How was it that Flann could only hear in the vesper music wherewith the Church, the kind Mother, soothes and comforts her tired and frightened children, before the coming of the darkness, the echoes of the death-song of Cineal Cearbhail? How was it that the lights of the Church burned before him like corpse-candles? Not he alone of that splendid company felt the joy and pride of life yield to an eerie sense of inevitable death. “Must we wait until her evening prayer is ended, before we may speak with Brigid?” said Flann at last, mastering himself with a strong effort. It was too dark to see the expression of Blathnata’s face. But the tone of her voice made the fear that was clutching at Flann’s heart take a tighter grip. “Our Mother knew (by what means I may not say) that Etain, thy wife, had need of her. Nathfraich, the charioteer, drove her over the plain, to-day, to thy Dún by the Liffey, and there she yet bides.” What a ride was that over the plain in the darkness when the sun had burned itself out of the sky, and the world was black with its ashes. Never a word had Flann spoken since he turned his horse away from the door of Brigid’s Lios. Never once did he lift his head from his breast, until the neighing of his horse made him conscious of the scent of river-water. Then he looked, as his habit was, for the lights of his Dún, and saw them laid like a crown of jewels on the brow of the hill. But what lights were they? Small need to ask that question when the wailing of women came to him already over the glimmering white palisade, towards which he and his company were climbing. He was off his horse before a gillie could come to him. He had no thought of his guests as he hurried past the banqueting-hall, where their shields hung in order above the spread tables. Their feet had hardly touched the ground, when he had climbed the outer staircase which led to the grianan—and saw what it held for him. In the centre of it, on a rich couch of beaten bronze, lay the white form of a girl. The little golden head was pressed deep into the thick deerskin cushion. On the breast, beneath the delicate white hands, joined for the supreme prayer, the fold of the embroidered coverlet was ominously still. The light of tall wax candles, grouped around the couch, fell on the chiselled beauty of a high-bred white, young face.