"It is the _seanachie_," answered one of the bearers. "Since the Dark Master struck him yester-morn he has not spoken, and he died last night." Upon this Red Murrough crossed himself, as did the rest, muttered into his tangle of red beard, and motioned Brian forward. This wider passage gave through a doorway upon the great hall. There was no dais, but the Dark Master was seated before the huge fireplace, his wolf-hound crouched down at his side. The hall was pierced near the roof with openings, and lower down with loopholes, so that when the sun shone outside it was bright enough. Red Murrough led Brian forward, the clank of the heavy chain-links echoing hollowly through the place, but O'Donnell Dubh did not look up until the two men stood a scant four paces from him. Then his head came out from between his rounded shoulders and his eyes spat fire at Brian. "A poor ending to proud talk, Brian Buidh!" Brian tried to smile, but with ill success, for he was chilled to the bone and there was blood on his face. "I am not yet dead, O'Donnell." "You will be soon enough," the Dark Master chuckled, and the hall thrilled with evil laughter. In the eyes of all Brian had proven himself the weaker man and therefore deserved his fate. "What of this O'Malley journey of yours, eh?" Brian made no answer, save that his strong lips clamped shut, and his blue eyes narrowed a little. O'Donnell laughed and began to stroke his wolf-hound. "I have many messengers and many servants, Yellow Brian, and there is little my enemies do which is not told me. Even now men are riding hard and fast to trap Cathbarr of the Ax and your following." At that Brian laughed, remembering Turlough Wolf and his cunning. "I think this trapping will prove a hard matter, Dark Master." "That is as it may be. Now, Brian Buidh, death is hard upon you, and neither an easy nor a swift one. Before you die there are two things which I would know from your lips." Brian looked at him, but without speaking. The Dark Master had thrust out his head, his hand still lingering on the wolfhound's neck, and his pallid face, drooping mustache, and high brow were very evil to gaze upon. Brian, eying that thin-nostriled, cruel nose, and the undershot jaw of the man, read no mercy there. "First, who _are_ you, Brian Buidh? Are you an O'Neill, as that ring of yours would testify, or are you an O'Malley come down from the western isles?" At that Brian laughed out harshly. "Ask those servants of which you boast, Dark Master. Poor they must be if they cannot tell you even the names of your enemies!"