The girl rose often and attended to the wants of her companions. Cormac’s eye fell on her and marked the difference between her and Ethne. The contrast was strong. The young Saxon wore a straight robe of sack-cloth, frayed here and there, and stained from labour in the field and at the fire-side; her feet were bare; she wore no ornaments; her hair, tangled and powdered with ashes, was badly plaited, tied with rushes and drawn round her neck. Her skin was red and rough, her movements awkward, her hands large and toil-worn. She was as broad and tall as a fully-developed woman, but she had the shapeless figure and raw limbs of a child, or an awkward boy. Once when she stooped over Ethne, in filling her cup, the Celtic woman raised her hand and slapped her in the face. “Ah, beast!” she cried. “Cub of a Saxon sire--I loathe thy very touch!” When the meal was over, some water was required from the spring, and the girl ran to get it. The hound, who could not endure the Saxon out of his sight, followed her. Ethne sneered as she glanced after the retreating figures. “It will soon be time, Cormac of Fail,” she said, “for you to take the Saxon maid to wife. She will make a fitting bride for a king, in yon sack-cloth shift.” Again she sneered--Cormac grew crimson. “And thou can’st have none other. Remember that! One wife must suffice for a Christian. Ha, ha!” Cormac pushed his platter from before him and rose. “Ethne,” he said, “I cannot fulfil my father’s commands. I cannot wed the Saxon.” He trembled from head to foot. He had left Ethne’s side and was gazing on the wall, where a golden crown, torques of gold, and a king’s sword were displayed, deeply stained with blood. They had been taken from his father’s body on the field of battle; Elgiva, the Saxon, had carried them away, and she had placed them on the wall of their dwelling. The boy stooped forward and kissed the tokens, one by one. The tears streamed from his eyes. Solemnly he knelt down and, clasping his hands together, looked upward as though in prayer. “Father,” he cried, “forgive me, but I cannot fulfil thy commands--for marriage without love is no marriage--and I loathe the Saxon!” The boy’s grief was touching. Ethne watched him with the ugly sneer lifting her lip and showing the fang beneath. “Well done, boy!” she cried. “A good Pictish chieftain needs no Saxon among his wives.” Both the speakers turned as a wooden pail was cast down on the ground. Elgiva stood before them. “What work is this you are at now,” she cried. “Ethne of the Raven Hair?” The girl’s broad chest, red from sun and wind, heaved under her sack-cloth. She frowned on both Ethne and Cormac. “Why do you seek to turn the son against the father’s wishes?” The dog, which had followed the girl, gave a low growl as he noticed her attitude, and pressed closer to her side. She threw her arm round the creature’s neck; his one eye, red as a coal, burned with hatred as he looked at Ethne.