CHAPTER XXIII

Lavarcham left the king’s presence.

She came away bowed and blind and dizzy, shuffling in any direction

and unaware of why she was walking or where she was going. An hundred

thoughts, battling furiously for precedence, kept her thoughtless; an

hundred pictures, each striving for place and examination, kept her

blind. She was all a din and whirl and swirl, as though the winds that

raged in gust and countercurrent through her brain were blowing her

along. At times she would remember that she did not wish to go where

she was going, and she would spin furiously aside and go as stupidly in

another path; and at times she would discover that she was standing,

still and collected as a stone, a nothing; staring on nothing. Great

sighs broke from her miserable heart; or she was so shattered by dry

sobbings that it seemed her bones must part company with her flesh and

with each other; and again, with her two hands gripped on her mouth

she squeezed back a medley of screams, and listened, as in amazement,

to the thin whinings that forced through the crooked spaces in her

fingers. Again, the cautious woman would peep and peer to see if any

person was nigh to observe her, and before that survey could make its

round she would forget what she was looking for, and think that _they_

could not be seen from this place, for they have hours’ start, and will

be--where? by this time.

With what unbelieving anguish that flight had forced itself upon her!

She had gone trotting and ambling and panting about her rooms and

fields, calling--

“Deirdre, Deirdre, Deirdre?”

Searching for her baby in a work-basket or on the flat of a ceiling,

while the servants gibbered and squealed and bubbled and blared at her

and at each other.

With what an iron dismay the thought of Conachúr came on her,

desolating and unreckoned as the thunderclap which howls on the heels

of its howling brother.

He must be told.

And at that she poked up her nose like a moonstruck dog pealing scream

on scream, until the attending hags fled into corners as the mice do

when they are frightened, and screamed with her and at her and at the

roof.

She went to Conachúr.

She stood mumbling and staring outside the door and then trotted in,

whispering at him:

“She’s gone.”

And Conachúr echoed, in uncomprehending amazement:

“She’s gone.”

Lavarcham stared into the king’s face that was carved in the granite of

suspense and astonishment.

“She’s gone, little Deirdre’s gone,” she yelled, and emptied her thin

fingers on the air as though she emptied them of Deirdre. She clapped

her hands together with a dreadful giggle, and flapped her arms along

her thighs like some ungainly crow that has been set dancing drunk on

mead.

“When a maid goes a man goes with her,” she croaked.

She flopped to the door and hopped out of it and popped back.

“She’s gone,” she cried. “She’s gone; she ran away with a man”; and she

wobbled to the doorway again, nodding and tittering at the king until

she disappeared.

The servants and guards were listening with their eyes staring, their

mouths open, and their breathing forgotten.

A whisper, a thrill, a terrible constriction of the heart fled through

the vast palace, and went zigzagging like wildfire about Ulster. And

in the centre of that Conachúr stood, alone; with his fists closed and

his eyes closed; listening to the whispers that were an inch away and

an hundred miles away; that were over him and under him and in him:

listening to the blanching of his face and to the liquifying of his

bones: listening in a rage of curiosity and woe for the more that might

be said and all the more that might be thought: trying, as with one

gripping of the mind, to sense all the bitterness that might be; to

exhaust it in one gulp, and re-awaken as at a million removes from all

that had ever been or could be till Doom.

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

Time flies, scattering on all that had seemed important the ash of

forgetfulness, and so crowding memory into memory that the thing we

recollect has no longer the shape or colour that strode against us once

upon a time.

For all men but the dreamer time flies. But it may be stationary for

him who can recreate in the night all that he forces to oblivion in the

morning. His woeful yesterdays can be timely at any time, for nothing

that touches him will rust or fade, and he may be seen to wince at a

word which his contemporaries have lost the significance of.

The seven years that passed had not touched Conachúr. He was still the

masterful king, the unremitting lawgiver. He was still the idol of his

people. What would a banquet in the Red Branch be if the king were

away? But he was never absent, and wherever there was music or frolic

or laughter the Son of Ness was urging it on, and would be eager for

more when the youngest companion was wearied to stupidity. Not time nor

thought could blunt the edge of his bodily or mental energy, so vast

was it, and misfortune beat as unavailingly against him as the wind did

against oaken Emania.

To be energetic and self-sufficing is to be happy; but while one

desire remains in the heart happiness may not come there. For to

desire is to be incomplete: it is the badge of dependence, the signal

of unhappiness, and to be freed from that is to be freed from every

fetter that can possibly be forged. Man becomes god when he finds his

satisfactions within himself, but his dreams then are other than those

that harried Conachúr as a pack of hounds harry a fox.

For Ulster might forget, and those who had not been outraged might

forgive, but he would not forget or forgive until he was as dead as

those should be against whom his mind was directed like the point of a

secret spear.

