A great wave of excitement passed over Cormac. He knew enough of the rites of the Druids to realise what this meant to Ethne. He had seen the winner of the Snake’s Egg--the Anguineum; the most prized of all druidical charms; believed to be thrown in the air from the frothy striving of entangled serpents; and eagerly sought after by waiting Druids who stood around with outstretched cloaks ready to catch it as it fell. The lucky Druid who caught it would forthwith ride at full speed on a waiting horse to gain security by the placing of running water between himself and the pursuing serpents--for it was believed the vipers turned immediately in pursuit. As far as Cormac could see, the country was dotted with wreaths of smoke. As the evening fell, innumerable fires twinkled under the smoke; tongues of fire leapt on every hill, on every peak and granite column; they lit up the tracks in the swale and heath before him. He knew that to the Druids they were sacred fires. As he looked around it seemed to him that all Hibernia was ablaze. Again the same wave of excitement passed over him--a strange, savage thrill as of some unknown instinct awakening within him. As though he, like the world around him, had been set on fire. Other wild spirits had taken fire, likewise. The sight of the leaping flames worked like mead on the Hibernians. Those who still professed the ancient faith plunged, intoxicated, into all the sacrificial rites of the Druids. Many who professed Christianity, threw it, for the time, aside--as they might have thrown aside a mask; or mingled the fierce and bloody orgies of Beltane with the rites and ceremonies of their own Easter. Suddenly a band of Druids, in shimmering white robes, circled around Cormac; the setting sun sparkled on their golden harps and ornaments. One of their number sprang forward with cries of praise and greeting. At his call the other members of the band grouped themselves around the young prince in attitudes of extravagant joy and homage. “Cormac of Fail! Stealer of men’s hearts! Maker of ravens’ food--and shedder of blood! Hail, then, to Banba--great son of thy fathers!” These words were cried in the monotonous chant of bards accustomed to attune their voices whenever occasion required it. They paused; then smote a full chorus from their harps. “From sea to sea, in this circle of Tuathal’s carving, every heart is full with joy at thy return and with sorrow at thy losses. Ahoi!” The voices rose to a battle-cry. “Ahoi! for Tuathal of Tara’s hosts! Ahoi, for Tuathal--maker of Ravens’ food--Tuathal of war horses, foam-pale! Ahoi, ahoi! We have lost the Egg--we have missed the sacred thing--but we have found the child of Tuathal--Tuathal from Tara of Fail!” The bards paused--the earth around Cormac was covered with white-robed Druids, prone before him. The blood mounted on the boy’s cheeks. Again they smote upon their golden harps.