Now that the danger was past and they felt themselves secure from attack, Cormac and Elgiva had no thought save for each other.
Their eyes met, and there was a long silence; neither spoke; then Elgiva turned, blushing, and tried to smooth into order the long, tangled masses of her golden hair; she shook the sand and dust from her dress and veil.
“You are changed, Elgiva!” said Cormac.
Throughout the excitement of the attack and the tumult of their escape, he had been conscious of the girl’s beauty.
“Changed!” said Elgiva. “In one short year—is that possible?”
Changed—of course she had changed. It was the same fair, blue-eyed face. But she was no longer ungainly and awkward. Her skin was smooth, her hair glossy; her dress as fragrant and dainty as Ethne’s. Now as she moved about the cave he saw that the frame had softened into curves of womanly beauty.
Cormac stood struggling with a thousand varied feelings.
“Changed—ay, changed! Thou art grown beautiful—a woman—but thou art Saxon!” Then, with one of the swift changes natural to him, he suddenly grew furious. “Curse thee, thou art as Saxon as any Saxon among them—and shall I wed a Saxon?”
The girl was startled by his sudden fury; she answered proudly.
“Have no fear of that, Cormac of Fail. Thou did’st refuse to do thy father’s bidding. The Saxon would have wed with thee to obey those commands, but now she will abide by thy words.”
“Ay, shall I harden my heart against thee—shall I hate thee, as never maid was hated before?” Suddenly his voice broke. “Shall I not hate thee because thou art Saxon? Ay, and in hating thee, love thee more—with a love that has smitten me, like the lightning smites the oak!” He had drawn near to her.
“Saxon, alas, I am,” said Elgiva, “and thou art true Celt, to talk of love and hate together.”
He looked at her softly.
“Yet I find in thee the old Elgiva, in spite of thy womanhood and beauty.”
Then he remembered, in some bewilderment, that he had not thought of Elgiva’s appearance, at all, in the years gone by. And when he had thought of her at times, in the last few months, he had a vision of her as he had last seen her—the swollen features, the smoke-bleared eyes and mouth surrounded by half-healed scars.
He remembered how he had struck her, and set those half-healed scars bleeding afresh. The remembrance came on him like a blow.
Elgiva’s thoughts, too, had gone back to that last scene. She remembered how she had blurted out that he must wed her, and that he should wed her. With the remembrance came the wish that she had bitten out her tongue before the words were said.
“Why are you in Britain?” he asked. “How did you come here?”
She had come with Ethne of the Raven Hair, she told him, and they had travelled purposely to the place of the Fair, as Ethne hoped to meet him there; and trusted he would join his army with one she had brought with her from Tara.
At this Cormac fell into a rage.
“Never!” he cried, immediately. “I will fight no longer with Ethne. I stand alone. I will not see her face.”
“But how came you—you two who hated each other—how came you here together?”
Elgiva’s colour rose.
“Because we love each other,” she said. “You tell me that I have changed—but I tell you that Ethne has greatly changed! She is not the same woman! It is a long story how she came back from Druimceta and lived and worked amongst us at Glendalough—she won all hearts. She has gathered many warriors around her to help towards the rescue of my mother. Ah!” The girl’s eyes softened. “We no longer hate each other, as you say we did once. She loves me and I love her!”
“Loves you!” exclaimed Cormac, looking at the girl pityingly. “No, no, poor fool, she deceives you!”
Tears came into the Saxon’s eyes.
“She does not deceive me—I am dear to her as a sister. She is never happy if I am out of her sight. She is a Christian.”
He laughed and tears came into her eyes.
“I hoped it would have pleased you that I had learnt to love her.”
Her bosom rose and fell with a long, quivering sigh. Cormac looked at her with a new light in his eyes. He came a step nearer to her.
“And do you wish to please me, Elgiva?” he asked.
“Why should I wish to please you?” she asked, pettishly. Then a quick blush swept over her face; knowing, as she did, that a wish to find favour in his eyes had been the desire of her life ever since they had parted. She had sobbed herself to sleep the night after he had struck her. And then, as the months passed by and womanhood began to dawn on her, she realised how uncouth and ugly she must have appeared in his eyes—and she had done all in her power to improve the comeliness that was really hers, but in her raw youth had hardly shown itself.
Cormac, in thought, had again gone back to their parting scene; he longed to ask for her forgiveness, but a strange shyness and restraint came upon him.
“And how did you get into the Men’s Airecht at the Fair?” he asked, after a time.
“I lost Gelert,” said Elgiva, with a new look of trouble in her eyes. “I missed him suddenly and ran at once to look for him. I could not find him, and when I came back to the place where I had left Ethne and our women, they were gone! I went about looking for them, and wandered in my confusion without noticing—into the Men’s Airecht.”
