Cormac stood upright and threw aside his cloak. One of Ethne’s slaves drew a scented saffron robe around him, another placed a golden hoop on his head. The applause grew louder. Trumpets and timpans almost deafened the people. Cormac’s eye flashed, his cheek glowed. He walked up and down the raised platform; smiling and responding to the people. “The Black Horse! The Black Horse!” they cried. “The Black Horse against the White!” Then an old man--so old men had forgotten the year of his birth--rose and asked for a few minutes’ silence, that he might be heard. “I call on you all to witness this thing,” he piped, “that one has come among us from over the seas mightier than Hengist or Horsa. Here is the Avenger! Here is the Black Horse! And though Britain lies white with the cold ash of the White Horse she shall be blackened, in time, by the scorch of the Black!” The tumult was so great, after this, that although Cormac was seen to speak, his voice could not be heard. Again he walked up and down with the easy, spirited motion that reminded Elgiva so irresistibly of the fleet mountain steeds. Often had she seen such springing, quivering movements as she had watched them, eager for the race. In the confusion of sounds, Cormac’s quick ear detected the first chords of a war-dance struck from the harps around him; and responding to the music, he leapt forward and broke into the first movement of the beloved sword-dance. A half-halo of light glanced round him as he drew his sword like lightning from its sheath. A band of warriors immediately gathered about him and joined with him in the mazes of the dance. Elgiva watched him with a beating heart. She realised now the truth of what Ethne had told her--that Cormac drew men around him as a flower gathers bees. Who could resist him, this darling of the people? He had the grace and fire of an untamed animal, as he responded, with voice and limb, to the music. More than mortal he seemed. His feet were winged, surely; they did not hurry, but went on ever, swift and light and even. To watch him--with a battle-song on his lips and sword and feet ever in time to the music--was to see the very personation of youth and fire. Once, as he passed by her seat, he paused for an instant; then wove one of the figures of the dance around her. The spirit of mischief shone in his eyes. Bending towards her, as though in the measure of the dance, he whispered teasingly: “Do you remember your words to me at Glendalough? Tell me, Elgiva, are you as ready now as then to wed me?” The dance carried him away from her before she could reply. She flashed a look at him. A ripple of teasing laughter came to her ears in return.