Deirdre and the sons of Uisneac had fled to Scotland, where they had

kinsmen and acquaintances who had grown up with them in Emain Macha

as fosterages from the Scottish courts, or as lords and captains in

Conachúr’s mercenary armies. They may have met Cúchulinn there, for it

would be about that time that he was under the tuition of the female

warrior and witch, Scatach; and, if so, they should have met his

comrade Ferdiad also, he who was to assail the ford afterwards with

what a hand! and it may have been during their exile that Cúchulinn

fell in love with Scatach’s daughter, and that the child was born who

would receive such a woeful stroke on Báile’s Strand.

It is one of the wise arrangements of providence that no person can

either eat of the same thing or talk of the same thing for more than

a week; and so, when gossip’s time had passed, Ulster, unless it

might be to some travelling historian, spoke no more of the king’s

misfortune. Such an historian would have learned that Deirdre was tall

and short, and that she was dark and fair and sallow: for every woman

he interviewed would lend her own contours and complexion to such an

heroine, and would, as they reprobated or forgave, endow her with the

moral qualities which they best appreciated--their own. Lavarcham could

tell the truth and so could Conachúr, but they would not be questioned

for some years to come.

The king had downfaced the whole matter from the start. He went to

the chase that day. He sat at the banquet that night. He visited

his foreign troops the next day, and the day after he inspected the

fortifications at the Pass of the Fews and a length of the Black Pig’s

Dyke on either side. There was the Boy Troop to be reviewed and their

competitions to be scrutinized. There were the unending ceremonies of

the court, the Judgement Seat, and of the embassies from all parts

of his realm and from overseas: there were gifts to be received and

returned: counsels to be given and listened to. There was an eternal

variety of occupations for the king, who, although he might employ a

day of eighteen hours’ work, could have something yet to think of ere

he slept.

Cúchulinn and Conall Cearnach had been equal kings with him, but they

had (Lavarcham had assisted in that) surrendered their powers to

Conachúr, who was now known and described as Emperor of Ulster.

What allegiance he gave to the High King of Ireland we do not know, and

it may have been part of his plan to arrive at that dignity himself.

A Connacht prince was then, and for a thousand years afterwards, High

King of Ireland, and although the effort of Connacht and Ulster to

achieve supreme rule may now be forgotten, the effects of those bitter

wars lasted longer than an historian would dare to count.

So far as Ulster was concerned the king might have been at ease. His

honour was as safe as his kingdom, and as for the other actors in his

drama their condition was so manifestly gentle and their youth so

extreme that no taint of ugliness or treachery could remain in the

tale, or in the mind of the person who heard it. It could, in a while,

have been told of as a regrettable childish misadventure, and one which

not even the king need further remember.

But the king remembered.

It was to escape such a memory that he plunged into affairs and

banquets and a whole roystering self-expenditure which would have

devitalized any other man. He prolonged his day until it could not for

very weariness be further extended, and then he went to bed.

No: he went to Deirdre’s bed where Naoise slept, and over which he

hovered sleepless, though in sleep, and in a torment that poisoned the

very sunlight when he awakened.

CHAPTER II

Conachúr mac Nessa was preparing a feast.

Household banquets were common matters at his court, but this was to be

a State banquet, and every person who could be thought of as noble or

notable was invited to the Red Branch.

As well as an aristocracy of birth there was in every Irish court an

élite of excellence. Those who were foremost in learning, the arts, or

the crafts, had the privilege of visiting the king equally with those

whose merit rose from their fathers’ graves or their skill at arms. A

king was then close to his people, and he was by training and habit a

connoisseur in many things which all could understand. A commonwealth

of taste is the only one which can admit equality--it is democracy. He

could commend with knowledge the man who built a house or the man who

did the carvings in it. He could speak to the maker of his chariots

or the breaker of his horses in terms that apprehended to the last

shading the matter that was being discussed, and, so, to the expert

who cured his bacon or the sturdy master who superintended the brewing

of his beer. All arts were household arts; all crafts were arts; and

the knowledge of these was culture. A gentleman would know of all the

music that was worthy of being played, for a musical person formed part

of every household. He would remember the songs that had outlived time

and could discuss their excellences; and the only art which he need

regard as occult would be poetry itself; for, while all other arts come

by memory and experiment, poetry, which is not an art, comes solely by

grace.

“Lavarcham,” said Conachúr, “have you heard any talk of the banquet?”

“Indeed, master, I have heard nothing else.”

“Will there be any notable absentees?”

“None but those who are dying of wounds or sickness.”

“Cúchulinn has stayed at home for some time now?”

“For a year after marriage one is still newly married,” the

conversation-woman submitted.

“I fear that boy’s love for me has bounds,” Conachúr pursued.

“The king has been too kind to him,” cried Lavarcham harshly.