“Are you sure Ethne had left the place where you had last seen her?”
“I am certain, because it was marked with a wooden cross—the only wooden cross on the grounds. I could not be mistaken.”
“I know the place,” said Cormac, “and all the paths from there lead into the Men’s Airecht! You could scarcely fail to wander in——”
He considered for some minutes—then a strange bitter expression crossed his face.
“I see it all!” he exclaimed. “It was a design on her part—she left the place purposely. She knew, if you wandered about at all, you could not fail to wander in there—it was a trick to be rid of you, once and for all.”
The girl looked at him in horror.
“Cormac, we are Christians, and our Christian boast is Love and Charity. Yet you have not sufficient charity to grant the conversion of one poor soul. I tell you Ethne is changed—she is a Christian!”
Cormac was frowning, pacing up and down the cave, scarcely listening to his companion. He gave no thought to Ethne—all his thought was for Elgiva. He paused.
“You are beautiful, Elgiva—and you, I know, are as virtuous as only a Christian maid can be. I will not take you back to a woman, vile, infamous and treacherous as a serpent.”
“Then will I walk back alone—ay, through a thousand daggers!” exclaimed the Saxon. “Ethne is not vile and treacherous, and she is as a sister to me—as desirous as I myself of rescuing my mother. You are ungenerous, Cormac of Fail—unworthy the name of your father. Ah! I wish I had men and warriors—I wish I had an ancient name to which to rally followers—and that I might go and rescue my mother without your help.”
Cormac stared at her.
“Why—why did I leave Ethne’s side to-day, and why could not some other come and rescue me instead of you?”
It was seldom Elgiva gave way to tears. Now she threw herself down on a heap of stones and sobbed.
Cormac turned and walked up and down the cave with frowning, averted eyes. She disliked him, of course, and he deserved it, he said to himself—but he did not deserve this!
Elgiva soon controlled her sobs. Furious that she should behave like a child again on their first meeting—when she had determined to be a woman for Cormac’s sake.
She stole one or two glances towards him as he passed and re-passed her.
After the British manner his hair was parted in the middle and floating freely about his neck; it was as black as night with a gleam on it like steel, where the ends curled into rings, his blue-black eyes were deeply set and fringed with black lashes. Under the bronze of his skin his cheek was pale and thin, showing the lines of the muscles beneath. The alert carriage of the small head, the play of the mobile nostrils, reminded the Saxon irresistibly of some untamed mountain horse. When Cormac was a child these characteristics had been noticed by Griffith—in particular a certain movement by which he tossed back his black locks as a horse throws the mane from its eyes—and he had given the boy the title of The Black Horse. A horse had in generations past been the totem of Griffith’s family. The old chieftain had hoped to see the day when the Black Horse should be pitted against the White Horse of the Saxons—he had seen the day, and died!
Cormac had ceased to walk up and down the grotto. He approached Elgiva—threw himself down beside her.
“Oh, Elgiva,” he cried, “wife that will be—beautiful, adored! Forgive, forgive all—I mean at Glendalough. Come with me in safety from Ethne—at dawn the priest can unite us. Gift of my father to me—my beloved—my spouse!”
She had recovered from her passion and was quite calm.
“My wife, my spouse!” she repeated. “The last time I heard such words from your lips they were addressed to Ethne, not to me!”
“That evil woman!” he said. “Name her not with thyself!”
“She is my sister,” returned Elgiva. “And tell me, Cormac, have you no sin that you should thus cast stones at Ethne?”
His head drooped.
“I am not fit for thee,” he said. “I have sinned often; above all, at the place of Fire—but ’tis past—I repent!”
“Ay, yet you deny repentance to Ethne!”
“I speak not of Ethne now—only of thee. Come with me, my father’s darling, and I will soon teach thee to love me.” She hid her face. “Come with me and leave Ethne!”
“I will return to her. And when you have forgiven her you may speak of love to me.”
“That will never be,” said Cormac, rising. “Yet will I do as I am asked, and take thee back.”
The grotto filled with shadows. Evening was falling. Cormac suggested that it was a fitting time to escape from the cave and make their way to Ethne’s house. Elgiva thought that his voice sounded harsh and cold. She turned without a word to the steep ascent that led them to the open ground above.
The upward, winding tunnel was dark and difficult; but a few minutes’ climbing brought them to the top and to the scene of the tumult of the afternoon.
They stole, unperceived, from the shadow of the great Monolith that marked their exit, and found themselves in the stir of the multitude still assembled on the spot. All around them were horses and cattle with their accompanying horse-boys and cow-herds. On every side camp-fires twinkled. It was a fine night and the stars shone. A rich dim scene spread itself before their eyes—moving herd and glittering camp fires, long lines of tents and newly-built wattled cotes, ancient temples looming in the distance, and sumptuous Roman villas dotting the valley; a white Roman road gleamed in the darkness of the forest beyond, and close at hand was a light tapering minster that was being built by Greek workmen.
