“Never forget, boy, the fruit thy father’s Christian zeal has borne! In the shaping of thy future life, remember always, Cormac of Fail, that this mushroom faith has cost us our British possessions!” CHAPTER III. “... some to the mountains--others yielded to be slaves because of hunger--others to the seas--singing and sighing under the shadow of their sails.” (From the Epistle of Gildas, the most ancient British author.) “Prate to me no longer of marriage and giving in marriage. We love each other--that’s enough! Perchance we’ll love others, and a many, ere we die. Marriage, forsooth! And this new-fangled Christian craze--one man, one wife--’tis folly! Fit only for maids and striplings. Tush, boy! I have borne with thee, and humoured thee, because of thy hurt--but now I am weary of this madness!” Cormac made no reply; only gazed with love-sick eyes at the speaker, Ethne of the Raven Hair. She had brought him back from death to life; when he lay more helpless than a babe she had raised his head and put food between his lips; in hours of pain and weariness she had anticipated his least want. He had lost his father, his lands, his favourite horse--all that had meant the world to the boy--but Ethne remained, and he loved her. “In a few more days,” she said, “you will mount your horse again.” “My horse!” said the boy, bitterly. “I have not even the power to save his bones from the crows.” “There are other horses in the world,” replied the woman impatiently. “You shall have another stallion, Cormac--blacker and more beautiful than the last. When you ride to battle again the banners shall bear the old device. The Black Horse is not vanquished--he is but worsted for a time--he will rise again victorious. The Black Horse, Cormac of Fail, the Black Horse against the White!” The boy shook his head. “I will never fight again,” he said, mournfully. “The world is lost to me--you are my world now, Ethne, and when you cease to love me I shall die.” Again his thoughts wandered gloomily on the late events--the hideous defeat--the tempestuous sea--the days of agony and weakness. They were sitting out of doors, at a short distance from the little wattled cote the monks had given them. The day was so warm that Ethne had unfastened the long gold brooch on her left shoulder and thrown off her brat, or shawl. Her white arms and bosom were bare, beautiful gold torques twined her arms; a gold crescent shone above her forehead. Her thick black hair fell about her to her knees--round her waist was a rich purple scarf, called a criss, fringed with gold and embroidery. Her saffron-coloured tunic was open at the bosom and showed an embroidered under garment called a lann. Her dress was that of a princess of Hibernia.