“The king cannot help himself,” he corrected, “for I love the lad, and

I could no more do him an ill turn that I could do one to myself.”

“I, too, love him,” said Lavarcham, “but he is more forward than is

proper, even in a prince.”

“Can you tell me, Lavarcham, why he objected to my sovereign privilege

with his wife?”

“Pride,” she replied briefly. “He is prouder than ten kings.”

“It is so, and it is a gentleman’s prerogative to be proud,” he

continued. “But if such objections were allowed government would become

impossible. Do the people still talk of his refusal?”

“The people know that the king did sleep with Emer.”[9]

“Yes, they may know that, but do they know that Fergus slept on the

other side of her as a guard?”

“No,” she replied; “that is known to but five people, and they are all

loyal to the king.”

“Tell me,” and Conachúr scrutinized her gravely, “do you love Cúchulinn

better than me?”

“I love you best of all, master,” said Lavarcham.

“I think you do, my friend, but they say that every woman loves the Cú.

“As to Fergus”--he muttered and went silent for a moment--“I do not yet

know how much Fergus loves me. I am not sure that a loyal man would

have undertaken a duty against his sovereign such as Fergus accepted

for Cúchulinn.”

“He did it because he loves both of you, master, and it is surely

better that such an arrangement should be known only between friends.”

“Possibly,” said Conachúr. “And yet I had passed my word that if my

right was conceded I would not touch the girl. Is a king’s word not

accepted any longer by those Ferguses and Cúchulinns?” he cried

furiously.

“It was Cúchulinn’s doing,” said she.

“It may have been Fergus’s,” he retorted, and went moodily silent. “Who

knows what that man thinks of?”

“Feasts,” said Lavarcham. “He loves food.”

“I was tempted,” the king gritted, “to try in the night whether he

dared obstruct me, and to see if he dared thrust the sword he went to

bed with into his king--but I had passed my word. If,” he continued

irritably, “the Cú had only asked Conall Cearnach or Cruscrid Menn or

any gentleman of the household to be his surety instead of the man he

did ask, I could have borne it.”

Lavarcham chuckled respectfully.

“How did that night pass, master?” she inquired.

Conachúr gave a great laugh.

“Fergus and I went to bed, and the girl went to bed between us, and we

all had our clothes on. My bed is small enough for me when I am alone,

but to pack a large girl into it with all her clothes on, and then

to pack an overgrown vast bullock of a man like Fergus into it also,

cannot be done. I made but one resolve that night, that on no account

would I be pushed out of my own bed, and I was not; but every time that

Fergus closed an eye he fell on the floor and the girl woke up and

screamed.”

Lavarcham let out a shrill titter, and begged the king’s pardon.

“How did Emer behave?” she asked.

“She went to sleep,” said Conachúr sourly. “She slept hard and kicked

hard for seven long hours; and this I know, that if she has the round

knee of a woman, which she has, for it was thudded into my back a

thousand times, she has also the sharp elbows of a girl, so that after

a time it seemed to me that there was a bundle of live bodkins in the

bed. I never knew how long a night could be until that night: and we

had even to prolong it out of courtesy to the lady! I shall keep a

painful memory of that sweet girl until I die, and the Cú is welcome to

every royal remittance he can desire on her behalf. But now, about the

banquet. Is everything in order?”

“Everything, master.”

“The brewers, the bakers, the cooks, they have their equipment and

instructions?”

“Your butlers must answer for that, master.”

“True, but as you went among these people how did they seem? What do

they say about the feast?”

“They are excited and delighted. All their talk is of the famous people

and the great retinues that are coming, and of how Ulster will show the

Five Kingdoms what a real feast is like.”

“They are good folk all,” said Conachúr. “They are very good folk. You

have no other news?”

“There is nothing to report, master, but that everything is well.”

“You have no tidings from Scotland?”

“None, master, or little.”

“Even a little news is news,” said he. “Tell it, however little it be.”

“They have been chased again,” said Lavarcham in a low voice.

“Everywhere they go they are hunted like foxes. They live under the

weather, crouching like wild creatures in the bracken of a hill-side,

or hiding in rocks and caves by a howling shore.”

“They were delicately reared,” he murmured.

“They never knew hardship,” Lavarcham whimpered, “and my babe----”

“Ah yes, your babe! How old would she be now, that babe of yours?”

“Close on twenty-three years, master.”

“And I am forty-seven. She has all her days in front of her still.”

“What days will they be, and she quaking in a burrow like a hare, or

rising thin-legged from the bog like a yellow bittern?”

“It is still the King of Scotland who pursues them?” Conachúr queried.

“Yes; since he set eyes on her seven years ago he has given them no

rest, and he will give none until he has killed the three brothers and

taken the girl for himself. That is the welcome of a king in Scotland.

