“Child of a Saxon savage,” replied Ethne, haughtily, “do I render account to thee of my doings?” The girl gave no heed to the taunt. “Nay, but he shall wed me,” she cried, firmly, “and fulfil the commands of his father.” Ethne burst into low laughter. “Thou wilt have a rare bride, Cormac,” she cried. “She will mend thy trews like all true Saxon wives, and she will wear them, too!” Cormac strode forward. Every word the Saxon uttered angered him. He was full of shame and wounded vanity when he looked at her; she was so raw, ugly, and uncouth. Her eyes were still red from the smoke; her mouth, naturally large, was increased in size by half-healed scars. Now, at Ethne’s mocking laughter, he fell into a fury. “I will not marry thee,” he cried. “Great gaby! Ugly blear-eyed, red-legged girl!” In his rage he lifted his hand and slapped her on the face. The old hound whimpered as though his master had struck him. Elgiva was speechless with surprise. Cormac fell back to his old position beside Ethne. Elgiva’s face smarted with pain; one of the half-healed wounds bled afresh. Cormac had struck her--just as in the days when they had been babes together! Moreover, he had said he would not marry her. Her eyes filled with tears; she did not care for the pain, or for Cormac’s unkindness to her--but the thought that he had turned so soon against his dead father’s wishes was anguish! “It is your fault, Ethne,” she said. “You have persuaded him to say this. You are wicked and heartless! You did not love Griffith because he would not make you his wife. You hate me because, for my mother’s sake, Griffith warred upon the Saxons!” She sat down on the floor and, burying her face in the hound’s neck, sobbed as though her heart would break. The animal licked her hair and shoulders. Cormac watched her uneasily. It was unlike Elgiva to give way to tears. The Saxon blood which flowed in her veins--loathed by herself as well as by her companions--had endowed her with a stoical calm in times of ordinary distress. He began to feel ashamed of the blow he had given Elgiva. He had determined that he could not marry her, but the very fact that he was breaking his father’s commands made him more anxious to show kindness to one who had served that father with more than a daughter’s devotion. He remembered how, on the battle-field, she had attempted to throw herself between him and his death-blow; and how she had waited on his dying moments under the swords of the enemy. In the midst of her grief, a new and comforting idea came to Elgiva. She sat up suddenly, ceased sobbing, and looked inquiringly at Cormac.