Mingled with the murmur of the sea and the tumult of the flocks, and their attendants, was the sound of monks’ chant, the clash of swords; and the shrieks and brawl of mead-drinkers and revellers.
On the way they paused in a little wood and bowed themselves at a mossy shrine, where a hermit filled the priestly office for some kneeling Christians.
Once, from a hollow oak-tree, the beautiful face of a girl-hermit looked at them; her white hands, clashed on a robe of sack-cloth, had bloody marks upon them, like the print of nails; she spoke to them, as she spoke to every passer-by, in a voice clear and pure and high like the final peal of a hymn of praise.
A little further on were masons working by torch-light at a wayside cross; twenty feet in height, and all wreathed with scroll work that was carved, not for money, but for love of God and beauty.
The banners of the festive town danced gaily as they entered the city walls. Cormac obtained directions from a watchman. Their road led them to a magnificent Roman villa; built almost on the walls, and overlooking the rushing stream that flowed from the surrounding mountains.
It was difficult to gain admittance even to the outer courts of the dwelling. They were obliged to wait, standing in a recess of a triangular bridge which formed part of the walls and spanned the torrent beneath. A deep dyke separated them from the forest; in whose depths they could plainly hear the gnarling of wolves and scream of swine. The forest grew from the very edge of the dyke and the trees, overhanging the stream, swept the side of the arch on which they stood. As they stood waiting a dark disordered mass came towards them along the river banks. The light broke on lance and javelin, and here and there, on the white face of a horse. A reckless party of jostling race-horses, crying beagles, and huge hounds came into view, and galloped towards them along the rough, pebbly path that skirted the torrent.
The leader of the party was bare-headed, his beard streaming in the wind; he flourished a mead-horn in his hand from which he drank repeatedly; at times he rose to his feet on the bare back of his stallion, and played at cup and ball as he rode along—by means of the end of his drinking horn and a handful of pebbles he had dexterously swept from the ground over which he galloped. As he drew nearer the light showed a gruesome object swung on the neck of his horse.
“A Druid, a juggling Druid!” cried Cormac, pointing with scorn and horror at the rider. “The sorcerers have been at their vile rites—they have slain their victim and have been divining by his entrails.”
The man and woman drew closer into the niche in which they stood—for the wild party, leaping a small creek, swept up the approach and on to the bridge. The great portals swung open. The wind from the horses’ nostrils, the clamour of men and hounds swept by them, and the whole party passed into the outer court.
Cormac thought he distinguished the light form of a woman on one of the foremost of the race-horses.
“Ethne!” he exclaimed in angry-excitement. “Ethne! She has gathered her horde around her even here!”
“Ethne—it was not Ethne!” exclaimed the Saxon. “And even so—because you see the body of a dead man carried on the saddle of a bard, why should you believe he has been the victim of unholy rites—are dead bodies so uncommon in these days? But it was not Ethne, I tell you!”
“It was Ethne!” returned Cormac.
“Then she has been searching for me,” cried Elgiva, in tones of conviction.
“Ah, poor fool, you will believe she loves you,” said Cormac, contemptuously. “As though Ethne loved anything in the world save her lost possessions in Damnonia.”
“You are a stone, Cormac. Ethne has told me how harsh and unforgiving you were to her at Druimceta,” said Elgiva. “Now you will not believe, though I tell you again and again, that Ethne loves me.”
“If Ethne loves you,” said Cormac, with the same contempt, “then indeed she hath changed, and my opinion may change also.”
At that moment admittance was given them to the vestibule of the mansion. Passing through the atrium they were ushered into a large court; with clustered pillars and frescoed walls—otherwise it resembled one of the ordinary halls of the Britons, for it was hung with wicker shields and rude pikes—a fire of yew-logs blazed in the centre. The big room was full of people; thronged with Bret and Pict and Scot—monks and warriors. There were minstrels, harpers, jesters, clowns with them, their accompanying creatures—beagle and hound and dancing bear; everywhere hopped tame wrens and, here and there, spreading their dark wings on the arms of soothsayers were talking ravens. The usual places of honour were being given to workers in gold and silver, to master-carpenters, and to the healers of mankind—the leeches.
The room was so full that the entrance of Cormac and Elgiva closely cloaked was unnoticed.
Upon a slightly raised platform they could see Ethne standing among her waiting women. They could see her plainly, and hear her voice distinctly. She had but just lately alighted from her horse. Her hair was dishevelled with the wind, and her purple riding cloak was still around her.