The heralds had already gone by; carrying trumpets twelve feet in length, with deep, vibrating notes like the roar of lions. Pipe, and harp, and clash of battle-axe accompanied the war-songs of the warriors as they rode past in the rain; prancing stallions often added their notes to the din. There was a continual glitter of sword, pike, and javelin; a glare of saffron robes and purple cloaks--woaded limbs and faces. Here and there bronze lance-heads and bronze axes showed themselves, mingled with primitive, leaf-shaped swords of bronze, stone hammers, and hide-covered shields of wicker. Horse and man bristled with tough yew-bows and sheaves of arrows; some of the darts had poison lurking in their tips and others were tipped with stone after the rude manner of their cave-dwelling forefathers. Many bronze shields could be seen; some were heirlooms--all bossy and gleaming with rich ornament. There was little order in the procession; it was a perpetual jostle between horse and woman and man; great Irish hounds slipped in and out among the crowd. In one part of the procession a note of sombre colour and the sound of hushed music prevailed, where a thousand chanting monks from Iona followed their leader Saint Columba. Suddenly the glare of saffron and purple streamed brighter, the clash of battle-axe grew sharper; King Aedh passed by, followed by the kings of Munster, of West Munster, of Leinster, and of Ossory; and many other kings, amongst whom was Aidan, son of Gabran, one of the kings of the Alban Picts. Cormac found himself on his black stallion carried away in the fringe of the procession; down a steep hill-side to a barren stretch of moor, where a race-course had been mapped out, and race-horses by the score were being entered for a contest. Ethne suddenly appeared beside him mounted on her white horse. “You are ready Cormac, to fight for your bards--on the side of the saint, Columba?” “Ready! Ay, more than ready!” cried Cormac, raising himself in his stirrups with a war-shout. “So! Then--be wary, and wait till I give the signal!” She left his side and passed, at full gallop, into the mazes of an ancient Druidical temple that adjoined the racecourse. The savage hills around gave a wild setting to the temple or winding avenue of stone columns into which she passed. As she rode through the circle, in which the rude pillars were arranged, she uttered Druidical incantations in a low, piercing voice. The place was thronged with bards and their steeds and beagles--they were riding and walking through the two long avenues and the great central circle; a group in white robes were assembled around the stone of sacrifice--one of these ran to Ethne’s side as she reined in her horse. “Fortune favours us!” she said, in a low impressive voice. “You fight for your liberty not only under Cormac of Fail, but under the protection of the saint, Columba! Remember!”