Irish scholars who took the brogue with them across +the Irish Sea and made it fashionable. I assure you this lad’s manner +would become fashionable if it could be easily imitated. It belongs +to a world older than our day. That is the baffling impression given +when he speaks. It is not the words alone—it is a certain lilt in +intonation as if he had been trained in rhythmic chants. Strangely +enough his half-brother, who is old enough to be his father, and has +had much the same educational advantages, has not a particle of this +manner. He is a plain, practical, very well-to-do Anglo-Irishman, +interested in certain American mines, and is a local bank director. + +You will think me obsessed by this matter of a personality individual +and strange—but I am only impressing on you the fact that I spoke +to you a week ago of that baffling fascination in him. I want you +to remember it, otherwise we should both fancy that my present +impressions are merely borrowed from the book and letter I send you. + +Yesterday, in desperation over having the case called for next week +and not a single word or suggestion of help from him, I repeated what +I have said to him so often: + +“Fergal, since you have promptly accused yourself and implicated +no one but yourself, why—why in the name of all that’s holy, do +you not tell to me, your lawyer, and your friend, at least the +cause of the crime you have confessed? Why will you not give me +something substantial to work on? As it is, I have nothing but absurd +theories—shadows to pit against a prosecution.” + +He looked at me with the quiet, unyouthful gray eyes, which look +black under jet lashes. Then he stretched his arms drowsily as if I +had fairly beaten him into speech. + +“Aye, Mr. De Nise,” he said, and shook his head with its purple-black +wave of hair, like nothing so much as a crow’s wing, except that a +crow has no curls to its feathers. “Mr. De Nise, the wonder is on +me, sir, as to what you would be saying if you heard in truth of the +shadow I have fought in this—and the shadow I feared long—and the +shadow by which I was overcome. I am not the one saying to you that +shadows are little things to fight.” + +“You try me and see what I would say,” I suggested. “Tell me every +word and every thought you have on this matter; that is the right +thing to do for me as well as for you.” I was only too keen to +encourage him, for it was the first time he had shown even a sign of +sympathy toward my solicitations. + +“And you would not be thinking it moonshine from some Irish rath +of the fairies? And you will not be having your laugh with the +councilors and the judges over the crazed Irish head of me, after I +have gone the Way?” he asked. + +I assured him it was too weighty an affair for laughter, and that I +was convinced that his head had the usual requisites for a head. He +appeared to consider that statement thoughtfully, but finally he said: + +“No—no, it has lived with me so long in silence that no words come to +me for the telling. No—it will not be spoken.” + +I saw that he was actually striving to nerve himself for some ordeal, +and I kept silence, looking over some notes I had made for the +defense: few and shadowy they are, too! My presence without speech +must have got on his nerves, for as if to get rid of me he spoke at +last. + +“I may write it as the other records of our home were written—I—may +do that. Yes—that is where it would be having the right place—in the +record of the clan, for it is the ending of it—yes—and the right +ending.” + +I knew I could make nothing for his defense out of that sort of +statement, so I ignored it, and left the jail after sending for +paper, pen, and ink. I looked back through the bars and he was seated +again, his head on his hands. I should not have been surprised to +learn that he had forgotten the pen and paper were there. I have not +seen him since. + +But this morning there came to the office his half-brother, Raymond +E. Brennan, from whom this crime has separated him beyond hope +of reconciliation. Now that I think of it, they are not exactly +half-brothers but by courtesy, since Brennan’s father married the +mother of Fergal some years after he was born, and she a widow. + +In his hand he carried a small square package. + +“It is the book—” he said, “the book done by Kearmit the monk in a +past century. I brought it myself, for the boy asked that you be let +read it. It is a treasure of his house. He knew it by heart, and +thought it a great treasure—as I fancy it may be, as such things go.” + +His tone indicated that such things did not go far with him, though +he was tolerant. + +“Is it something concerning the case?” I asked. + +“Not at all,” he said. “It is a collection of legends and songs of +his mother’s house, done by a kinsman of theirs who was a monk. It is +a very ancient house, Mr. De Nise. According to the records, there +were princes and abbots among them when Ireland was in her glory. The +work on the book is of the finest and worth seeing.” + +“But I have made no request for the book, nor ever heard of it,” I +said, for as the wrapper was taken off and I saw the richness and +value of it, I hesitated to keep it. He looked at me in surprise. + +“No? That is strange,” he said. “Ah, the poor lad; his head is wrong; +that is it.” + +“Did he tell you I wanted it?” I asked. “Please repeat to me exactly +what he said; I am much interested in his case, and he speaks so +little that every word is precious, as it may help to reveal hidden +things.” + +“I know that, and am glad he has a good friend in you. I cannot be +that. I feel that it is his head is wrong, for he was ever a strange +lad, delving in ancient records, and at home with thoughts too old +for his years. His mother was a safe, natural woman and there were +times he seemed ‘fey’ to her. He was born the night his father died, +but he was like neither father nor mother. She told me that when she +followed my father, and asked me to care for the lad. I did my best +while I could, but I do not want ever to hear the old Irish of his +voice again, or touch his hand again while I live.” + +“What do you mean by the ‘old’ Irish of his voice?” I asked, and he +looked at me with a little frown of perplexity. + +“Do you know, Mr. De Nise, that is a hard question to answer to a man +who has not heard the Gaelic about him. That lad was not brought up +to the Gaelic speech, nor his parents before him, nor their parents, +yet when he spoke first—English words, mind you—he spoke it with the +sound on his tongue of the old Irish. That is not because he has not +gone about and heard other speech: three years he was in France and +in Spain. There was an old branch of his people came to Galway from +Spain in the very old times. His mother said he came by the blackness +of his hair from the Spanish kindred, for her people were fair +always. But, as I was saying, no travel took the touch of the old +tongue off him. You must have noticed, sir, yourself; it is as if he +speaks in English but thinks in the old Irish.” + +Now that explained exactly that baffling music of his intonation, and +I was glad to have it cleared up for me; if cleared up it is! + +“Yes—he has always been strange, but he was a lovable lad at that,” +said Brennan. “I know it was his head went wrong all in a flash, and +I hope the court so decides. But when I try to think kindly of him, +there comes again before my eyes that awful sight of—ah—I cannot even +speak of it yet.” + +He walked to the window and stood with his back to me. I could see he +was much agitated. + +“Do not try to speak of it,” I said, “only try to tell me the word he +sent concerning the book.” + +Brennan gave me a letter from his pocket and walked again to the +window while I read it. + +There was no heading to the letter; it began abruptly in clear, +decided penmanship. + + “I know the sorrow of you—yet it may be there is a deeper sorrow + I am now hiding. I know the hate of your heart for me—and all the + world is with you in that. + + “I am not sending to you in any complaining, for things are + written, and the reasons are not shown to mortals, yet we must + abide by that writing. + + “I am sending to ask a favor for the man who would save—if he + can—the last of my family, which he cannot. I would have lent to + him for his reading, the book of the annals of our house. Not the + genealogy in Gaelic with its translation, but the smaller book + with the ivory cover and the silver clasps. It is the legends and + songs of our bards in the other days before the harps of Ireland + were broken by the mailed fist of the enemy. The man I want to + have read it is a lover of books, and nothing like the ‘Book of + Kearmit’ has he seen; not but what kindred clans had jewels of + books, and more of them than in other lands, but the Saxon, like + the Dane, in their plunderings, stripped them of the precious + coverings, and left the vellum to rot or burn. They are few and + rare at this day. + + “The sorrow is with me for the reason that your life is in + shadow. Always first in my heart was held my love of you. I am + proud now to be knowing that, and on a day to be ... you will + know it! + + “On that day I may again call you brother—and the waiting for it + is long to me. + + “FERGAL.” + +“That is the first word he has ever sent me, since that night,” said +Brennan, “so I brought the book at once. I would do much more to be +of use to any mortal in misery, but hear him, or see him, I hope I +shall never.” + +While he spoke a messenger came in with a package for me. I still +held Brennan’s letter in my hand. As I glanced at the envelope +just received I saw that the writing was the same—it was the first +communication I had ever received from Fergal. + +I opened it quickly, and found many large pages closely written; +folded around them was a note. It said: + + “Good Friend— + + “A book of old Irish legends will be brought to your hand this + day. Before reading the letter I send in this, I will ask you to + read the book. There is one tale of the olden days I would have + you reading. It is called _Randuff and White Enora_.” + +I turned to Brennan. “I should like after all to look at the book,” I +said. “Fergal will no doubt tell me why he wishes me to see it.” + +Then thanking him for coming with it personally, I let him out as +expeditiously as possible in my eagerness to see what the boy had +sent me. It was a great temptation to read the letter first, but I +put it aside and opened the book. + + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +It is a curiosity in book-making and binding. The ivory panels of the +back with their scroll work of silver were done by no prentice hand, +and the lettering on the vellum is so fine I had to use a magnifying +glass to get all the beauty of line in the illuminated initials. How +the deuce did those Irish monks of the old days do such work with +quill pens and no glasses? Whoever “Kearmit of Clan Cumanac” might +have been, his work was that of an artist, as you will see when you +come. + +I did not linger long over the artistic binding or ornamental pen +work, but turned at once to the story Fergal had mentioned. It was +called _The Sad Tale of Randuff and White Enora_. It was written in +verse, as many others were. I find that Randuff means “The Dark, +Handsome One.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +In Tormond, north of the Shannon, dwelt the clans of Cumanac before +the foot of the invader brought the curse on the land, and sent +westward their mercenaries to wall themselves in, and to carve +prayers in the stone over the gates, that the sons of the land +might not rise in their vengeance and make ashes of their women and +children as have the Saxons with the “mere Irish.” + +But Brian is dust in Dunpatrick, and Cormac the wise has been dust a +thousand years in Rosnaree, and besides them no king has arisen in +strength to hold together the tribes, and strong to do righteousness +on the adventurers who have their hirelings in mail to help them make +profits off the land. + +And of the last law of Edward’s councilors has come the evil of the +death of Randuff—the sweetly dark one, cried now by the woman, and +mourned by the very trees of the forests he had love for! Randuff of +the princes of Cumanac, Randuff of the sweet voice, and that voice +chanting the glories above all sweetness of mortal: Grief on the loss +of that one! + +Her name was Enora of the Saxons, and when she spread her net, and +looked on him, it was a drug to his soul. The robe of a scholar he +forgot, and holiness he forgot, and only marriage with her was the +dream walking with him all the night. To his brothers in kindred +he told his love and it needed not the telling, for all could read +the wonder of it in his eyes—shadowed eyes the women of Cumanac are +wailing! + +The new law of the invader forbids bonds of marriage between their +Saxon men and our Irish women—and much more is the strength of the +law against daughters of English taking a name from an Irish clan, +even though it be a princely clan. Grief on that day! + +So it stands, and what is one man, even the youth Randuff, to do +against that? What is one man to do with the pride of his clan like +a black rage back of him? And their friendship and their love hidden +from him? And their rule hard against him for that he would not tear +the face of her out of his breast; and would not forget the White +Enora of the sea-blue eyes? + +Sons of lords of Spain sailed into the Shannon mouth. In their own +ship they came, and young they came, and they were his kindred. Love +in their own hearts made them brothers to Randuff, and they alone +knew of the stolen nights of him in her secret chamber. Only they +knew that he fared forth as a _duine_—leading the steed of her father +... as a servant unknown walked Randuff, son of princes, to follow +the white feet of the woman of the other shore. Grief on that day! +None but the sons of the lords of Spain knew it, and they knew it. + +Sweet the plot for love was the plot of Randuff and the sons of the +lords of Spain—and sweet the sailing to be when the bird of love flew +south with them, for that was their dream! + +But the maid of the secret nights had a long look in the blue eyes of +her, and the look was long for a man who could put her near to the +throne in the court of Edward. Such was her look, and such was the +hope, and that was not in power of Randuff, son of prince of Cumanac, +nor of any other of Erinn’s princes, and she grew in fear of the +love-nights she had loved so rashly, and in fear of the lover who had +dared much, and would dare more. + +The Night of nights came when the sails were loosed, and horses were +under the wall, and the lover in the secret door for the last time. +And in fear of his wrath when she should say to him “No,” and in fear +of her own kindred if they thought the truth of her—she took by her +side a wolfhound of her knowing, and a keen knife to give help to the +last. Grief on the night! + +With fair treacherous words, and sad words, she told him the will of +her kinsmen was heavy on her, and the fear on her was a great fear, +and never again could the moon light their love-nights. Her beauty +had been coveted by an earl of England, and her parting from wild +Ireland would be a long parting. + +So it was, and when in love his arms went around her, the wolfhound +leaped to his throat, and her knife found the way to his heart. Grief +on that night! + +The cries of her were the cries of a child in fright, and her words +were of terror, and these were her words: That to save herself pure +from a man of the Irish wilds, she had used the knife, and she stood +there holding back the hound from the blood of Randuff, and told this +thing, and the eyes of Randuff on her, and the breath of life going +from him! + +Her kinsmen came there—and their rage was a great and terrible rage, +and above all the rage was that of Alwynn, a priest of her blood, +and it may be he is druid, too, for he is not christian surely; and +it was the curse of curses he put on the youth there, not alone that +he should die unshriven, but that no sons should ever again be born +to the name, and the pride of the race, and its fruitfulness should +die out even as the youth’s blood was flowing from the heart of him. +Grief on that night! + +And the strength of that hate, and the words of it, wakened Randuff +out of the death spell, and in a great slowness he spoke again, and +the people who heard it went cold, and the wanton white thing fell +swooning, and none of them are forgetting it, and this is what he +said there: + + “When the last of our clan’s blood is gone from this life, + Will but be when Enora finds death by this knife. + If no sons shall be born to keep honored our name, + From the grave one will rise to give death for this shame. + And you err, White Enora, at thought that the moon + Will no more light our meetings: a vision—a swoon + Comes gray on my senses, yet through it I see + Another life living for you—and for me!” + +Death took him, and no mortal is knowing what meaning was in his +words. The Spanish kinsmen told their tale, and sailed for the south, +and earth glory and sinful glory are the portion of Enora of the +wolfhound. She is near the throne surely, and the children of her are +honored by her own name forever by the royal will. + +This is the tale of Randuff and White Enora. It is put down by the +hand of Kearmit of Cumanac as a sign against that family forever. No +honor, no friendship, is ever to be taken by gift or grace of the +people of her blood, and no other thing forever but war should be +with that people. As White Enora with her wolfhound, and her knife +for the lover, so is that blood to the blood of the tribes whose land +they have coveted, and have left ravaged. May memory be with our +people in the Day of days! + +“By the Elements, and the Father, and Son, and Sanctified Spirit.