The dingle was so sheltered by the brooding pines that there was little snow, except on the track itself, and no wind. Under the spreading splay-boughs to the right was what seemed to be a heap of rags and tatters, though the wailing cry ceased as the two riders clattered down, with Turlough keeping well behind Brian. The latter drew rein, seeing that the creature under the pine-boughs was some old crone whose grief seemed more bitter still than his own. "What is wrong, mother?" he cried cheerily. "Are you from one of the Bertragh farms?" The tattered heap moved slightly, and a wrinkled, withered face peered up at him. "Nay, I come from farther than that," and to his surprise there was a mocking note in her voice, though it was weak. "That is a good horse of yours, _ma boucal_; he must trot sixteen miles to the hour, eh?" "All of that, mother," returned Brian, wondering if the old crone was out of her senses. "Was it you whom I heard wailing a moment ago? Where is your home?" The old woman broke into a cackle of hideous laughter. "My home, is it? Once I had a home, Yellow Brian--and it was in Dungannon, with Tyr-owen and Cormac and Art and the noblest of the chiefs of Ulster to do me honor! Have you forgotten me, Brian O'Neill, since we met at the Dee Water?" Then Brian gave a great cry, and swung down to earth, for now he recognized the Black Woman. But as he strode toward her she tried to rise and failed, and forth from the midst of her rags came a quick gush of red blood. Brian leaped forward and caught her in his arms, pitying her. "I knew you," she gasped out weakly, clutching at his shoulder. "I knew you, son of Tyr-owen! You had yellow hair, but your face was the face I once loved, the face of the great Hugh--" She stopped abruptly, and her words were lost in a choking gasp as blood came from her mouth. Brian swore. "_Mile Mollaght!_ What has happened here, woman? Are you wounded?" "Aye, those dogs of O'Donnells," she moaned feebly. Then new strength came to her, and she peered up with another cackle. "But did I not tell wisely, son? Have you not found Cathbarr of the Ax and the Bird Daughter even as I foretold?" "Yes, yes," returned Brian impatiently. "Where are you wounded, mother? We can take you--" "Peace, avic," she cried. "They came on me last night, and my life is gone. You shall take vengeance for the old _calliagh_, Brian--but first I must talk. Do you know who I am, avic--or who I was, rather?" "How should I know that, mother?" answered Brian. "Old Turlough Wolf, yonder, swears you are some witch--" "Turlough!" The hag raised herself on his arm, cackling. "So the old Wolf is still living! Do _you_ know me, Turlough? Do you remember the sorrowful day of the earl's flight?" Old Turlough, who had ridden closer, bent over and looked down, fear in his face. Suddenly he straightened up again with a wild cry. "Noreen of Breffny! By my hand, it is the earl's love!"