On the hills beyond--sinister background for the reckless warriors--burnt black on ling and heather was the conquering symbol, the Black Horse. To Cormac’s ears came in uncouth, primitive verse a weird refrain, sung continuously in his honour, a battle song that had been in his family for unknown generations, descended from that dim past whence sprang the origin of his forefathers’ totem, the Horse. A vague, formless kind of verse, difficult of translation and, when translated, shaping itself into words akin to these: “In days of Eld, when men choose birds and beasts around them, To bear their name and race and station, I sought and chose the swift, free horse! Into his silken, mobile ear my lips have slipt their whisper. Bear me away--away with the wind and the lightning and storm.” “You say we have crossed the barrier between ourselves and our enemies,” said Ethne, in reply to the Saxon’s words. “But I tell you, my Elgiva, that we need no barrier against friends.” “You speak in riddles,” said Elgiva, looking in wonder at the bright-eyed and smiling woman. “I speak in riddles, say you? And I can show you a riddle, too, as well as speak one. Behold!” At a sign from her some slaves drew apart two great pieces of tapestry that covered a gap in the ruined walls; they saw that a great feast was under preparation. Not a flower-crowned banquet such as Ethne had loved to spread before her friends in her Roman villa in Damnonia--but a feast of the rudest fare. Rude in its fare and rude in its abundance--hogs and oxen, roasted whole, mingled with cakes of meal as big as shields; hogsheads of cheese and curds, and stacks of onions. Such a feast as would have gladdened the roughest of the Picts and Scots; or have laden the board of their enemies--the rude Saxons. “Shall I aid you both to the reading of my riddle?” said the smiling Ethne, “when I tell you that to-morrow morning we feast not with our warriors but with our enemies--not indeed with our enemies, but with our allies? That side by side the servers lay wine-cup and bottomless drinking-horn!” There was silence, whilst Cormac and Elgiva grasped the meaning of these words. And then a torrent of words from both assailed Ethne’s ears. “We feast with the Saxons!” cried Elgiva. “Remember Vortigern, and how he feasted with them, and beware! How when Bret and Saxon were drinking side by side Hengist cried, ‘Draw your daggers!’ and each Saxon smote the Briton at his side and slew him.” “We are allied with the Saxons!” cried Cormac. “Without my knowledge? How? When?” “What matter if we knit our noose ourselves!” continued Elgiva, scornfully. “Better die meadful and feasting than in drought and famine on the battle-field. Curd and flesh to-day--cow-berry and toad-stool to-morrow!” Ethne clapped her hands lightly to her ears. “Listen! Listen!” she cried, smiling. “For I have wonderful news to tell you!”