Again when he passed her--his eyes challenged hers. It was new to her this wild assertive mood of his. She watched him with a vague wonder--this personification of her mother’s race who turned so easily from one note to another in the scale of human passion and played upon its gamut with the ease their fingers played upon the harp. Who could resist him, she asked herself, this darling of the people? Ethne watched him, well-pleased; knowing that, to these simple people--children of the soil--a stronger appeal could be made by dance than by speech. “Ahoi! Ahoi!” came Cormac’s battle cry once more. He tossed his locks from his gleaming forehead; his thin nostril quivered; his sword shimmered constantly in a half-arc of light. Swifter and swifter flew his feet, as sword and shield gleamed in the warrior dance. He chanted as he sang: “Dance on! dance on: let us dance on! Dance on for aye! Till sword, and foot, and tongue doth yield. The magic sense from rhythm born! Dance on: dance on: let us dance on!” Warrior after warrior fell out and gave place to others in the charmed circle of the sword-dancers--either too fatigued or too confused and giddy to observe the figures of the dance. But still the light, swaying figure of the young chieftain flew on--till the eyes of the whole assembly filled with wonder at him. All present were so intent upon him that, for a time, they were unconscious of uproar and confusion outside the hall. Suddenly every entrance was flooded by a sea of white, agonized faces. The faces, for the greater part were those of old men and women and children, but amongst them were warriors’, blanched with fear; they looked more ghastly because of the flaring torches they carried. A confused murmur accompanied them--not the voices of men, but rather the passionate sighs of those whom fear had turned to mutes. The leader of the dance continued though all around the attention was falling from him, and men were gazing upon each other in growing excitement--knowing the tumult must mean battle--but not knowing the quarter from whence it came. In the moment of suspense Bret and Pict and Scot were stirred to the very depths of the fount from which they drew their war-passion. Hands leapt to knife and pike and Roman blade as, with paling faces, they turned involuntarily towards each other. Shrill voices, at length, broke yelling into the assembly. “The Heathen--the Saxons--are upon us! They close in upon us from either side!” The leader of the sword-dance had halted--the flashing marvel of shield and sword and winged feet had stopped, statue-like, for a minute. And then again he was leader of men--not of revellers. Suddenly at the head of every warrior, every chief in the hall--as they banded themselves together in passionate devotion to him.