“Pict do you call me!” he cried, in the same screaming voice. “Ay, Pict am I, and Pict art thou! And we will rally Pict and Scot around us! We will to Britain again and harass the Saxons, as in olden days we harassed the Britons! Scot am I and Scot art thou--and the Scots brought Lia Fail and the Ogham books to Hibernia!” “Fire!” she returned, “and blood and plunder! Men we make white with fear. Our swords drink deep of blood of maids and babes. Ahoi--we will once more to Britain!” She drew her lips over her savage fangs. Once more she pressed her hot, fierce mouth to the boy’s.--She also drew her sword and brandished it above her head. “Blood!” she cried, “and fire and sacrifice! Come with me, boy, to the sacred heart of Hibernia and I will show thee warriors that will set the world on fire. Tell me, Cormac, wilt thou come?” He was as fierce and hot as she, and he yelled out with bloodthirsty oaths that he would follow her to the world’s end. Then--like all true Hibernians, in times of excitement, they fell to calling pedigrees. “Hail, Cormac!” she cried, striking his shoulder with the flat of her sword, “Whelp of the lion, Tuathal!” “Tuathal the Legitimate!” chanted Cormac, proudly. “Sib am I also to Cormac, son of Art, to Conn of the Hundred Battles, and Niall of the Nine Hostages!” “Sib art thou also to me, Cormac of Fail!” screamed the woman. “Through the blood of an Ethne--Ethne the Terrible, princess and priestess! Mighty was she in life, treading in blood as a milk-maid in dew--and mighty was she in death, for white oxen drew wood and treasure to her pyre for nine days after her death. Myrrh and amber they brought--unguents and spices and gold. Beasts they slaughtered by the score, and all the earth was drenched with mead and blood.” “Hail to our ancestress, Ethne!” called the boy, “wife of Oengus--Oengus the Christian, baptised by Saint Patrick!” “Nay!” thundered Ethne, suddenly dropping the chanting tone in which they were speaking. “But the wife of Oengus--she of my race and my name, never lapsed into Christianity! Druidess she was, and druidess she remained--and in the battle in which she was slain her incantations struck awe into the hearts of all that heard them!” Then again her voice grew high and shrill as a battle-cry. “Blood and sacrifice!” she yelled “and the secrets told by fresh-slain men!” Suddenly she made a thrust at Cormac with her sword, a mere feint--so dexterous that, though it drew blood, it was a mere scratch that might have been received from a sharp thorn. There was a light in her eyes, like that of a half-angry tigress playing with its whelp. “Ha, cub!” she snarled, “thou hast been bred in the faith of a cur but if thou would’st have Ethne and Ethne’s aid thou must leave all and return with me to the ancient faith and to the Druids!” The boy fell before her, as though he had received a mortal wound. “I cannot understand,” he gasped. “Thou art a Christian, Ethne!”