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +In a different but clear hand two pages were added: + + Such is the record of Kearmit, Kearmit, the holy of Cumanac, + Truthful the word he has written—blessed the writing! + Truthful the warning to tribes of the Cumanac, + Truthful that warning! + Against Alba whose own sons they sold in the market, + and they not in hunger, + Against that people whose daughters were coming like calves + and sold like the cattle, + Against that land whose mothers were sold + and they with the unborn!— + They are the men lacking blood but the blood of the liver, + They are the men. The diolamhan fight all their battles. + Loud is their laugh that Brabanters are fighting their battles, + loud in their mocking! + Evil was ours in the buying of children and mothers, + evil in bringing that breed. + Shadow to us for that breeding: + treacheries born from the blood of their daughters. + Weakness of heart in our clans buying slaves out of Alba. + Slaves have been made of that buying;—slaves are our princes! + Sad forever the purchase—Erinn in shadow is witness! + Sing death forever ’gainst compact or truce with that people. + Leave us forever unchristened one hand of our clansmen: + The axe hand of battle for these who have sold us their daughters. + Watch you forever ’gainst smiles, or sweet words, or hand + claspings. + Think on their mothers once sold to our men for our usage, + Swearing of friends’ oath with them! Unchristened the axe arm of + Erinn. + Unchristened the axe arm forever to use in the cleaving + Of tribes who would barter a friend as they sold their own + daughters. + This is the warning to pass through all lives to our people, + This, and the maid of the wolfhound, and she with the dagger. + That is the soul out of Alba—the white maid Enora! + Leave all unchristened the axe arm of Erinn forever! + + * * * * * + + +I finished the old chronicles, wondering why I had been asked to read +of the intensity of the ancient hates, though I acknowledge that the +form of the original is better than my faulty translation from the +Latin. Then I opened his letter of which I send you an exact copy. I +can’t let the original go—yet I want you to be entirely acquainted +with all the evidence of which I am possessed. Call me up soon as you +read it. Here is the letter: + + My Good Friend— + + Now that I have put my hand to it, you shall have your wish. To + tell you will lighten the heart of me, and now that the end is so + near I can see no harm coming from the truth. No man with the + cleverness of you would take into court a letter such as this + must be, and you will not tell the one man it would hurt—that you + could not do; the worst you will do is to think me mad. + + If it is so now, then I was mad at birth. Yet no one thought it. + I was different but no worse than that, and I will tell it you. + + My mother was of the blood of the Cumanac, though the name + of the tribe is dead. Sons were not born—only daughters. The + genealogy of our people is clear back to the days of Diarmod of + the Foreigners, who is in hell if there be one! The women of our + house married scholars, and into families of scholars. The record + of that blood was the record of a province, and there was no + generation of it lost. + + I am different from my family. They were fair, I am dark as our + ancient Spanish cousins. My mother wept often on my birthdays + but would not say why to me. Later I learned that I was born the + night of the death of my father. There were times when she cried + out that I was born with his brains, and my questions of ancient + things frightened her, for I spoke as a child of things I could + not know as a child. She thought I had “the sight,” and she was + frightened by it, for she was a quiet, God-fearing woman, with + only dread on her for the side of life she could not see. + + Because of that dread I grew silent about many things. I wanted + to ask why, when I closed my eyes to sleep, I so often rose above + my body and drifted there, held only by the thin invisible cord, + waiting for the slumber of the body to release me until I could + go free—where? + + I wanted to ask why certain people, though dressed in sober + friese, yet had rainbow rays of light visible—while others had + clear white—and others the color of gloom. + + I wanted to ask of the faint, sweet music of harps, heard in + nights of clear cold and white snow under the moon—often I was + out at dawn to find track of the musicians whose playing was + unearthly sweet. + + But I was only a boy, and I had learned to watch and learn if + others were in the same wonder, but it was of no use. There were + no tracks in the snow, and no one seemed to me to have ears or + eyes for my mysteries. + + So I grew to live much within myself, and my mother was a lonely + woman. When the father of Raymond wed with her, it brought more + content to us both. I think she feared the care of me as I grew + older, and Raymond was the sort she could best understand. + + It was after the marriage that I first saw the land of our + ancient people. In Galway my mother’s husband had bought an old + estate, and Raymond had great joy in plans for showing me the old + castle—the secret dungeon—the hidden stairway and subterranean + gallery whose exit they had not yet discovered. + + That was the time I had the first glimmer of light as to where I + had flown while my body slept! + + For I turned to the hidden stairway before Raymond could tell me, + and I took them to the ruins of an old monastic cell, and told + them to lift a slab there to find the underground entrance—and it + was there as I said. + + My mother wept when they told her. I said I had dreamed it. + + In looking over the ancient documents of transfer of the lands, + its history was clear to the days of Edward the Third, when + a beautiful daughter of the Saxon owner had become a court + favorite, and left the wilds of Connaught to carry her graces + to the eastern market. The name of her was Enora. I was reading + Latin by that time and found her name in our own records + by Kearmit. Raymond came by some deeds giving names of her + descendants, and it was a game of interest to trace them down + through the centuries. + + Happiness was with me in that place; I had never heard the Gaelic + until I heard it there, and the knowing of it seemed breathed + into me with the air, for I was soon delving in every corner + for songs of the ancient bards and seeking out old singers, and + hearing over and over their tales of the breaking of Ireland’s + harps by England’s laws that her music might be killed forever. + + The tales were sad enough, but I was only a lad and no sadness + stayed on me, for I was in more happiness than ever before. + In my early childhood I had been long ill, and debarred from + ranging in freedom the field or the mountains, but in old + half-Spanish-looking Galway I walked into new life—and new + strength. The nights and days were filled with the harmonies of + mere living. I was as one who has hungered long for full warm + heartbeats and who grows drunken with the rhythmic music of that + pulsing—all the world and the harmonies of it were as chorus to + me. + + I enjoyed life with every breath of me—not as my mother and + Raymond did, in quiet and serene, but with the lilt of a singing + gladness that was but a reflection of every flower—an echo of + every bird-song and the joyous, thunderous rhythm of the tide + with its menace of mysteries. + + The Gaelic came to me as though in sudden remembrance, and I + lived in the very spirit of the ancient legends of the Land + Wonderful where turrets of sunken cities are seen in a clear day + at the ebb, and the magic island of the “Land of the Ever Young” + rises above the waters to the west every seven years. + + Ireland is the tragic “different” land from every other. The + wish is with me that I could tell to you the influences in that + land—the inherited influences by which an unread peasant can + recite the loves and battles of Queen Maeve, and the flight of + Grania and her Diarmod, as if the passions of them had been in + our own day rather than twenty centuries back in the shadows. + Every well and river, every hill and battle-plain, has its legend + of god or goddess, of the Danaans or the later wondrous Fionn + and the Comrades. Nothing is old there, because the spirit of it + is young. It is why the music of it has had soul enough to reach + through the world—Teuton and Briton and Gaul borrowed and renamed + the music of Ireland and the legends of Ireland, even while + Britain smashed Ireland’s harps lest the bards keep alive forever + her kinship with the Spirits of Beauty. + + Only fragments of the music are left to her—death and exile were + the penalties for giving shelter to a bard, or giving ear to + his harping. An old man of Laherdane told me a human life had + been paid twice over for every note of every ancient Irish song + preserved to us in this day. All that is left are a few airs to + which the moderns strive to fit words, or a few verses to which + they strive to fit music, yet the beauty of the fragments are + worth all the strivings. + + By this you will see that, as a lad, I was overswept by the great + wave of ancientness of the land—and the charm of it. You have + seen Raymond, and you will know without any telling that he lived + beside me for years, yet never saw the Ireland I was enthralled + by. We had the different eyes and the different heart for its + reading. + + I thought often enough how strange it was that while he was near + double the years of me, yet it was the new things of today + he was alive to: the trading of nations, and the financing of + American mines, and such like, with never a thought of even the + policies of kingdoms further in the past than his own generation; + while I lay hidden from my English tutor on the cliffs above the + bay, and tried to picture the gray-blue mist by which the magical + Danaans made a wall between themselves and the foreign invaders + while their hidden palaces under the green hills were being made + ready for their using. + + I knew the magical and majestic Danaans of the land had dwindled + in earth-power with the centuries, until in our day they are + spoken of as fairies, or earth-spirits, but that lessened none of + their interest to me. They had, for some mystic reason, drawn the + veil of the invisible over their life. But the life did endure, + and was often close akin to certain living mortals. + + For hours I would lie thus in the grasses, listening to the + whisper of winds and waves, singing with them at times, listening + for echoes, until the soft flight of velvet-winged bats from the + cliff caves sent me home in the dark to tell my mother and my + tutor the many echoes of ancient years I had heard out there with + only sea and sky, bird and wind voices for my telling. + + I did not mean to speak falsely when I averred, despite lectures + from my tutor and scoldings from my mother, that the birds did + speak, and that the wind did bring whispering voices which none + but I could hear. I heard them, felt their presence, and at times + the veil between this and that other life was so thin that I + could see the glad sunlight on faces that came—I knew not whence! + Slowly, as I grew older, they faded—as do the many other dreams + that come to children. + + But the echo of the whispers remained; through all of life they + have seemed to prepare me for what was to come. And if my + sentence from the court is death, I feel that the same voices + will greet me again, and will say: “Rest you now; the time has + been long to you since you wandered away. Your work in that life + is over. Rest you with us.” + + So I grew up, my mind full of fancies; and they were odd and + foolish, and frightening to my mother. + + “Sorrow of me,” she would say, scoldingly. “You are like a + changeling of different blood. You do naught but dream in + idleness, and see unchristian things that are the outgrowth of + lazy brains.” + + It would be of no use in the world to tell her that at times I + dreamed true—like the secret stairway, and the lost underground + hall to which I had found the lichen-covered door. To say + aught to her of these things in argument only sent her to her + prayers—or to her priest, who deemed me but a hopeless liar, and + an unrepentant one. + + Only Raymond did not scold. “Never you mind, mother, he is but + a boy,” I have often heard him say; “and why should he do aught + but dream and sing old songs if his happiness is in that? He has + income enough to be at no one’s expense but his own.” + + In our house were many old books of the tribes of the Cumanac, + and quaint old pictures of our people. My mother never looked + at them. She only had care of them because her mother had known + them as treasures. Kings had been of our family in the past, and + mystical druid rulers in the dim shadow ages. The old legends + and traditions over which I pored as I grew older told me of the + beauty of our women, the bravery of our men, and the high esteem + in which they were held even by their enemies of the east and + north. They lived in the feudal grandeur of those days—kings in + their own territory. + + Then the curse came! + + All those tales of a life so different to that around me made a + lasting impression on my imagination. I seemed to live in the + lives of those who were gone centuries before I was born. And + when alone in some old room of the castle with my books about me, + or alone in the hills in the night with my memories of dreams + about me, I had strange temptings at times. If my self-confidence + had equaled my convictions, I would have turned scribe and + supplied many missing chapters in the old histories. Strangely + enough, it was not history at all that I wanted to write, but it + was the lost songs of Ancient Ireland, and they held themselves + high in the air—the words never came near—only fugitive melodies + and the thrilling harp! + + I think now I should have written the history as it came clear in + my mind, and at times in scribbling idleness to my pen’s point. + The flashes of the ancient life were as a schooling for my mind + and my hand. I think the songs would have followed if I had done + good work.... It is my grief that I have lost the chance for this + life. They come not again to a closed door. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +When I was seventeen my mother died. That left Raymond and me all +alone, for his father had already gone the Way. He was like a father +to me always in his care and the quietness of his love. One day he +came to me with some papers he had found in an old desk. My mother, +and her mother before her, had taken no heed to them; but they +concerned a property in Scotland to which he said I was the heir +through an ancient branch of our family. + +“What will we do?” I asked him. Scotch cousins did not seem near to +me. That people had helped break the harps. + +“I must go myself and see about it,” he said; “it is not a large +property and may have gone to the Crown through being unclaimed. But +by going I may at least find in it some old books such as you fancy, +or some old pictures for you to dream over.” + +That is what he said: “some old books or old pictures for you to +dream over.” + +Aye! The dreams he made true for me by that going! + +In that way he went from me to be back in a month, but letter after +letter came, pleading business details to be arranged. My claim was +made good, but it required much attention to settle the matters +connected with it. So time went on until many weeks had passed. Then +at last came a letter which explained all, and it said: + + “Fergal, my brother— + + “I have news to tell you—news I hope you will be glad to hear. + Tomorrow I am to be married. It all seems very sudden to send + you word thus, but she has been left alone in the world by + death—herself the last of the ancient family of the Galway + castle, who, I have heard you say, were your forefathers’ enemies + ages ago. Her name is Ednah; she is the last of their line, and + you the last of yours. I give her to you as a sister, and thus we + will bury the old hates of Erin and Albion.” + +I read this letter as in a dream. I had never thought of the marrying +of Raymond. I re-read it, trying to remember all the tales of our old +feud with her people. Why did that one of Randuff and White Enora +come first and keep uppermost in my mind? Parts of the others were +forgotten It alone remained undimmed in my memory. I tried to put it +aside and think only of Raymond. I thought I succeeded, at least in +the daytime. + +I was out on the cliffs when they arrived, and did not see them at +once. I came in vexed with myself for forgetting the hour he was to +come. I found them in a room where our family portraits were hung. +I could see them through the door—he so large and massive, she so +slight and fair. His arm was about her shoulders. + +I hesitated; I was only a lad, and our family had been one with +family affections, but little of outward sign given of them—no +kisses, no embraces, even from my mother; and the sight of that +half-embrace was a strange one to me. It made me feel more keenly +my own aloneness. Because of the shyness on me I waited until they +should move. They had stopped before my picture. + +“Who is that?” she asked, and her voice was music. + +“It is my brother Fergal,” said Raymond. “He should be here now—the +idle, dreaming fellow. He has forgotten. Come, we will go and look +for him.” + +“Wait,” she said. “I want to look at his picture. How different from +all the rest it is. Somewhere, sometime ... I have seen a face like +that, or a picture, but where—where?” + +“I have no doubt there are many such happy, careless faces among +boys,” said Raymond. + +“But is it quite careless?” she asked. “When one looks at it long it +grows sad, then stern—and the eyes—ah, those eyes! If he looks at me +in that way I shall fear him, Raymond.” + +Raymond put his hand over her eyes, and laughed and kissed her on the +mouth. I went chill in the heart at that kiss. + +“What a foolish child you are,” he said. “You and Fergal are alike in +your imaginings.” + +Then they turned and saw me. Raymond looked so happy and so +different that I was glad. But I do not know if I can find words to +tell how she looked. + +She was fair and babyish, with little ways and movements like a white +kitten. Her hair was the yellow of the cornsilk, and her eyes as blue +as the violet which grows always in the shade. She reached out her +hands to me in a pretty childish way. + +“We are to be brother and sister,” she said. “I hope we shall all be +very happy together.” + +I barely touched the hands of her—such pretty hands—but that +touch tingled through all my blood. I stammered and blushed with +embarrassment. I had known so few women, and none well, and I had +never seen any as beautiful as my brother’s wife. She was dainty and +delicate as the snow maiden that fades when brought down to the level +where humanity lives. + +Perhaps that was why I feared to touch her, even. If I did by chance, +my hand would tremble and my face flush. She laughed over it to +Raymond. + +“He will never be my brother,” she said. “He is as shy of me as if I +were still a stranger.” + +One day Raymond spoke to me of it: + +“Why are you so foolish,” he asked. “Ednah wonders why you have +dislike of her. You are almost of an age—born in the same year—and +should be better friends. Yet you range the mountains alone more than +ever. Even the books are forgotten by you.” + +In answer I asked to go away to school, or to travel. I had never +before cared for anything but our old house and the forest near, or +the musty books in the time-worn cases. Now the air had grown close; +all the quiet of the forest, all the hum in the grasses, could not +bring to me their old, drowsy rest; and the wind no more carried +echoes of whispering voices! + +“Perhaps it is best that you should go,” said Raymond. “Travel may +cure you of this strangeness and shyness. I shall give up this place +for a while and cross seas. Ednah has horror of these old walls, and +will stay in no room of them alone. When you join us again you will +find us in some sunnier place.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +So I made my farewells and went wandering. For three years I never +saw Ireland. All that time I was going, going—never at rest. And +though through every hour of it I longed to go back, and feared to, I +could not explain whence the fear came. + +Then Raymond wrote to me in Spain to join them here. I was almost +twenty-two. There were property matters to be arranged, and my +presence was required. I am not sure if I was glad or not. I did not +sleep at all, and I sailed on the first ship. + +Once on the sea the fear fell away. Almost the music of dreams came +back to me. The three years of wandering had driven out the dreams +and remembrance had not been happiness. + +But the ship to the west brought me into starry nights of sweetness +and wonderful dreams when all the world was of hope, for the fear was +gone on the waves. + +Raymond did not expect me so soon, and I found their new home all +alone. Only Ednah was there. She ran down the steps to meet me. Back +of her was a tall hound. + +“Fergal, Fergal!” she said, and the blue eyes of her were bright as +if with tears. + +I am not knowing if I spoke to her—I think I did not. But I took +her hand. She offered her cheek as if for a brother’s caress, but I +did not touch it. I only looked at her, and we walked up the steps +together, and the hound followed. + +“I am glad it is today you came,” she said. “I am all alone. Ah, we +have wanted you so often! The world felt so empty—empty as all my +life used to be! Now all will be different—you are here.” + +She showed me a portrait lately finished of her with the hound at her +knee. The artist had asked that one be secured for the painting, and +Raymond had tried to find one to look most like an Irish wolfhound +for the harsh note of contrast with her own whiteness. She told this +frankly as a child, and laughed because the dog would not follow +Raymond when she was near. Then she showed me all their wonderful new +home, and the Italian garden above the river, and a wonderful pergola +where yellow roses and crimson roses burned like flame. + +We sat in that dream place through the sunset. I listened and +said little. Her glad voice was as cool, sweet rain that falls on +sun-scorched sands. I was beside her until the dusk, drinking in +tones of music, but never once did I look in her eyes. + +And Raymond came when the night fell. + +I scarce know how to tell of the days to follow. The fear and shyness +came back to me. But I was older and could hide it more than when +she first came to my sight, and Raymond had pleasure to think I was +feeling more friendly toward the lovely wife. But I avoided being +alone with her, and with the tall hound ever her shadow. + +Even when she rode horseback above the cliffs of the river the hound +was at the heels of her horse, and was known widely by the new +friends of Raymond. The portrait was shown in a great gallery, and +was called “Beauty and the Beast.” But you have seen that, and know +the pride of Raymond that she was his. He housed and dressed and +adored her as queen of the world. + +But it was herself gave long, strange looks to me, and looks of +question they were, too. Everyone sought her except myself, and she +was noting that, even though the eyes of Raymond were blind by his +love for us both. + +One day I came in with scarlet blossoms for which she had asked. + +She was coming down the great stairs and smiled at me. + +“How lovely,” she said; “we have dinner-guests tonight, but I shall +wear no jewels. I want only those scarlet blossoms in my hair; bring +them in here to the musicroom.” + +I followed her, and stood there holding the flowers; but she did not +take them. She only looked at me and laughed a little. + +“One would think me an old witch-wife of your Irish hills, you shun +me so, brother Fergal,” she said, “and I think I shall make you do +penance here. You must fasten the blossoms in my hair with your own +hands. You should learn to be gallant, Fergal, else when you meet +your ladylove you will never know how to woo her.” + +I held the flowers in silence and tried to fasten them. My fingers +were shaking. The perfume of her hair made me drunk as wine. + +“Your hands are nervous doing work so new to them,” she said, and +laughed. “You foolish boy, what can I do more than to fit up this +room for you only, with its Irish harp and its Irish music and a pot +of Shamrock in each window. It is enough to make any other man love +me—but not Fergal!” she said, and sighed, and then laughed. + +I could not answer her words of light mocking, and the great hound, +stretched at her feet, arose and the bristles on his neck stood +upright as my hands touched her hair. He was ever on guard for her, +and it was a jest that she had to put chain on him for the lessons +with a dancing-master. He would allow no stranger to touch her, and +me he was ever watching in jealousy. + +Raymond’s wife noted it, and laughed. + +“He has the jealousy of a man in love,” she said, “but you know +nothing of that jealousy, for it is only books and old music you have +in your mind. You are almost a year older than I, and have traveled +around the world, yet are afraid of women. And to think I once +dreamed of fearing you—or your picture—that is amusing to me now! +I have never once seen your eyes look in a rage as I thought they +might. But it is seldom you favor me even with a glance. I doubt if +you could tell the color of my eyes.” + +So she chattered on, smiling up at me, mocking at my silence and at +my shaking hand. + +“I have fear that this will not be done to your pleasure,” I said at +last. + +She laughed again. “Fergal,” she said, “is it all women you are +fearing, or only me?” + +As she spoke her head was turned to look up at me. I still held the +flowers in her hair. My wrist was near her cheek. In turning, her +lips touched it. Perhaps it was accident. I do not know. + +The golden hair of her was over my hands, her red mouth on my wrist, +and the wonderful child-eyes of her looking into my own. She raised +one hand and clasped my arm. I threw it from me with a force that +staggered her back to the wall, and the tall hound pressed close to +her and growled deep threat to me. The flowers in my hand I dashed to +the floor, and I left her there like that. As I went down the steps I +heard my name called by her, but I never looked back. + +That night I spent in the forest. + +When morning came again I told Raymond that my wandering years were +not over. The Foreign Legion of France might need another sabre. I +was willing to offer one to her—or to Ireland, if need arose in the +south. And it was not a time for youth to be easy in comfort in any +house. + +Raymond laughed, and said I could send money enough to buy them a +seasoned soldier instead of myself, and told me he would take it +ill if I sailed before Ednah’s birthday, for it was in his mind to +give an entertainment that I might meet their many new friends. His +wife joined us in silence and clasped his arm and stood with eyes +downcast. She looked very white and very childish. We had not spoken. + +“You young people have been dull here,” her husband said. “Suppose +we have a ball for your birthnight; something to repay the great +hospitality of the people. What do you say, my child? I must not have +you lonely.” + +She spoke her pleasure, and, the choice of entertainment being left +to her, it was a masquerade she made choice of. “It is more gaiety,” +she said. + +“A masque it shall be, then,” said Raymond. “And you, Fergal, must +have no thought of leaving us until after that.” + +“Are you going again?” she asked, and her blue eyes had pleading in +them. + +I could make her no answer. + +“So he threatens,” said Raymond. “You must help me to persuade him +to be sensible and stay where he is. Perhaps we can find him a +sweetheart at the ball. You must get a fine dress, Fergal, and we +shall have it the night Ednah is twenty-two.” + +I was arranging some books in a case while they talked. I did not +want to look in her eyes and see the appeal there. One of the volumes +slipped from my hand to the floor. It was our old book of legends, +and it lay open at the tale of Randuff and White Enora. + +“Here is my dress,” I said, and tried to laugh. “What was good enough +for our ancestors centuries ago is good enough for me now. I shall +wear the dress of Randuff of Cumanac. Here is a description of it in +the legend.” + +Ednah stared at me. “Randuff of Cumanac,” she half whispered, “do you +mean that ‘Randuff’ of the Lady Enora’s song?” + +“Yes, if that is what you are calling him,” I said, “but the song I +never heard.” + +“How do you know of him?” asked Raymond. + +“I heard the rhyme of the killing often when I was a child,” she +said. “My grandmother never tired repeating the old tales of our +ancestors. It gave me fear of the wild Irish. How bitter those old +traditions made the people! The Lady Enora was sung as a very brave +maid. Grandmother always spoke of the Cumanac as our enemy. Had she +lived she would not have allowed me to be under the same roof with a +descendant of theirs—never!” + +“How ridiculous in this age to remember the old feudal hates,” said +Raymond. “I do not think the mother of Fergal knew even the legend. +She read only books of piety, and was too sensible to take heed of +hates so unchristian.” + +“It may seem silly to you,” said his wife, “but my grandmother was +thought a wise woman.” + +“What will be your dress?” asked Raymond, stroking her hair in a +caress. + +“I think I shall not tell either of you that,” she said. “It will be +much more amusing to puzzle you. I shall receive my guests in evening +dress and then mask in whatever I decide upon. You must not coax me +to tell. On my birthnight you must let me have my own way.” + +My friend, this story may seem strangely long to you, but when I +write of it, every word, every look, is coming back to me. + +No persuasions could induce Raymond to mask the night of the ball. +“I am too old,” he protested. “At forty-five, people lose zest for +masques.” + +My dress they called a success, but Ednah said: + +“There is one thing needed for that costume: you have no dagger.” + +“It was forgotten by the costumer,” I told her, “and I had none that +would answer.” + +“Wait,” she said, “I have one—an heirloom. How old it is I do not +know. We had several in an old chest. Grandmother knew the history of +each, but I never could remember them. I kept a very ancient Spanish +one for a paper knife: I am sure it will do.” + +She left us, running along the hall, the great hound leaping beside +her in play, her white ball dress fluttering like wings; to see her +thus none would have thought such a childish butterfly could be the +hostess of the evening. + +Raymond looked after her in pride and great content. + +“Like a child she is,” he said. “Just as thoughtless and innocent; +twenty-two today, and does not look seventeen. Ah, Fergal, there is +only one life for a man: you must also get a wife. You will be more +content to stay home from wars then.” + +I had no answer for him, and he laughed at me as he watched her come +back with the dagger. It swung by a silver chain and there were +jeweled clasps to the chain. The handle formed a cross, and the +sheath was oddly carved and inlaid; the blade ... but you have seen +it! + +I tried to clasp it, but the fastenings were difficult to manage. + +“Clasp it for him, Ednah,” said Raymond. “I must have this hound +chained for you, else no mask will serve you or no stranger be let +dance with you.” So he spoke and laughed and left us alone. + +The chain of the girdle was in her hand and her eyes on mine. “Shall +I?” she asked. + +“If you please,” I answered, “since your husband bids.” + +“I am more kind to you than you are deserving,” she said, and sighed. +“You have not even said you were sorry for hurting me that day.” + +“If ever I have hurt you, I am sorry,” I said as coldly as I could, +but I feared while I spoke that she would know the tremble in my +throat. I might have been brutal that day, but to tell her so I did +not dare; I was afraid. And looking down at the bent golden head of +her, I told myself that never another day should see me under the +roof with my brother’s wife. + +“You are hurting me now,” she whispered. “Fergal, you are hurting me +always when you speak to me with that ice in your voice.” + +“Never will you hear it after tonight,” I answered. “I am going +tomorrow.” + +She stared at me, and put out her hand as if about to speak, then +dropped it and walked away. + +The ball was a very gay one. I surprised Raymond by showing no +shyness whatever among the ladies who thronged the rooms. He said the +mask gave me boldness. He was trying to discover his wife, and had +failed. + +“Several times I thought I had found her,” he said, “but I am always +mistaken. She has been very cunning. If you find her first, Fergal, +bring her to me.” + +I danced and jested with many, but in none did I discover her. + +At last, wearying of all the gay pretenses, I went out into the +night. The Italian garden above the cliffs was deserted by others for +the dance, and the pergola of the yellow roses was my own. It was +there I had sat that first evening of her witcheries. And there I sat +again with my head in my hands—wishing for the dawn that would take +me away without offense to the man I felt deep love for. