They were in Coloman’s chamber now, and the Druid turned from star-gazing to greet the King, with a new dark look in his gentle face. “Coloman, how does thy mother do now? She had grown too bold in her pride, but we did not slay her because of Aonan here. How works our medicine that we designed to temper her beauty?” “Well, lord. No man will kiss my mother’s beauty more.” “Good: now she will turn her feet into ways of gentleness, perhaps. Thou holdest me a grudge for this medicine o’ mine, my son Coloman?” “Lord, she is my mother,” the Druid said, looking down. “The scars will heal,” Cathal said; “but--Aonan here has only seen her beautiful. Coloman, wouldst thou have him see her scarred and foul to see?” “No, lord,” the Druid said fiercely. Cathal laughed. “Have a gift of me, then, O Coloman,” he said. “Spare him from sight of a marred beauty, in what way thou canst. I give thee his eyes for thy mother’s scars.” The two young men looked at each other steadily: then Aonan spoke. “Take the payment that the King offers thee, Coloman, without fear: a debt is a debt.” “And the debt is heavy.” Coloman said hoarsely: “Lord, wilt thou go and leave Aonan-na-Righ to me? And wilt thou send to me thy cunning men, Flathartach and Fadhar? I must have help.” “Aonan-na-Righ will not hinder thee, Coloman,” said the King, mockingly. “He desires greatly to meet with his mother: and do thou commend me also to the Lady Eivir, whom I wedded first, and who loved me well.” “Call me also to thy mother’s memory,” Toran the boaster cried presently, when all was made ready, and Coloman bade draw the irons from the brazier--“if thou goest so far, Darling of the King.” “I will remember,” Aonan said: and then fire and flesh met. * * * * * At the next Beltane feast Cathal the Red slept beside Acaill in the burial-place of the kings at Brugh, and Guthbinn sat in the high seat, Toran the boaster at his right hand. But Coloman the Druid stood on the tower-top, reading the faces of the stars; and along the road that wound its dusty way to the country of the Golden Hostages there toiled two dark figures: a woman and a man. Now the woman was hooded and masked, but under the grey hood the moonlight found a gleam of ruddy hair; and the man she led by the hand and watched over as a mother watches her son. Yet the woman was Danish Astrild, and the blind man was Aonan-na-Righ. FOOTNOTE: [I.] Now Tirerrill, Co. Sligo. “De Profundis” By S. Cornish Watkins The hot white road winds on and on before, The hot white road fades into haze behind, With clinging dust each hedge is powdered o’er, The sun is high, no shelter can we find. A dusty bird upon a dusty spray Sings o’er and o’er a little dreary song, There is no rest, no rest, the livelong day, And we are weary, and the way is long.