On the hill-side the flocks and herds mingled with the people; driven through and through the smoke and between the fires, till half mad with fear. A thousand beast-eyes caught the red of the flames, and added to the glitter of the scene; the jagged horns of oxen bristled in the close masses; the wind from their nostrils played a full accompaniment to the babel of tongues. Night seemed lighter than day in the full glare of the fires--and the moving black shadows seemed full of points of light, in glittering pike and knife. The masses of men, women, and beasts swayed and spread, like a sea, on the hill-side; and, above them, flashed like foam the white dress and limbs of Druid and Druidess--leaping and bounding on the stone monuments with which the hill was dotted. Highest of all a band of chanting Druids was grouped, motionless, around a great white bull breathing his last on the stone of sacrifice--his blood staining their golden knives and white robes and his own white skin. Suddenly, in the midst of a surging mass, a small hand, strong as iron, seized Cormac’s bridle and wild eyes flashed into his. It was Ethne; her saffron garments torn and singed. The white fell of her stallion splashed with blood. “Choose!” she cried. “Come to us, child of the sun, and worship with us, or depart to the saints! They will give you caves to fester in and cold stones to do penance on--mast and acorns for hermits’ food--go, Christian!” The supreme contempt in her tones had little sting for Cormac. He hardly heard her words; with all his might he was struggling against the overwhelming desire to enter in upon this scene of fire and danger. The natural desire of a youth to join in the dancing, wrestling, and horse-racing; and joined to this was a fierce desire for further excitement and danger. The horrible fascination was growing. In a hush, in the storm, the voices of the chanting Druids came to his ears--silver sweet. He could see them raise their sacred symbols. The beatings of his heart grew faster. “You have the Christians’ symbol!” he said. “The Cross!” The Druid at his horse’s bridle borrowed the silver tone of the sacrificial chanters. “We have their symbol,” he said, “because we have all symbols--the symbols of all eternity--reaching to the very limits of the darkness behind us, to the uttermost limit of the light before us. We are the sons of the Sacred Tree--and all knowledge is with us, and all desire, and all ecstasy!” Beside them was a group of frenzied worshippers cutting their naked bodies with flints; their cries broke in upon the silver of the Druids’ voices in notes of brass. The youth upon the saddle had closed his eyes; he swayed a little as though he had already drunk of the mead which the people were spilling and drinking. “You are ours,” cried the voice of the Druid, “ours! But you reel and sicken at our incense as the bee, fresh from the cell, reels and sickens at a field of clover!”