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +The moon was at full and the grounds almost as day except under the +thick vines. Music came faintly to my ears through the open windows, +and dew lay over the grass like dust from the stars. A bed of +petunias near me exhaled that fragrance which the moon, but never the +sun, has power to draw out. + +The peace of it all oppressed me. The perfume of the flowers was +sweet, but I hid my face in my hands. I knew that the time was past +when the scent of flowers or music of winds or my own dreams would +bring content to me. Better, I thought, if I were dead and forgotten +as the Randuff whose dress I wore. + +How long I was sitting there I do not know. At last I felt that I was +not alone, and looked up. By my side was a girl in a dress such as +I had never seen save in antique pictures. It was of something with +lights in it like the waves of the ocean when the moon shines. Her +face I could not see for the misty lace over it. + +The glamour of the scene was about me. I forgot the crowds dancing +within; I forgot all save the presence of this girl, or was it a +dream-girl like the visions of my childhood? + +“Who are you?” I asked, and there was awe and wonder on me. + +“Do you not know?” came the answer in a whisper. “Have you forgotten, +Randuff of Cumanac?” + +“Randuff?” I repeated, scarcely knowing what I said. My brain seemed +whirling and the music of the dance drifted away. Through it I heard +the muffled, far-off bay of a hound! + +The girl touched me with her hand, and I held it fast. Her presence +was an intoxication of joy to me. I have no words for the telling +of the witcheries I felt myself yielding to. Was I Fergal or was I +Randuff? I could not tell. + +“Of course, Randuff,” she whispered with her lips on my throat, “and +I am your Enora who has found you again. This night only is ours out +of all the years of life. Were you wishing for me?” + +“I was,” I said, and I spoke truth. It seemed to me that all of life +had been nothing but waiting for that one night, and her near me. + +“And you are not afraid now?” she whispered. + +And I said: “There is no fear on me of anything but to lose you +again, as we have lost each other until now.” + +“We have only this night out of all the others,” she repeated. “Give +me your kisses, Randuff.” + +And then I knew what a woman’s kiss meant to a man, though it was not +as a woman I was thinking of her, but as a spirit of the far past +come back for that one night. My arms were about her—her face to +mine; broken, tender words were whispered in my ears. What I replied +I do not know. I felt her kiss on my mouth; I heard her breathless +whispers. + +And back of it all I heard the wild baying of a hound! + +“One night of life together, my Randuff,” she sighed. “Is it not +worth more than a long lifetime apart?” + +I could not speak—I could not! She lifted her hand to bring my face +again to hers. Some jewel in her bracelet caught in the lace mask, +and the veil of lace fell from about her head. + +The moon shone full in her eyes through the rose vines of the +pergola, and the soul of me was frozen there, for the girl who had +witched me by the touch of her fingers—whose lips I had kissed, whose +love I had taken—was the wife of my brother! + +I tried to rise; I could not. I tried to speak, but my tongue seemed +paralyzed. She must have felt something of what I wanted to say, for +terror was on her, and she clung to me, whispering: + +“Don’t, Fergal; don’t look at me like that! I could not have you go +away so. Now, though you go, I will know your love is mine. Nothing +can change that. Your love is mine!” + +I knew she was speaking the truth. Our lives were each other’s, +though the bond of it was sin. I heard her whispers in a strange, +double sense, for in clearness, as though there was no other sound +under the heavens, I was hearing the bay of a hound, and him on a +trail! + +She came closer to me. Her lips were touching mine which were locked, +giving no response to her caresses. I was as a man struck dumb with +the horror. My brother—who had been like a kind father to me, always! + +When I could hear her again, she was whispering: + +“Why must you go—ever? Do not be leaving me. Raymond need never know—” + +Then it was that I killed her, as the hound, in great leaps, entered +the pergola, dragging his chain in the moonlight. One blow of the +dagger, and she lay on my arm, white and innocent-looking as a +sleeping child. The hound leaped for me, but the same dagger caught +him in the throat. Another stroke left him twitching and quivering at +my feet. + +I stood between them, watching them long, to be sure no breath of +life was there to come back. + +Then I lifted her in my arms and bore her to the house. On straight +through the rooms I went, where the masked dancers scattered with +shrieks from my path. At last I saw Raymond, and carried her to him. + +“I have found your wife,” I said, and laid her in his arms. + +And for that, the judges, who cannot know, will be giving me death. + + FERGAL. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + + + +[Illustration: THE DARK ROSE] + + [Illustration: Roisin Dubh] + + [Music: (_The DARK ROSE_) + + _Sixteenth Century._] + + + + + THE DARK ROSE + + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + _And gun-peal, and slogan cry + Wake many a glen serene, + Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, + My Dark Rosaleen! + My Own Rosaleen! + The Judgment Hour must first be nigh, + Ere you can fade, ere you can die, + My Dark Rosaleen!_ + + +The lad Hugh scarce knew he was breathing the words, singing through +his mind. Old Shamas Ronayne had been telling over the tale of Red +Hugh O’Donnell, dead in Spain three hundred years ago, yet alive and +youthful over all the land where his song of the dark rose was sung. + + _My Dark Rosaleen! + My Own Rosaleen!_ + +“And he also had the name of Hugh on him. It’s myself is wishful I +could see a man like that in our own day—Shamas swears they don’t +make them any more.” + +He followed the sheep up through gorse and fern in the Kerry hills, +and cut himself a rude flute of alder, and strove to catch the notes +of the song on it, and tried again softly whistling with a blade of +grass held over his lips, and gave both up for the murmured words: + + _O my Dark Rosaleen! + Do not sigh, do not weep; + The ships are on the ocean green; + They march along the deep!_ + +The drifting glory of the clouds, silver and luminous and softly +gray, made wondrous forms and pictures against the blue of the sky, +and the deeper, darker blue of the far sea. He drowsed there over the +mystery of _Rosaleen_—had she been a maid beloved and estranged? Or, +was she, indeed, a dear secret name for the shadowed land for which +O’Donnell had fought and from which he was self-exiled? + +The _suantre_ of the sleepy winds lulled the lad into slumber before +he decided the centuries-old mystery, but it remained with him in a +misty dream, and in the dream he saw that the dark rose—the hidden +rose—was a Leanan Sidhe, a fair mistress of the Secret People whose +magic palaces were hidden under ancient raths of green, and where +legendary heroes waited the mystic music of the awakening on Erinn’s +day of destiny. + +There was, in this confused dreaming, more than a little of the +tellings or the singings of old Shamas by the peat fire in the long +twilights. A glen on the Kerry coast, where the sea-rovers of thirty +centuries agone left records on the white strands, is a wonder-place +for dreams. Queen Banva of the rath on Slieve Mish gave her name to +the island in that place and was consort of King of the Forest in +far-dim days when the forests were mighty and the great brown deer +ran in countless herds and were gentled and gave milk only to the +music of the voices of maidens—and the soothing and crooning and +gentling harmonies of that music remain today, and is called the +“music of Fairie,” and men wonder at the sweetness of it, and the +living spirit of it. + +The giant deer are gone, and the forests of wonder are gone—and the +speech of that day was long forbidden—only the spirit of the music +has lived in the hearts of the children of Banva. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +So the lad, Hugh, whose head was ever filled with one old legend, or +another old song, merged crowned Banva the Fair, and a nameless fairy +sweetheart, and the dark mystic rose-maid, immortalized by Mangan, +into his dream there on the hillside in Kerry, and had grief that +each was sad, for their tears were falling and his words of comfort +were useless, and the music of the song came to his help, and he +awoke himself with the whisper: + + _O my Dark Rosaleen! + Do not sigh—do not weep!_ + +But it was not tears at all that were falling on his face and his +hands: it was a swift, showery rain falling between two great blue +and sunny plains of the sky—just one drifting cloud of rain from +Slieve Mish, and it above him! + +The sheep were over the hill and beyond, and guilt was on him as he +ran after, pelted by the rain. + +Through the gray mist of it he could see the patch of white they made +on a sunny knoll toward which the shadow of the rain-cloud was moving. + +But a nearer sound came to his ears through the swift drive of the +shower—the bleat of a lamb, astray from a heartless parent. He stood +in his tracks hearkening to it, for it sounded from the druid rath +above, and it was a queer place for the straying of a lamb up there +among the bare stones when there was good grass, and that green, all +below it. + +But he ran across the old hill road and up the other side of it to +where one hawthorn shone white in bloom at the summit. + +It was a stiff run in the pelting rain, but the sounds were nearer +each step. He crossed one circle of the long crumbled earth wall, +then another, and plunged in between the standing stones and, +breathless, dropped down on the stone paving with the rescued lamb in +his arms. + +He was guided to it more by sound than sight, for the shower was now +a tempestuous gray wall of falling water, and with his treasure-trove +he moved back under the shelter of roof formed by three enormous +slabs. Once it might have been an underground temple, but the earth +about it had washed away, and it was like nothing but a shadowy +tunnel of great stone—and other great stone slabs fallen about. + +He wiped the water from his eyes, peering out the way he had come, +and then settled the lamb beside him and leaned back to wait the +sunshine or the lessening of the downpour. + +But he straightened quickly at what he saw in the shadow of the other +wall, and the heart in him gave a great leap, for he had met one of +his dreams, or a queen of a legend come alive again! + +For a girl sat there in a greenish-gray dress, and touches of scarlet +in the lining of the cloak over her shoulders. It was the cloak made +the picture so complete in the ancientness of the suggestion—he could +not know it was an idealized copy of a Connemara hooded cloak. + +The two young things sat gazing at each other as if entranced. The +face of Hugh was white, yet not with fear. There was awe on him, +but there was also joy, for, much as he had dreamed of the queens +of beauty in old legends, not one dream held as much of charm +as the uncrowned maid whose garb was so near the color of green +lichen-covered stone that he feared she would fade back into the +shadows of it. + +Then she smiled in an adorable way. + +“I saw you sleeping in the bracken as we passed up the old road,” she +said. “You looked like a picture of Shelley I have.” + +Hugh had not ever heard of that name, but there surely were many +names in the old legends not known to Shamas, who was his one great +historian. + +“That is an Irish name, I think, but it is not mine,” said the lad +politely. “I am Hugh of the glen below, and I am thinking it is +yourself would be Banva or Maeve but for the dark hair of you—and the +dark brightness of the eyes of you.” + +“Maeve—Maeve?” she repeated and regarded him with twinkling humor. +“Is it Queen Mab you mean—of the fairies?” + +“It is—but she was a fair-haired woman, and nothing like you at all. +I could not make guess at the name on you, yet it has the right to be +a bright name, and beauty in it.” + +“You would not guess it ever, for it is no queen in a book,” the girl +said with a little ripple of laughter. “It is common as the bracken, +and more common than the hawthorn in bloom there by the stone pillar, +for it is Rose.” + +“Rose! the dark rose? Dark Rosaleen?” And the voice of Hugh was a +whisper of awe. “I think now you are Maeve indeed, witching me with +that name!” + +“You are silly from tending sheep too much,” said the mocking +beauty. “Why should a fairy witch you? And why should it be with +my name? The dark rose! Am I then so dark? You are not polite as I +thought you at first—and I wish the storm were over.” + +Hugh caught his breath in a real terror at thought of her anger. + +“Ah, it is tricking me you are,” he said, “for how would you not be +knowing that the dark rose is the dearest flower growing to every +one of the real Irish? Since Hugh O’Donnell was making that song +away there in Spain, and since Mangan turned the verse of it to +‘Rosaleen,’ that rose is the sacred thing in many a breast. Shamas +Ronayne was telling that to all of us boys, and he is wiser than +most. I went asleep thinking of you, and singing the song, and—glory +be to the name!—was it that was bringing you here to this far-away +rath?” + +“Thinking of _me_—and singing the song? Hugh of the glen, how could +you think of a stranger you never saw or heard of? And what was the +song? I said you looked like Shelley, the poet, and maybe it’s a song +you made yourself.” + +The color flooded his face at that, and she clapped her hands +gleefully. + +“It is—it is—it is!” she chanted, and smiled at his blushes. + +“It is not then!” he denied awkwardly. “I have tried to find words +for songs, and I did sing them to the sheep—as you maybe know,” he +added cautiously, “but how could a shepherd know all the man-thoughts +of ‘Rosaleen’? No, young, dark rose-lady, it was only one man made +that—and the heart of him dying in him with the sickness for home. +He had only thirty years of life, had Hugh O’Donnell, and Shamas was +telling us that the poets of Ireland die in youth for the reason that +the People of the Hidden Raths want verses and music under the green +hills, and they call the young away while their dreams are on them.” + +“You are a very queer boy,” she said, “and I won’t believe there was +a song of any rose until I hear it.” + +He looked at her doubtfully. + +“You may be having the Gaelic?” he ventured, but she shook her +dark-ringleted head. In his heart he thought she was but trying him, +and probably knew all the tongues of all the lands of the earth. + +“Then I’ll be giving you the Englishing Mangan made of it; but the +words will not sing themselves to the Irish air O’Donnell made; but +that is right enough, too, when you think of it. Second-best music is +good enough for the English who smashed the Irish harps, and this is +a verse of it. There are many verses to ‘The Dark Rose.’” + +And with the lamb snuggling under his arm and the slanting rain +making a gray veil of all the outer world, Hugh threw back his head, +unconscious of lack of training as a meadow lark, and sang— + + _I could scale the blue air, + I could plow the high hills; + Oh! I could kneel all night in prayer + To heal your many ills! + And one beamy smile from you + Would float like light between + My toils and me, my own, my true, + My Dark Rosaleen! + My Own Rosaleen! + Would give me life and soul anew, + A second life, a soul anew, + My Dark Rosaleen!