He threw himself upon a runaway horse and went on, and on, and on--with ever the scene of blood and fire before him. * * * * * A little child with a face like the morning, passed by, singing as it went, carrying flowers mixed with hawthorn leaves. All around lay cultivated fields, gardens, and rows of bee-hives; beasts were basking in the sun. Such was the scene upon which Cormac opened his eyes. How long he had slept he did not know, but he found himself lying on a mass of dry moss beneath an oak tree. Someone had covered his half-naked body with a sheep-skin and he lay warm and comfortable. For a moment he thought he was back with S. Kevin’s monks and that the Beltane festival was a bad dream. Then full remembrance came, and he cowered down in the moss and covered his face with his hands. He, a Christian, had entered into the foul and bloody rites of the Druids. To his ears came the soft chime of six-sided bells. After a time he sat up and looked about him. He was surprised to see the quantity of hawthorn that abounded everywhere. Every child that passed carried branches of it; there were fields of young hawthorn tenderly cared for by labourers; among the larger trees wood-men were busy cutting it and piling it in heaps--and others were busy carrying away the waiting piles upon their shoulders. Cormac rose to his feet as he realised where he was. He knew he could not be far from the cell of his cousin, the Princess Brigit--the sweet girl-saint of Kildare; who was so full of the spirit of love and propitiation of early Christianity that she thought it no sin to keep one of the Druid’s sacred fires burning--consecrating it anew to the Christian Faith and hoping to win the Druids over likewise. The great fire was fed entirely on the hawthorn wood; in using such fuel Saint Brigit felt she gave a truly sacred and symbolic character to the fire, for she believed that Our Lord’s Crown of Thorns was made of hawthorn. In all the land around him lay the feeling of home and peace for which Cormac’s smarting spirit longed--but he could not stay. In this sweet spot he felt himself unclean. A kindly wood-cutter offered him some food, which he gratefully accepted. Then he turned westward and went on once more till he had left Kildare far behind him, and the wild plain spread itself before his eyes. Around him waved the long grass, and he stretched himself at full length upon it, plucking it in handfuls; heaping it on his face; as though there were something cleansing in its cool touch--hot and sick still at the memory of his Baal madness.