“Perhaps,” she cried, “you have no mind to marry! You mean to follow the good Saint Kevin and become a monk!” If such were the case, Cormac’s treatment of her was explained. Had not the holy Kevin himself done more than Cormac when a girl had spoken to him of marriage? Had he not taken a great bunch of nettles and beaten her with them till she was sore? Elgiva’s warm heart filled with remorse at her unkind thoughts of Cormac. She knew the dead Griffith’s wishes too well to doubt that it would be more pleasing to him that Cormac should enter a monastery than that he should become her husband. “To enter a monastery!” sneered Ethne. “To till the ground like a slave! To wear homespun and tend sick-beds! Bah! Cormac is a warrior, and the monks have not enough spirit to kill a slave!” “Yet the monks drew our raft to shore at the risk of their lives--and restored us to life,” said Elgiva. She had risen in anger. “But you do not love the monks any more than you love me,” she said. “I hate ye all--Saxon virgin and toiling slaves!” returned Ethne. “Nor have I turned slave and ploughman after their example.” The girl glanced down at her roughened hands and earth-stained dress. “No,” she said, “you add to their work, instead of sharing it. Even for the saffron robes on your back you must give the good men trouble. You sent the poor monk, Patrick, many a weary mile with a heavy yew chest on his shoulders. And when the case was opened what was it you had sent him for? Nothing but silk and samite--gold torques and embroidered crisses!” Cormac, meanwhile, had been gazing at Elgiva with a troubled face. He was thinking of his dying father on the battle-field, and of his anguish when their fight for his British kinswoman had been in vain. Cormac went up to Elgiva and placed his hand roughly on her shoulder. “Listen, girl,” he said. “I have told you I will not marry you, and it is true. But I tell you also that I will rescue your British mother, or die in the attempt.” He turned to Ethne and embraced her. “My Ethne! My spouse that will be,” he cried. “My madness is passed--I am thy warrior once more--thy warrior with wounds healed by thee. We will to battle again!” “Ahoi!” she screamed, “Cormac of Fail--Cormac, the Black Horse. To warriors alone doth Ethne give her favours! Pict, I call thee and brother! Prince of Hibernia and twig from the tree of Tara! Cormac of Fail--sprung from the loins of gods and princesses!” She parted her crowding locks and saluted him fiercely. She drew back and smiled at him, with the little tusks gleaming on either side of her mouth. Even with that ugly smile upon her lips the boy marvelled at her beauty--at her smooth white limbs, her blue-black hair, and her flashing purple eyes. He fell back from the compass of her arms and drew his sword, flourishing it around his head.