_ + +The girl leaned forward, watching him, as startled at the unboyish +song as he had been at sight of her. + +“That is a song I never heard,” she said, “and it is a lovely one; +but what does he mean by ‘a second life’?” + +“I never heard anyone asking that,” said the lad, wrinkling his +brows. “I will be the one to ask Shamas of it, for I heard him say +there was no line of that song without a meaning to it.” + +“Who is Shamas?” + +“Sometimes he is a tinker, and he has made more than one circle of +Ireland in his time. He was the one to be teaching us ‘The Dark +Rose,’ and telling us of the poets of the ancient old days when a +poet was highest man in a kingdom, and no gifts too great for him—I’m +thinking that was even before Padrig was coming over with the bells. +I’m wishing you had the Gaelic. Shamas has poems by the hundred, +from the songs of Dierdre, and Liadan (whose home was right here in +Kerry itself)—down to the March of Brian, and the Coulin, which he is +singing at me often enough—and him laughing! But it is in Gaelic all +the words of them are, and no English words fit the music at all. I’m +thinking you should have the Gaelic, Dark Rose.” + +“I wonder if I should? My nurse knew Gaelic, but they laughed at her +songs until she grew silent, and then they told me she died. I was +little then.” + +She sat thinking a moment, humming softly in a gentle croon and +moving her head to keep time to the melody while the eyes of Hugh +grew bright. + +“You do know it, you do!” he said joyously, but she shook her head. + +“No—the words will not come, though once I did know that sleepy-time +song of Kathleen, but all I can remember is— + + _Sho heen sho lo, O lulla lo!_” + +“But you have the memory of the ancient music, and it is old beyond +count! Also there are English words put to that one, and I hearing a +girl back from America singing it—and this is the English of it: + + _I’ve found my laughing babe a nest + On Slumber Tree. + I’ll rock you there to rosy rest, + Asthore Machree! + Oh lulla lo, sing all the leaves + On Slumber Tree! + Till ev’rything that hurts or grieves + Afar must flee._” + +The girl sat looking at him, and the tears were bright in her eyes. + +“That is it—that is the song of poor old Kathleen. To think I would +hear it in this cave on a Kerry hill.” + +“And why not? This is not a cave, but a druid’s temple where they +tell that the new fire was given out to the people at Samhain, and +the druids had the making of that fire on an altar here and the +giving of it. But children and mothers and their _suantre_ songs were +before that time surely, and many a one could have been crooned in +this place, for great gatherings were here. Even the old people are +liking to hear the music of the slumbersongs. They say it brings back +the voices of mothers—here.” + +He touched his breast, and had a smile, gentle and deprecating lest +she should think it childish indeed that old folks should care for +lullabies, but she was gazing at him curiously. + +“You strange boy!” she said, and laid her slim hand on her own +breast. “I never knew anyone like you; you made me hurt—here—when you +said that! You make me want to cry—yet there is not a word in the +song for crying! I think I have a hundred cousins, but none of them +knows the things you know; yet, one time we were Irish, too.” + +He smiled at her mysteriously. + +“To be sure you are, else how could you be the Dark Rose and come to +this fairy rath of the hawthorn tree? It is ‘fairie’ they are naming +in these days the great mystic people of old in Ireland, and great +and good they were and are, in spite of saints, bells, and banning. +(May they hear me say it!) Shamas says Irish blood must ever waken +to send back its answer to Irish music—and that is what it was doing +when you said it hurt you: it is my thought that it was only calling +you awake.” + +“You strange shepherd and wonderful boy,” she said, and her voice was +so full of sweetness and kinship that he leaned forward and looked, +slightly smiling, yet very earnest, into her eyes. + +“Tell me—Dark Rose—have you been wandering away and only now found +your way back? Or have you gone far out on some tide of forgetting, +or of slumber, maybe—and the lullaby and the heart-song of the Dark +Rose is calling you awake?” + +“Are you a wizard in shape of a boy that you know even my thoughts?” +she asked. “For I was thinking that song of Kathleen must have been +sleeping in my mind a long time—a very long time, and all of the +words gone. Yet the music did wait to be called awake, and it was you +called.” + +“I think it was Maeve and Banva calling, and both of them queens +calling to you! But you are awake again—and you are surely the Dark +Rose living again!” + +“I wish my cousins could hear you call me that,” she said, and +laughed; “they would think it a new sort of compliment. When they +want to praise, they say a girl is fair and not dark, and they never +heard the song.” + +“It may be that the sleep is on them, too, and it may be you will +call them awake. I am thinking there will be many to answer a call +when you cry it.” + +A rainbow shimmered through the mist, and a curious radiance heralded +the breaking of sunrays between the clouds. The storm ended quickly +as it began, and Hugh rose to his feet with the lamb content on his +arm. The raindrops still shone on his gold-brown curls, and the time +had been short in the strange shelter, yet he did not feel as if it +had been: all the generations since O’Donnell made the song seemed +to have been bridged over by the dark, bright beauty of that strange +girl in the gray shadow. + +She also arose, but did not emerge; her eyes were on him, slender and +at ease in his homely garb of homespun, weather-stained and worn. The +sun touched his hair into a shimmer of radiance and the white of the +lamb was made whiter by the arrows of the sun now far down the west. +She could not but note a certain patrician cast to his features, and +the slender shapeliness of the hand holding the lamb, and she saw him +as a picture in whatever light he moved, first Shelley, and now— + +“Shepherd Hugh of the glen, you would have given me a fine fright, +rushing in here after me, had you been anyone else than yourself,” +she said, “yet I know not a thing of you for all our talk. I am sure +you are a poet, and if there were Irish princes left in Ireland, I +would know you were one of them, but after all I only know your name +is Hugh, and that you have a friend, Shamas, a tinker.” + +“And I am only knowing that you are the Dark Rose, and that the +fairies brought you here on eve of Beltain that I might see you once +and be content: my great thanks and my love to them—may they hear me +say it!” + +“Content?” she murmured—“not even asking who I might be?” + +“Not even asking,” he said, smiling back to her. “I care not a rush +the name others may be putting on you. Queen of fairies, or maid of +the cinders, they may be calling you, but the Dark Rose are you to +me!” + +“There may be a day when I come again to Kerry,” she said. “Would I +find you if I asked for Hugh of a glen?” + +“I am foster brother to Michal Donn, and his shieling is back of +beyond on the other side there. I am of the Siod.” + +“Siod?” and she stared at him; “Sidhe, I read that in tales of +fairies—it is their name! I do not need to be Irish to know that. I +thought you were not mortal!” + +“And I knew you could not be,” he retorted in her own mood. “If you +are again on this hill of Kerry, I will be telling you the tale of +that Siod clan. There was a woman who came out of the mists long +ago, as you have, and left thought and mind on a mortal clan. It is +told around the peat fires at fall of night, but they speak of other +things when I join their circle.” + +“Was she also a flower?” + +“No—she was born of the sea, and the name put on her was Moruadh +(sea-maid), and it became, in time, Maurya. A prince of the Children +of the Sea took her for wife and was banned for it by the druids—and +that was even before Padrig was brought captive slave from Gaul.” + +“A prince of the Children of the Sea?” + +“Munster clans of the west are called that, for their fathers came +over the sea from some lost land—yes, that is what has been told of +them always.” + +“I am coming back some day, Hugh of the Fairies,” she said. + +A long signal call came to them. His eyes met hers in question. She +nodded her head. + +“They are far away yet,” she said, and she seemed reluctant enough +at the sound. “So you are of the sons of Irish princes, yet you herd +sheep on the Kerry hills?” + +“So do others whose genealogies reach to the generations when the +Son of Mary was born; true that is, though many would be doubting +it. Some souls are born for palaces and walls and roofs—others for +the surge of the sea and stout decks—and others to feel ever the +springing grass under foot. I am of that last, and Shamas was telling +my father never to house me, or break my reed pipe until I had +reached height and made my own choice; and I have yet some growing to +do.” + +“And what will you be then: herder of sheep?” + +“I think I will just be playing the pipe to the sheep and singing old +songs until you are coming again.” + +“To the fairies’ rath?” + +“I think it will be in the fairies’ rath.” + +She broke a spray of the hawthorn bloom, and stood looking at him. + +“It has been very wonderful,” she mused. “I will not believe any of +it when I wake tomorrow, but I will take a bit of the hawthorn for +proof. If—if I come back to these hills I will send you a message of +hawthorn, and you will come again and tell me of Ireland’s music and +her poets—perhaps you will then have poems of your own.” + +“I am the one would be thankful if that could be,” he said. + +Voices were heard on the wind, and the bark of a dog. The sun was +touching the very edge of the far sea. + +“Do not move from that pillar, and you will be out of their sight,” +she said. “I will give them a fright to think I was alone in this +waste place. I will tell them a fairy prince was my host: they will +never believe me, but I know it is true.” + +She broke the spray of hawthorn in two parts. + +“Why did the tinker laugh at you when he sang the song of the +coulin—and what is that? Is it another mystery?” + +“It is not. It is the ancient Irish way for men to wear the hair, +long and tied back. Under the old English laws men were punished +for keeping that old custom or using Irish speech. It is me he +is laughing at, and telling me I’ll be sent to the Castle yet in +punishment for my long hair.” + +“It makes you look like old pictures,” she said, “and surely a boy +can do that much as he pleases in these days. This is your hawthorn +to prove I was here and had shelter with you. What is the name of +this place?” + +“It is Templard—the high temple—and should be sung in a song because +the Dark Rose has stood under the hawthorn shade in this place,” he +said, and she laughed silently at that. + +“How they would joy to hear me called dark anything,” she said. + +The voices were nearer, and one man’s voice calling, “Rose! Rosa! +Rosalie!” + +“It is one of the hundred cousins,” she laughed. “You will see, Hugh +of the Siod, that they call my name in many ways, but only you have +called me Rose the Dark. Fare you well, shepherd boy, until you make +music to call me back to Kerry.” + +“I will be making that music,” he said. + +She let fall the spray of hawthorn lightly on the white lamb in his +arms just as a dark hound halted on the summit of the earth wall; she +ran to meet him, poised there like a green bird with scarlet wings as +her cloak blew back in the wind. + +There were shouts, a clamor of voices, and then the one voice. + +“Rose! You here safe, and the peasants searching the bogs for you!” + +“Whist!” she called down to them mockingly, “this is no place for +your shouting and your hounds. I have been spending an hour with the +fairies in their rath of Templard, and the rest of you are not to put +foot in it. Not at all after the sun is down,” and she pointed to +the ball of celestial fire sinking beyond oceans—“the mystic hour is +past.” + +Then she darted down, laughing, and only the hawthorn spray was +left to show she had not been a vision, laughing, mocking, weeping, +adorable in young beauty. + +Once Hugh caught sight of her again. A carriage with black horses +waited on the old road used by the peat-cutters of the bog beyond. +Toward it she walked with a tall man and the hound between them. +A half-dozen men and boys followed through the whins and rocky +pasture—they did not look back, and he knew fear was on them for all +her mocking; and no maid or man of the glen would choose the ruins of +Templard for a resting place at setting of sun on any day. + +She halted once on a velvet-green knoll and for a few heartbeats she +stood—a flash of crimson against the deep purple of the sky. She +did not look back, but with upflung hand made a gesture of hail and +farewell, and Hugh smiled at that, and waved in return though he knew +she would not see. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +It was late twilight when he brought down the sheep to the fold, and +Molly Donn, his foster sister, put before him a brown loaf baked in +the hearth oven, the pitcher of new milk, and boiled potatoes, while +a white-haired little old man puffed at his pipe and looked him over. + +“You ranged the ewes over far when you took them to the rath of +Templard,” he remarked, and Molly rested the needles in her knitting +to stare at him. + +“Shamas man, have you indeed ‘the sight’ that you look over all the +pasture range—and you not beyond the boolie this day?” she asked, and +the old man with the grave mouth, and merry blue eyes, puffed his +pipe and chuckled. + +“Have thought with you, Molly girl,” he suggested. “What need of the +second sight, when he sports a twig of hawthorn flower from the fairy +rath on that hill? That hawthorn is ever the first to be blooming.” + +“You have sharper eyes than the youth about you, Father Shamas,” said +Hugh, and laughed at the fear in the eyes of Molly. “I was in truth +on that hill, and fell asleep and dreaming in the bracken until the +rain fell—that was when the sheep strayed a bit, but all are safe +home again.” + +Molly made the sign to ward off evil, and looked her horror at him. + +“Asleep in the bracken of Templard and this on the eve of Beltain!” +she whispered. “Saint Bride to your saving! Fear would be on me over +the dreams of Templard.” + +“Save your fears, Molly asthore. The dream was a beautiful dream, and +I am the richer.” + +Old Shamas regarded the glowing eyes of the lad. “The dreams of the +young are seed for the harvest of old age,” he said. “It is good to +dream in beauty, else the old days will be gray days.” + +“It’s only guessing at that you are, Shamas,” retorted Hugh, “for +there is no age on you—nor will ever be.” + +The old man and the lad looked in each other’s eyes with the smiling +content of comradeship, but Molly, turning the heel of the hose, did +not see the look, and was slow in imagination for a Kerry coast woman. + +“It’s glib you are growing with the tongue, Hugh, lad,” she +admonished him. “I was never daring to cross my elders, nor was +Michal at your age. When your father is coming back, or sending for +you for the schooling, he will be putting blame on us for the bold +words of you—and God and Mary know it is no fault of mine!” + +“True for you,” laughed Hugh, “it is not—Shamas is the one to blame.” + +Michal came in at that, shaking the water from his coat-amore, for +the rain was again falling. + +“Lucky it is it held off so long,” he said, “for the hunt was up +for a bit of a girl straying on the mountain, and lost from the old +castle.” + +“What is witching you?” demanded Molly. “You know well the castle of +Argial is a forsaken place.” + +“It has been, but the new heir, Hector Laud, must be giving it an +overlooking, and brought along friends for gay doings.” + +“Fine it would be to have a new and young lord of Argial again—that +has never been known in our time,” mused Molly. + +“This one is new but not young; Denis and Tim Doherty saw him. He is +a pale, masterful kind of man, and proud at that. They say it will +be a great wonder if he gets the girl he is wanting as mistress of +Argial, for she has lightning in her blood, and the devil’s share of +courage. Well, Time tells the story! That girl it was started the +hunt, and Tim was after getting two shillings for taking his gray +pony and going the bog boreen in the search. No, he was not the one +to find her. She was found, and he earned the two shillings in ease +and comfort.” + +“Who was the lost one?” asked Shamas, for Hugh made no question. + +“It was the daughter of a Maurice, and she English, and knowing not a +path of all Kerry.” + +“Maurice is not a name of England,” mused Shamas, “not at all of +England.” + +“Well—God knows! That is their saying, and she has only her beauty +for wealth and her uncle keen on the match when the time comes. She’s +only a bit of a slip yet, and time in plenty ahead! Denis was fair +enchanted by a glimpse of her behind the black horses of Argial, and +them galloping to put fear on a soul! His saying was that the cuckoo +would sing in falling snow for that daughter of Maurice, whoever she +may be.” + +Molly on the creepie by the hearthstone clicked her knitting needles, +and glanced her impatience at Michal, busy with his supper. + +“That would be the man of it,” she said in disdain of masculine +weaknesses. “Every man-jack of them agog over a bright eye, and never +a knowledgeable word from you of where the child was lost, and who +had the finding of her.” + +“Ah, blather of you, Molly! That’s the woman of it—wanting to know +the ins and outs of all things going. Give me another mug of milk, +girl! No one was finding the stray at all. She walked out from +Templard when she got ready, and no fear on her and not a hair of her +head wet! She had mocking and laughter for Laud of Argial and told of +a King of the Fairies who made music for her in the ruins, but Argial +had blackness of thunder in his looks and drove like the devil down +from the mountain.” + +“Glory be to God!” breathed Molly, crossing herself. “A slip of a +girl like that to venture in Templard this day! Hugh, lad, when the +sheep were straying over there beyond did you get sight of her?” + +But Hugh was sprawled on the hearth with a bit of paper and pencil. +He was tousling his curls for straying thoughts, and making scribbles +there by the glow of the peat fire. Molly repeated her question +before he gave heed to it. + +“I saw no daughter of a Maurice there, and no bride of Argial,” he +said stolidly. “What I saw on Templard was a different thing. Did I +not tell you I fell asleep in the bracken and had a dream? Whist, +Molly dear, and let be, for I heard music there and am making a song +of it.” + +“Oh, Shamas man,” begged Molly. “Say something for me to put the +fear of God on that lad! You know well it is ill luck to sleep on +a fairies’ rath, and ill luck to make songs to their harping, and +worst luck of all for a maid or man to follow fairy king, or fairy +mistress, to a rath on a Midsummer Eve, or on this eve of Beltain. +Tell it to him, Shamas, for—Bride and Mary to our helping!—it is only +to you he will hearken.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +And in the old Kerry castle of Argial, a dark old man, in an +invalid’s chair, frowned at the girl called by Hugh the Dark Rose, +and all the laughter and joy were gone from her face. + +“I will not have you mock your host and my friend!” he said, and his +clenched hand fell on the tea-table and set the china and silver +a-tinkle. “I will not have it from you! Gerald and you have bread +and comfort under his roof—and that is more than I can give you; +and bread alone is more than I may have at the last—with stocks +going smash, and no hope of retrieving losses, I will not have this +rebellion and mockery of yours!” + +The girl looked from his angry eyes to the brandy and soda on the +tea-table. + +“I meant to ask you about that, about the little inheritance of +Jerry’s and mine—if—it is gone—?” + +“Of course it’s gone—gone long ago—with my own! I tell you there is +only one way of school and comfort for both of you.” + +“But, uncle,” the girl went over and stood back of his chair as if +speech were less hard if his eyes were not on her; “Jerry and I have +endless numbers of cousins somewhere here in Ireland—” + +“All poorer than church mice; and the ones with means have all gone +to America or the continent. Sensible enough they are, too!” + +“Yet there might be some left who would let us make a home with +them—even a home on a farm would not be bad. We are not quite +paupers; surely, we have a little left, and I would work—do anything—” + +His laugh with a deal of scorn in it, halted her. + +“Do anything! Then do the only sensible thing there is to do. Settle +your mind to be civil and be mistress of Argial when the time comes. +Hector is enough of a connection of the family to accept favors +from. Gerald will be provided for; he will get his bit to secure a +commission, and he would think you a fool to talk of work—and perhaps +a clerk’s grind for him! Why, it is a dower for a princess Hector +Laud is offering for you—and you talk of a group of unknown Irish +cousins, poverty-stricken as yourself! It is too absurd for words. +Don’t let me hear any more of it.” + +There was silence for so long a time that the man in the chair grew +restless and turned half around; his voice was more conciliating. + +“Be a good girl now! You must know you are the only hope left. Hector +adores you, and your mockery is serious to him. You are too young +to know what is best. Why start a fool’s hunt for Irish cousins you +never saw when an English cousin offers you the key to his treasure +chests?” + +“I care little enough for the treasure chests—though I do love the +Kerry hills,” she said at last. + +“Well, that’s something! You can have all of them you want when +married, but not a foot shall you go alone on them again while we are +in the castle. And that will only be until tomorrow. You will go back +to school until common sense has ended your flighty rebellion. It is +a choice between starvation and the income of a girl-queen. Poverty +is an enemy to fight against—it will conquer you in the end!” + +“It may overpower me when I think of Jerry and his future,” she said +quietly, “but to be overpowered does not mean to be conquered.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +In an early April a woman rode down the boreen of the glen from +Templard, and her eyes rested often on the simple growths—from cress +of the brook to the buds on the prickly thorn. She reached out and +touched the green ivy in the dusky wood, and pinned a bit of it on +her coat of darker green. + +Molly Donn, catching glimpse of her through the open door, flew +hurriedly to combing her hair with one hand, and pushing Shamas +toward the door with the other. + +“Go on now—it is herself! Have manners and give her greeting whilst +I make myself tidy. God save her! No word of anyone has overpraised +her!” + +Shamas, a little older, a little whiter, did as bidden, and looked +his wonder when the rider spoke. + +“You are Shamas? Are you not?” she asked, and her dark eyes had +searching kindness. + +“It is Shamas, indeed, I am called, my lady,” he made answer, “though +there is many another of the same name on the Kerry coast, and I’ve +no monopoly.” + +“There can be only one here at the foot of Templard,” she said, “one +with— + + The ever young blue eyes, + Beneath the thatch of snow.” + +“Ah then, you’ve been seeing the lad’s bits of verse, and songs of +the Kerry hills,” he said; and the old face was illumined. “Sure +enough he did not forget his old friends—not even a pet cow or a +sheep! Why, I find myself giving looks to the bog-berries and the +bracken under foot as never before—and all because he bore them in +his mind and put them in his songs across the sea beyond.” + +“Yes—I’ve been seeing the songs—and hearing them. My brother is home +from the front and tells me they are sung in the trenches by the +soldiers. He is not well enough to ride, so I have come alone. I +thought you would perhaps tell me a little about the boy who wrote +the ‘Legends of Desmond.’” + +Molly appeared at that moment, eager and voluble with offered +hospitality. + +“Who could tell you if not Shamas Ronayne?” she asked. “Didn’t he +teach the lad them old tales and songs of old battles?—Indeed, he +did then, and it’s proud we are of Hugh, and joyful that his heart +has remembrance for the glen folk. It’s proud, too, we are that the +lady of Castle Argial has his name among the many who would crave +remembrance of her—and will you please to come within, for a rest on +the way?” + +The lady of Argial dismounted, and looked with interest at the low +room, stone-floored, and the walls brown with peat smoke. The simple +furnishings were clean, but the bareness of it all seemed to appall +the visitor. + +“And this was the cradle!” she said at last, and looked at Shamas, as +to one who would understand. “Tell me of him.” + +“It is not much to tell,” said the old man. “He was ailing as a young +lad, and was left behind when his father sailed for the western +world. The grass under his feet here was the right cure for him. Ere +the day came when his father struck the rich luck of mines and such +wealth as is to be had for the looking over there, the lad Hugh had +a mind full of tales of old Munster—and more than the tales, for he +had the feel of the land and could sing it—yes, he could do that! +When tutors and the learning of books were coming his way, he made +that learning serve for telling the old tales in a new manner and +saving the old songs in print, so cheaply that even the husband of +a one-donkey farm could afford the price of it. Many wise men were +making record of old Irish for the scholars and the learned—that is +what he is saying, but the thing he was wishful for ever was to make +it easy for the lad of the cow-path—and the digger of peat—and the +herring fishers along the shore. Yes, that was the wish of him.” + +“He has his wish,” she said. “Hugh Siod is a name well loved by +many.” + +“Aye, and hated as well,” murmured Shamas. “You’re not the first +to ride this path asking of him; the sergeant of constabulary has +gathered in more than one copy, and others are hid as the history of +Keating was hid for generations among the Irish. My own is under the +hearth.” + +“Whist man,” muttered Molly, who was setting the black kettle on the +hob for making of tea, “why bury a crock of coin only to lift the +cover off for the passer-by?” + +But Shamas smiled at the visitor, and lifted the stoneflagging where +a flat package reposed in the excavation beneath. + +“Let be, Molly,” he said tolerantly, “the lady of Argial has blood in +her of the nobles who had banishment—‘to hell or Connaught’ put upon +them by the invader. The daughter of Maurice could not be an informer +against her own.” + +“She could not,” said the lady of Argial. “My grandfather was killed +for Ireland—and my father went into exile to escape the same enemies. +I am only learning these things now, for it was long kept hidden from +us.” + +“Aye! That is often the way of it,” agreed Shamas. “The young in free +lands could not have understanding of it, and what use to put shadow +on them? Look at this now”—and he opened the package and turned the +leaves of the little volume to a tale, _The Wife of Desmond_. “There +now is a lament, second to none ever written: not Dierdre for her +lover—not Nuala in her exile, ever had the heart wail for hearts’ +losses equaled by the Irish bride of Desmond at the slaughter of her +infant sons and their father, who had dared Saxon laws to marry in +honor an Irish maid!” + +“That was a true tale, and a terrible,” agreed Molly, who was at the +open door watching the path, “but fear goes with it, and what profit +in the printed words of such, when troubles might come to all of us +for the very sight of it here?” + +“It teaches the young from songs what they never would glimpse from +the books of historians,” said their visitor. “I had taunts given me +in schools that my people were of jails, and exiles. I carried the +shadow of that in silence all my youth. This book told me they were +not criminals—they were patriots—and my pride in them now is beyond +word. Think of that!—I—who scarcely dared speak the name of them all +my life!” + +“And you a grand lady, too!” breathed Molly in amaze. “And it is +noble I am sure your forbears were, and not to be spoke of by the +likes of me who has no reading of books to my knowledge. But indeed +now there have been no bad killings this while back, and it is a good +herring year, and the new litter of pigs gives us promise of comfort +for the winter, to say nothing of the nest-egg Hugh himself has been +sending me! No, my lady, it is myself is glad enough to hear speech +of these things, for Shamas here, and Michal, who is gone to the +harbor, give me no light on it at all; but when a good year is with +us why put in time with reading of the old-time slaughterings?” + +“To justify our fathers who sacrificed themselves for freedom. It is +a wonderful word—freedom! The pity is that few value it until after +it has been lost.” + +There was weariness in the sweet, deep voice, and a moment of shadow +in the dark eyes, and the old man nodded his head slowly. + +“It came your way early,” he said, “but it has been bringing +understanding with it.” + +“No,” she said lowly, “this little book brought the understanding. I +owe much to it; I drifted in discontent from port to port until it +found me! I bought a hundred copies for my brother who is afire with +hope these days. Surely, our Irish regiments, fighting abroad, must +win us justice at last here at home!” + +“A blessing on the day!” said Shamas. “It is a proud time for us, +Lady Argial, that your heart is with the cottagers here in Kerry. +There’s many an Irish estate give over to cattle and keepers and +mayhaps some gentleman for the fall hunting, and no spirit of life in +it at all, and it kills the land, that does. It kills the spirit of a +land—or—drives it too far afield to find the way back again!” + +“Wouldn’t himself be proud to see you here now, drinking tea from his +own cup, and with the book of his writing to your hand?” said Molly, +beaming hospitality—and settling herself on the doorstep with her own +cup of tea after presenting her visitor with a gilded guest cup. “Now +wouldn’t it be a proud day the day he would see you so?” + +“I did see him once; it seems very long ago. He was a slender young +lad with a wonderful smile and odd sayings. He sang a song on the +mountain—a song of Ireland—it had charm and mysteries in it. That was +years ago.” + +“And the song was _Kathleen na Hulihan_?” ventured Shamas. “He ever +was singing or whistling one of them, and there have been many.” + +“No,” said Lady Argial, with the book open at _A Legend of the Dark +Rose_—“no—it was a different song. But my brother has a new song of +Kathleen and he says the boys are singing it in camp. He found it in +an American paper, but the poet’s name I could not learn. I think the +writer of this book would love it, though it is the sad song of an +old man.” + +“I am wondering if you would let us have it?” asked Shamas. “Not so +many new songs come up the glen—it would be a favor of grace, if it +would not be asking too much?” + +“How could you ask too much? You who taught a bird its song here in +the Kerry hills,” she said, and the flush of pleasure mounted to the +white thatch of his hair. She finished the tea and sat looking over +the far green. + +“I do not sing, but I can repeat three of the verses: + + _O Kathleen na Hulihan, + It’s old I am and gray, + The autumn leaves they drift around + The ending of my day. + The red leaves—the dead leaves— + They drift about my way, + Kathleen na Hulihan, today!_ + + _O Kathleen na Hulihan, + I wandered far from you. + I took a woman to my wife + And kind she was and true, + But your gray eyes looked out on me + Within her eyes of blue; + And, Kathleen na Hulihan, + My soul went after you!_ + + _O Kathleen na Hulihan, + Your face is like a star! + Your face has led me to your feet, + Through wastes and waters far! + Your face has made a day for me + Where only twilights are! + O Kathleen na Hulihan, my star!_” + +There was silence for a little when she ended and Shamas looked at +her with a glint of tears in his eyes. + +“My star!” he said, nodding gently, “a star indeed—and a poet of +another land knowing it and singing it! This is a day to live for—a +day of great comfort, and you bringing it to me! Now, Molly, woman, +you’ll have no more moments of fear for Hugh, and the tales he has +retold, when that telling has brought the lady of Argial here to a +shepherd’s cot, and her bringing a new Kathleen to us—a star indeed—a +star indeed!” + +“It is myself is proud as any of Hugh,” said the cautious Molly. “But +the boys are wild over him, and many a poet of Ireland has died in +exile for less than he has dared say—and you know that well, Shamas, +and this is a time of fear at the best, and you are knowing that, +too!” + +Lady Argial was reading the kindly, yet careful, inscription in the +book from under the hearth. + +“And this is his own writing to you—others will envy you his love +written there. Tell me if there is anything in which he needs help.” + +“Nothing we can know—not wealth surely, for the father has left him +enough and to spare. Every penny the book brings goes to a fund for +Ireland—and more besides!” + +“I did not know that—there was no one to tell me,” she said, rising. +“It was a fancy I had that he was maybe poor and alone. But perhaps +he is not alone either?” + +“He is alone except for Dark Rosaleen, or Kathleen na Hulihan,” said +Shamas, “and I think he will be having no other sweetheart.” + +Their visitor stood in the doorway and looked back into the dusky +room of the one window, and then to the almost frail little old man +whose spirit was not at all frail. + +She clasped hands with him, and with Molly Donn, and mounted the +black horse from the stone wall at the stile. + +“I do not mean that Argial shall be merely a hunting lodge ever +again,” she said. “Come to me as a friend if ever there is favor or +justice you have to ask.” + +On the hill above she halted to look back and wave her hand. + +“Like a queen on a throne she looks there!” said Molly all a-flutter, +“and like a queen, too, she sat, simple as the likes of us—on a seat +here under our own eaves! Shamas, dear, did you ever hope to see the +day?” + +But Shamas did not answer. His eyes were on the dark horse and its +rider outlined against the shining glory of gold-and-primrose clouds +behind which the sun was passing in partial eclipse. + +She looked like a statue there, for horse and rider were flat, +dark outlines against the sky—themselves in passing shadow and the +radiance beyond. + +But it was not the picture by which the old man was held—it was a +sudden forward movement of hers as if peering down the sea road at +something not discernible by the two watchers of the cottage. The +horse moved and half turned, restless and eager to be gone, but she +halted him there—waiting. + +Then the cart of Michal came over the brow of the hill, and a tall +man beside Michal lifted his cap in recognition, and the woman, +leaning forward, waved her hand. + +“Glory be!” muttered Molly. “And who would be the stranger there with +Michal?” + +But old Shamas knew! + +“It’s himself,” he said, and his voice trembled. “I can go the Way in +content now that my eyes are on him again—it’s himself come back to +us!” + +The stranger leaped from the cart and strode over the upland green +where the woman waited. His cap was in his hand, and the shock of +bronze-gold curls were gone; one lock over his forehead was the only +reminder of the golden crown she had remembered. + +“O Fairy Prince of a holiday!” she said, and smiled in quick +appraisement. + +“O Dark Rose of a dream!” he answered, and bowed before her. “This is +a more wonderful coming back than I could have hoped—it has taken ten +years to earn it!” + +He apparently did not note her half-extended hand, but stood as a +courtier might before a queen, yet with a sort of gay comradeship in +his smile, and the caress in his voice. The horse reached forward +with pointed ears of inquiry, and then snuggled its nose against his +shoulder. He lifted his hand and stroked the black satiny skin. + +“It is a fine welcome to Kerry he is giving me,” he said, with +laughing touch of brogue. “Ah! It’s great just to be breathing the +air again!” + +“A welcome to Kerry is what we all give you, Hugh Siod,” she said. +“You forgot to pipe to the herds here until I came again, but you +kept well your boy-promise to make songs for Ireland!” + +“For the Dark Rose,” he corrected her, and smiled. “I think I +promised to make them on the fairies’ rath, but we human things drift +in strange currents sometimes, and my songs were made in another +place.” + +“They go to my heart,” she said, “and not mine alone. My brother +idolizes you; I must tell you of Jerry and his comrades. Your songs +have been an inspiration.” + +He stood while she told him of the wounded brother, and the hopes for +Ireland founded on the Irish troops, drilled to fight, if need be, +their ancient enemy for equal rights, yet putting aside, temporarily, +their own great cause, and marching to battle beside that enemy when +devastation threatened a larger world. + +The glint of laughter went out of his eyes as they talked there—and +they talked long. + +She grew pale and still as he told her of things beyond the seas, of +foreign alliance by which all Ireland could be made a battlefield, of +the political groups who stayed at home to undo the work of the Irish +regiments in which her pride was so great. + +“For that I have come—and come in secret,” he confessed. “Because of +what I have written in my passion for Irish freedom, strange things +have been told to me. All my heart is with them—but this is not the +time! I have crossed the ocean to tell them that, and to bring word +from men more important than I. I go to Cork and then to Dublin to do +what I may.” + +“And then?” + +“I have been helping recruit in Canada, but others can carry on that +work now. If I escape alive from my Irish friends when I tell them +the truths I bring—well—if there is room for me in an Irish regiment, +that is where I will be. There is yet work to do.” + +Her hand crept up to her throat as she listened to him. + +“Once you made me weep when you crooned a lullaby,” she said, “and +now, for all my gladness and pride in your work, you are giving me a +great fear! You make me understand things that were dark. I fear—I +fear my brother may know of that group you came to reason with, I +fear it greatly! And—you maybe know the position and inclinations of +Lord Argial—” + +“I know,” he said quietly, “yours will not be the only family divided +in Ireland—there will be tragedies as dark as any I have sung, and +the day is past when they can be hidden as of old.” + +“You know the censor has suppressed your _Legends of Desmond_?” + +“I ought to,” and his smile twinkled out again. “But sailors sing +the songs of them aboard ship, and teach them to sweethearts ashore, +and I heard a shepherd whistling one of them as we crossed over the +plain below—so—one way and another they will bear their message, if +it is worth the bearing!” + +“It is—it is!” she said earnestly. “You have wakened many of us +to greater pride in our heritage. I am only one of them. Did you +know—have you ever chanced on the trace of a link between your family +and our own? My brother found it in some old record of genealogy of +Munster. I—he takes great pride in it. I—am able to claim myself as +your kinswoman—though far removed.” + +“Not so far!” he corrected. “You may remember that I recognized you +as kindred even when awed by you, and O’Donnell’s Dark Rose was +called by him ‘The Flower of Munster.’” + +She looked at him as he spoke lightly of the things of which he had +written as a religion. + +“I have found many of my Irish cousins in the ten years,” she said, +“but not one of them is like you. I rode up to Templard today, but +all is different; there is no hawthorn blooming and no white lamb, +and no shepherd of songs!” + +“I never went there again,” he said very quietly. “It is a place +to dream about. When I have done something of use to Ireland—of +real use—I will go up again to the old temple. It has always been +sanctuary to me. I would wish that the hawthorn might be in bloom +when I go again—and that I might see you there!” + +She had the same wish, and he knew it without words. The childish +promise of tryst when his songs called her back to Kerry was not +forgotten by either of them. Ten years of life in the world had +dragged their long days between a lad and a maid whose hands had not +even touched, yet nothing in that life had been more real than their +dreams of each other. + +“I must go,” she said. “It is wonderful that you returned here +today—the day I came just to look at the place where you had once +lived! I wonder if I will ever see you again, Hugh Siod.” + +“I think you will,” he said; “wherever they send me I will find my +way back some time. You wear the green—dear color of hope, which is +all that is left to Ireland! Hope then with me that the hawthorn may +be in bloom when I do come—hawthorn time is the glad time, and the +winter left behind.” + +“I will—I will!” she said. + +They looked at each other steadily and turned away. He halted once +to watch her riding swiftly up toward the far summit, and then he +followed Michal to the cottage. + +“Would you look at that now?” demanded Molly watching afar, “not even +a handshake did she give him—and she all fine words here in praise +of his writings! Sure, the quality folk is a puzzle any way you take +them, and it would hurt her none at all to be human to him as she was +to us!” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +The stars were out when the lady of Argial rode along the great oak +avenue from the forest, and had joy in the night odors of swelling +buds, and the promise of earth that winter was indeed gone. + +A leaping light against the windows told that a cheery fire had been +made, more for the brightness of it than the need of warmth. And she +thought of the long talk there she would have with Jerry over the +strange hour at Siod’s old Kerry home. + +But when she reached the hall, angry voices came to her ears, and she +faced a strange scene from the library door. + +Jerry, on his crutch, stood, a picture of helpless fury, and watched +Hector Laud of Argial tear leaf by leaf a book apart, and toss them +on the blaze. + +“I will have no smuggled seditious books under my roof,” he declared, +“and no plotting traitors!” + +“You are the sort of man to make traitors!” said Jerry hotly. “You +are the sort of man against whom people rise in ever-widening circles +until it is called Revolution! Can you put lock and key on thoughts +by burning a thinker’s books? I will not stop another night under +your damned roof if I have to hobble on crutches over the mountain!” + +“Jerry!” She was beside him, with her arms about him—and staring hard +at Laud, who calmly continued his task instead of flinging the volume +at once to the flames. + +“Rose, Rose! It is the songs of Siod! My songs! It is brutal,” +muttered Jerry, and before either realized what she was doing she +darted forward and tore the remnants of the volume from the grasp of +her husband. + +“They are Ireland itself, the very spirit of Ireland! And no fire +ever made by you—or made by your blood—can burn that spirit out, +Hector Laud!” she said. + +The men were no more astonished than herself at her act. Laud stared +at her, sneering, incredulous. + +“Irish bombast!” he remarked. “So my wife is also a reader of this +forbidden drivel of old legends! It is as well I came unexpectedly to +note what was holding you so long in the wilds of Kerry. Is my castle +one of the several used in these days for traitorous sedition?” + +“Our blood breeds no traitors,” she replied evenly, “neither do we +permit insult. Jerry is right. You can have your roof for your own +usage. A thatched cottage will give us more of self-respect.” + +“Don’t be absurd!” suggested Laud. “You know perfectly well I won’t +allow you to go, and will not have a scandal. That thing in your hand +is smuggled literature of a pernicious sort. If I choose I could +put your brother under arrest for having it here. Burning it is the +simple way out.” + +“Legally, I suppose he is right. Rose,” said Jerry at last. “I don’t +want to make trouble for you. Let it be burned rather than that.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +The boy had sunk in his chair—rather pale and shaky from his brief +fury. She put her arm about him with a wonderful smile in her eyes. + +“There are different ways of burning,” she said. “Sacrifices are +offered in that way.” + +She knelt on the hearth and held out the book in both hands, looking +across at Jerry. + +“This is my sacrifice for my soldier brother,” she said, “that he +may, without blemish, fight ever in the right, for Ireland!” + +She laid the leaves on the blaze and knelt watching until there was +left only a glowing curl of ash. Hector Laud regarded her somberly. +Never before had she so openly defied him. He was in sullen rage, +knowing that he had gone too far, and his rage extended to the book, +and the writer of it. + +And he knew himself justified in his rage when she rose from her +knees and smiled on Jerry. + +“It is gone, soldier boy!” she said. “The pages are gone out of +sight, but the real book is here,” and she touched her breast. “I +know it all by heart, as does more than one of the Irish, and I will +teach it all over to you again!” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +A fortnight later the hell of revolution broke loose in Dublin, and +a reign of terror ruled. Wild fear dominated the official group, and +strange jail-yard killings sent a shudder around the world. Hector +Laud was sharer of that obloquy, and his wife, to whom no one would +tell the truth, divined the unspoken. She shut herself in a room +apart, and refused to look on his face. + +Jerry was brought to her there, shot and speechless, and gave work +for her hands. The wound temporarily affected his speech and he had +lain apparently dead for over an hour in the barricaded street where +the bullets sang their death-song over him. Then some stranger had +gone into that inferno after him and got him to safety. Civilians +were forbidden within that street, and the stranger had been taken +before the military authorities to answer for his humanity. No one +could learn what had become of him; no one but the sister of the boy +was especially interested, and it was difficult for any friend to +seek answers to her questions, knowing that her husband was the one +man whose information concerning suspects, arrests, and executions +was absolutely accurate. He could tell her if anyone could—but no +one could even hint that to her! Every friend of hers was shrouded +in gloom because of the bond between them—they called him “Butcher +Laud” when out of her hearing. + +The second day Jerry could articulate, but his nerves were a jangle, +and his eyes pleaded with her. + +“Kerry, Kerry!” he whispered over and over. The physician listened +and assented. + +“Get him out of this if you can. Everyone he sees here is filled with +the devil’s own horrors we’ve been going through. By all means get +him to the hills where there is peace.” + +Jerry whispered for “Siod,” once or twice, but no one knew where to +find Siod. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +It was the last week in April, gloriously bright, and the warm sun +calling out patches of bloom in every southern nook. The green grass +was springing, and the coils of fern uncurling in wood and sedgy +marge. + +She rode west to Kerry in a curious trance-like state with the +wounded boy and a nurse. There were moments when she felt the +after-effects of some shock she had lived through, though the actual +shock, or the nature of it, had been forgotten! + +She wakened herself sobbing of some unknown sorrow, and the eyes of +Jerry followed her in mute question. He could whisper disjointed +words, but was forbidden attempt at conversation. Rest and nursing +were his only need. The wound coming so soon after his former +convalescence had been too heavy a strain for quick recuperation—yet +he would recover and, as the physician said, live to fight again. + +The very birds of the air appeared to be bearers of disaster to the +hills, for there was no welcome there for the family of Argial; +herdsmen and farmers who once met her with the smile of welcome on +every road now turned aside in the hidden boreens, or crouched back +of hedges as she walked abroad. + +Shamas Ronayne alone came to her, a frail old white figure in gray, +and driving the white donkey of Michal Donn. + +“None other would be coming for question to a Laud of Argial, and I +am the one coming,” he said. “What may happen to me is as nothing at +all, for my time is near, and none to sorrow.” + +“I will sorrow,” said the lady of Argial. “The very land itself +sorrows for every man like you who passes. You are of the living +records of the unwritten things—the sacred things.” + +“It is of the lad,” he said. “He was to come back once, or send word +back to us once, when he had given his message in Dublin and joined a +regiment. No word has come, and it is nearing a month. He was not of +the revolution, for his message to them was a different one entirely. +Kerry and Cork he reached in time, but Dublin he could not have. His +name is not heard of, though many are asking.” + +“Yes, my own brother is asking—and my own heart is asking.” + +He looked at her with a new, wondrous look of comprehension, and +tears shone in the unfaded blue of his strangely youthful eyes. He +touched her green sleeve, as he might have touched the sacrament. + +“Ah! ‘Rose of Kerry!’ I should have known, I should have known!” he +said. Her eyes, darkest gray, shaded darker by black lashes, met his +gaze steadily and in pride. His own eyes closed, and he murmured a +prayer at what he saw there. + +“It has been always, I think,” she said. “I was as a child walking in +sleep—and he called me awake!” + +“Aye! And your voice would now be calling him to answer if any voice +could,” said Shamas. “I have been walking the glen paths in the +night with a great fear on me, and no shape to that fear. ‘Before +the hawthorn is in bloom,’ was what he said at his going away, but +the buds have opened surely on Templard, and no word coming! The man +they wedded you to is the man who knows all things of them in prison, +and them who were killed there. I—we all had thought that you would +surely be knowing.” + +“Shamas,” she whispered, and then again in growing horror—“Shamas!” + +“Aye,” he answered. “There are fearful hearts waiting the words, but +none would be asking an Argial, barring myself—and it is you I am +asking.” + +“And I am no Argial!” she said. “I am only a woman of Ireland, this +day. If a crime has been done against him, Argial must answer!” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +She sent message by wire so imperative that some reply must come +back. After that there was nothing to do but the waiting, and Shamas +she would not let go. + +They talked long, and their speech was all of him, and she told him +of their childlike game of the fairy queen and the Irish prince who +found her in the shadows of the druid temple on Templard. + +“I mind well the day,” said Shamas, “for on the hearthstone that +night he wrote the poem-tale of the Dark Rose of Red Hugh O’Donnell, +and it blooming again in Kerry for fragrance to all Ireland—alive +and blooming after three centuries of heavy feet trampling it in +the mire! He worked all the night at it, and his eyes alight and no +weariness on him! Molly was in a fair fright over it, for he said he +was writing a dream he had in a fairy rath—and it the eve of Beltain! +As this is.” + +“This?” she said, and stared at him. + +“Aye, what else? In the cities the people are forgetting them old +days of the fields and the new bloom, but here we are not forgetting, +for it ends the black winter for us and gives us hope of harvests to +come.” + +“And I forgot!” Her voice was incredulous. “Shamas, my mind has been +full of him, yet for the first time in ten years I forgot! Since last +Wednesday I have walked as in a trance, and I seem to have lost dates +or records of time. Beltain to come:—and I to forget! Why, it was +like a tryst-time, a day to wish myself back on Templard, and hear +his voice again there—his young voice singing.” + +“Wednesday,” mused Shamas. “That was the night I walked sleepless. +The restlessness would not take itself away. So—Sunday and all as it +is, I could stand it no longer, and took the road to you.” + +“Sunday?” she repeated. “I had forgotten that also! The hour has gone +by when an answer could reach me by wire on a Sunday! It will be +morning now before we can get it, but you must not go back until it +comes. You are the only comforting soul near me.” + +“I could not sleep under the roof of Argial,” said Shamas. + +“Neither will I this night,” she said, “but you can rest, and wait, +and what I can do for your comfort I will.” + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +The twilight crept through the dusky wood, and quiet settled over the +sombre mass of gray Argial. A star glimmered here and there in the +deepening sky. + +She paced her chamber alone—waiting! + +A lad passed through a far meadow singing a love-song to some mate +of the thatched roofs, and she paused at the window listening until +the last sound died away—but it was another voice of which she was +thinking. + +“And this night!” she murmured. “This sleepless night of the +tryst-time! Ah, to be but once on Templard under the stars—and his +young voice singing there carefree as before!” + +She walked away from the window and the witcheries of the thought. +She lit a reading-lamp, and picked up a little book—Meyers’ +translation of the fragments of verse of _Liadan and Kurithir_. The +ancient love-story of the two poets had its own fascination for her +always, but this time her eyes rested on one verse and did not go +beyond. It was Liadan’s recognition of the forbidden voice singing +its love to her— + + “_Belovéd is the dear voice I hear! + I dare not welcome it, + But this only do I say: + Belovéd is the dear voice!_” + +She sat quite still, looking at it. Her dark eyes grew darker, +wider; every sense seemed suddenly alert in a new way. Her breath +was stilled to listen; no sound broke the darkness or echoed in the +halls—yet far away beyond—above—she felt the vibrations of wordless +harmonies! + +They passed, and left her staring at the words: + + “_Belovéd is the dear voice I hear + I dare not welcome it!_” + +She arose, took from a closet a long-hooded cloak of green, and +turned out the light. + +“But I dare,” she whispered, and slipped out and down to the stables +in the moonless night! + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Through the gray forest, darkening to green, she rode. And over the +high moor the black horse sped like a night-bird skimming the earth. +She was filled with a great exultation—the cloud under which she +had been oppressed seemed to lift when she emerged from the forest +of Argial. She knew she was doing the thing she had longed to do +always—and if there was but hawthorn abloom on the height it would be +recompense! + +Willingly and joyously the horse ran to the first circle of the rath, +but beyond that he would not go! In vain she whispered—in vain she +petted and caressed him. He planted his feet and pointed his ears +and reared only to come down again in the same spot. She walked him +quietly to a different point and tried again—nearer he would not +approach. + +She slid from his back and petted him—he was wet and trembling. + +“This then must be the place of parting,” she whispered. “Why should +you have fear of it?” + +She wondered why she whispered where there were none to hear, but +could not answer her own query. There seemed to be utter stillness +on the world, and she scarce heard her own footfalls as she went up +and up over the circles, her eyes straining for first glimpse of the +hawthorn—if it should not be in bloom! + +But it was. Even in the night without moon she could see the soft +white of it, and as she crossed the third circle the whiteness of it +grew more clear until she glanced above to see what sudden light of +star was reflected by it. + +The sky was the same, and the stars were the same; the mass of bloom +gave out its own soft radiance in the night. + +And besides the bloom there was a movement. She heard a breaking +branch, and halted there, breathless, listening! + +Then his voice—the voice she had listened for—the voice like no +other—spoke. + +“Come no nearer!” it said. “I broke the hawthorn for you and have +waited four days and four nights—longer I may not. Hush! Do not speak +to me! I know the thing you would know—and the thing Shamas has +asked—and it is for you to see.” + +She did not speak, for she could not! A strange cold wall seemed to +circle her, and her eyes were drawn to the shadow of the cromlechs +where the two had once sheltered from storm. She peered forward as +dim light fell on the darkness under the arch—and through it—as if +far away, and seen through reversed opera glasses, she perceived men +in uniform—other men in civilian dress—a stone wall very high—and a +man there who appeared to dominate—it was Hector Laud of Argial. Men +with rifles passed across the scene, and a man under guard entered. +He wore a cap, and her heart leaped and then grew cold—cold as her +speechless lips. + +He was questioned by Argial, and by others; he shook his head. He +spoke, but she could not hear the words. Once he smiled at them in +a tired way, as at some question many times answered. Argial turned +aside and made a sign; a man with a white handkerchief folded it +and moved forward, but the man alone by the wall waved him away. He +removed his cap and let it fall beside him on the paving; he spoke a +brief word or two, looking straight ahead as if into her eyes, and +then stepped back against the wall and made a signal. The wind tossed +aside the lock of bronze-gold hair on his forehead and he stood an +instant with his hand over his eyes. + +Then something happened, and he sank forward and lay there and +shadows blotted all out as the men, Hector Laud among them, bent over +the fallen body! + +“That is how it was,” she heard him say. “I have at last done +something for the land, and so dared come again to meet you here. O +Dark Rose—I have sung your songs as I could—but strength is going +again. Hush—do not speak! You will rest and wake to find the hawthorn +abloom. You will grieve—but green hope will cover your life! You will +not be without love—without music!” + +He moved out from the screen of the white bloom, and the radiance of +it shone on his face, grave and pale. In his left hand he bore the +broken branch; his eyes were luminous and wonderful in the starlight. + +A puff of wind blew aside the curls over his forehead, and she would +have cried out if she could, for a dark mark was there—the open path +of the lead of death! He lifted his hand, and it also was pierced. + +“No,” he said, reading her thought, “they do not use nails in palms +today for their crucifixions, but we still die—guiltless!” + +She strove to break through the frozen silence in which she was +locked—only to speak to him once—once! Only to tell him— + +But his luminous eyes forbade, though the smile there was the smile +of perfect understanding. Music came from somewhere about them—the +_suantre_ by which earth-cares are silenced—she felt her eyes closing +under its magic—many harp strings were sounding softly afar off—was +it the lullaby he had once sung to her under the druid arch? She did +not know—she was so nearly wrapped in slumber. + +But through that mist of far harmonies there came one clear, low +voice—his young voice singing the prophecy of the _Dark Rosaleen_. + + _Your holy delicate white hands + Shall girdle me with steel! + And I will rear your royal throne + Again in golden sheen! + ’Tis you shall reign, and reign alone + My Dark Rosaleen! + My Own Rosaleen!_ + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +It was there they found her asleep in the early dawn, wrapped in the +green-hooded cloak and the spray of hawthorn across her breast. + +Only Shamas and Hector Laud came over the third circle, and Shamas +crossed himself at the sight. + +“It is a priest we should have brought with us to this place,” he +said, “for no living woman would sleep on Templard.” + +Laud of Argial was blanched by fear, and halted on the edge of the +rath and called to the man holding the horses below. + +But she wakened at the shout, and stood up. The languor of sweet +sleep was still on her eyes and she smiled at Shamas, whose gaze was +the first to meet hers. The hawthorn fell at her feet; she lifted it, +looked at the dew on it and on the cloth of her cloak—and remembered! + +Her eyes were dark lightning as she faced Argial. + +“Not one step nearer, so long as you live, and may yours be a long +life—and remorseful!” she said. “My question to you has been answered +without you, and this place is too sacred for your feet!” + +“You are a raving madwoman,” he cried, and his face flushed red in +anger. “Who else would range the forests at night and sleep on the +moors alone?” + +“I was not alone, Shamas,” she said, ignoring Argial and looking +only at the old man. “He was with me here. Yes—he kept tryst with me +on Templard and sang me to sleep with a song of hope! It is true, +Shamas! He came back from the dead to do that, and he left this +broken bloom here as witness when I would waken; it is true, Shamas!” + +“I believe it is true,” said the old man, “for sleep was put on me, +too—a heavy sleep of rest—and that is the first sleep coming to me +for four nights—his soul is no longer calling us to hearken—God and +Mary save him!” + +“Four nights,” she repeated. “Yes, that is what he said—four days and +nights he was waiting for me, and the blossoms held for me here!” + +Laud of Argial glared at the two and uttered an oath of destruction +on the old man. + +“Are you both maniacs?” he demanded. “How did you know to tell us to +follow her tracks to Templard? And who is the lover who sings you to +sleep. You—you—shameless with your peasant mates!” + +“It is the man you had killed in secret against a prison wall four +days ago,” she said steadily, but without looking at him. And to +Shamas she said: “That is indeed how Hugh Siod died! He saved my +brother and died for it. Did they think to silence his songs by +killing the poet?” + +“You are both insane rebels!” shouted Argial. “A second time I have +followed you to this place of secret meetings—and it will be the +last—you shall go in a locked room of Argial until you are sane +again!” + +“I will go in no room of Argial ever again,” she said. “The cart of +Shamas or Michal will bring my wounded to me in some more simple +abiding place; and friends will be found.” + +“They will surely,” said Shamas, “and honor will be yours—and love +will be yours.” + +“You are moon-struck Irish dreamers, silly as children! Do you think +I will allow you to disgrace Argial with a scandal of this sort? You +will go back with me if I have to call those men below to bind and +carry you!” + +“Man,” said Shamas, stepping between them, “go easy with your threats +in Kerry. She has but to call out to the men down there what she told +to us here of Hugh Siod—and you might not yourself see Argial ever +again!” + +“Stand aside! I have my rights—she is mine—she is—” + +“No!” said Shamas Ronayne with such quiet force that Argial moved a +step back at the intensity of the soft voice. “No, Argial! Rights +of her you have never had, and there are many knowing that! She was +traded to you by a gambler who did not own her—and that in her +young, unknowing years! There was never bond of right between you +two, and now there is foul murder dividing you!” + +Argial glared cold fury at the incredible peasant. + +“And this is your new sort of courtier?” he sneered at her; “the +sweepings of the mud-huts!” + +She drew a great breath of freedom and shook back the hood from her +dark hair. The first rays of the sun struck the gray pillars back of +her, and the white hawthorn, and flooded her with the rosy radiance +of a new day. + +“It is, indeed!” she said, and a throb of exultation was in her +voice. “Both peasants and princes come from the huts of our land. +They are the souls to whom he sung of freedom; they will be my +courtiers—and my brothers, and my sons! Hugh Siod came back from +death to sing a prophecy here to me—I will live among his people and +work for that prophecy all my days!” + +Argial scowled from her to the stalwart Kerry man climbing the hill, +and turned away. + +Shamas gazed at her with a reflected light of joy on his face. + +“_O Kathleen na Hulihan, your face is like a star_,” he murmured. + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +According to official records it was six days after Beltain ere the +dominating political group of Dublin Castle was forced to make public +an account of the execution, without trial, of the writer, whose +palm and brain were pierced by the same bullet in the jail-yard on +the twenty-sixth day of April! There had been ten days of absolute +secrecy covering the matter, and the explanation of Argial to his +superiors concerning its ultimate publicity gave him a bad hour. + +To tell them that a girl on an old rath on a Kerry hill had seen a +vision of that death, and could not be silenced, was an absurdity not +to be advanced. + +The investigating board was composed of hard-headed unimaginative +men, and Argial preferred reprimand from them for lack of executive +ability, rather than be ridiculed by them for repeating any such +curious phantasies as those evolved by the Irish mind! + +[Illustration: Decorative separator] + + +Lullaby + +[Music: _Traditional._] + + + + +ACKNOWLEDGMENT + + +The books mentioned below have been of much assistance to me while +preparing these tales of Ancient Ireland, and I hereby express my +indebtedness to the authors of the respective volumes. + + Graves, Alfred Perceval, _Songs of Erin_. Boosey & Co., London. + + Gregory, Lady Isabella Augusta, _Book of Saints and Wonders_. + Charles Scribner’s Sons. + + Hull, Eleanor, _Textbook of Irish Literature_. Benziger Brothers. + + Hyde, Douglas, _Literary History of Ireland, from the Earliest + Times to the Present Day_. Charles Scribner’s Sons. + + Joyce, Patrick Weston, _Ancient Irish Music_. Longmans, Green & + Co. + + Keating, Geoffrey (1570?-1644?), _History of Ireland_ (_Foras + Feasa ar Eirinn’_, preface signed by the author in 1629). + + Mangan, James Clarence, _Complete Poems_. P. J. Kenedy & Sons. + + Meyer, Kuno, Translation from the _Book of Lismore_. + + Petrie, George, _Ancient Collection of the Music of Ireland_. + + _Annals of the Four Masters._ Compiled by three scholars of the + historic O’Clery house and Peregrin O’Duidenan, the historian and + genealogist, early in the seventeenth century, and produced by + John Colgan in 1645. The annals begin with the deluge, and close + with the year 1616. + +The initial letters used at the beginning of the Tales, and other +decorations in book and cover, are taken from _The Book of Kells_, +acknowledged to be the most beautiful illuminated vellum in the +known world. This ancient volume is the work of an unnamed Irish monk +of Kells monastery in the seventh century. The weird and commanding +beauty of the pages have been at once both the inspiration and +despair of artists for centuries, and the wonder of line and color +would be unbelievable but for the ancient manuscript treasured at +Trinity College, Dublin. The soul of an artist went into the precious +volume known even in tenth-century Europe as the “wonder of the Far +Western World.” + +The music for the book was arranged by Geraldine G. Saltzberg. + +All quoted verses or chants are in italic. + + M. E. R. + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE + + Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been + corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the + text and consultation of external sources. + + Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, + and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained. + + Pg 40 “His forest was ful” changed to “His forest was full” + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77880 *** |