It is not the welcome the same lord got when he came here in fosterage.”

“He is still a young man,” said Conachúr.

“Young or old, it is not the act of a prince.”

“The acts of a prince need a prince’s criticism,” said the king

severely.

Lavarcham went silent.

“Young men go wild at times, and it is their right; but older men can

be of a wildness that no young man can understand,” said the king.

He twisted sternly on Lavarcham.

“Love is told of in this way and that, but it is not told of as it

is.... It is savagery in the blood, and pain in the bone, and greed and

despair in the mind. It is to be thirsty in the night and unslaked in

the day. It is to carry memory like a thorn in the heart. It is to drip

one’s blood as one walks. Leave men to the things they know, and do you

meddle with your own female businesses.”

“Those children,” said Lavarcham stubbornly, “are a woman’s business,

and his own subjects are matter for a king.”

“They are our kinsmen indeed,” said Conachúr thoughtfully, “and their

troubles shall be looked into. We shall speak of this again after the

banquet.”

Lavarcham’s eyes were shining:

“Yes, master,” she crooned.

“Send in our butlers and all our masters,” said Conachúr.

[9] Emer = pronounced Ever.

CHAPTER III

The king and the guests of honour, mainly members of his family and

their wives, sat on a raised dais overlooking the banqueting hall.

It was at the heart of the banquet. The food had been eaten, and mead

and ale and wine were circulating. Gentlemen were politely pledging

each other’s ladies, and the ladies were feverishly considering each

other’s costumes and ornaments.

“Every one,” Emer explained in her clear, sweet voice to Cúchulinn,

“every one who has any hair at all wears it this way.”

“It is the Connacht fashion,” said Cruscraid the Stammerer.

“It is Maeve’s fashion,” Emer corrected.

“There must be three plaits,” she continued; “two twisted round the

head and caught in a brooch, and one hanging down the back. I think it

is a charming fashion.”

“I think,” Conachúr smiled, “that our ladies might content themselves

with our own good Ulster customs.”

“There are Ulster customs, indeed,” said Emer, “but there are no

fashions. One must go to Connacht for that.”

“If it depended on the ladies,” said Laerí, “we might let the grass

grow over the Black Pig’s Dyke.”

“Shoulder torques are worn smaller in Connacht just now,” Emer

continued, eyeing superciliously the ornaments of a neighbour. “Just

like mine,” she added complacently.

Cúchulinn laughed boisterously.

“Just like yours,” he mocked. “Why, you know well, my dove, I took that

torque on the last spoil I made in Connacht.”

Great good humour descended on Conachúr.

“Is that where the torque came from, my soul? Your sweet lady must show

it to me more closely. You had a hard fight on that occasion?”

“I got away from them,” the Cú answered modestly.

“You got away from them only when you got home,” Bricriu jeered. “It

was good running, my sweet.”

“They were very persistent,” the Cú admitted laughingly, “but I got

away with my spoil.”

“You know how the Connacht men explain the fact that you are still

alive?”

“It will be an unpleasant explanation if it is explained by Bricriu,”

said Emer.

“I should like to hear it,” said Conachúr.

“They are telling each other that our Cú was so beautiful they could

not bear to kill him: think of that, Cúcuc.”

“It is a stupid sentimental reason,” growled Laerí.

“It is a good, honourable reason,” Emer flashed. “It is not a reason

you will ever give for letting a man escape.”

“No,” said Bricriu; “Laerí’s excuse when he doesn’t bring his man home

is that he couldn’t catch him.”

“And that,” Laerí retorted, “would be the Connacht men’s reason for not

getting the Cú, if a Connachtman could tell the truth about anything.”

“They tell the truth when it is pleasant,” said Emer, “and when it is

not pleasant they tell a lie: they are a polite people, which is more

than we are.”

“Oh! Oh!” Conachúr laughed.

“Their lies come from a good heart and a love of happiness, while our

truths come grumph, grumph, grumph like the snarling of a badly trained

dog.”

“Oh! Oh!” Conachúr roared.

“Conall, what do you say of these Connacht people? You also have been

among them lately.”

“They are honourable fighters,” said Conall.

“No man can pray for a better enemy than a Connachtman,” Fergus

assented. “They come on where another would go back, and when they go

back it is either through pity or poetry.”

“Come,” said Conachúr, “their compliment to the Cú has been repaid, and

we can talk of something else. What do you think of our banquet?”

“There is nothing to be said,” cried Emer; “it is perfect.”

“Everybody seems happy,” said the complacent king, as he looked down

the Red Branch.

His guests also stared down the hall.

“They seem happy and are happy,” said Cúchulinn. He turned to his

servant and charioteer:

“Laeg,” he cried, “you do not love me! My cup is empty.”

“My darling,” Laeg replied, “you have drunk as much as is good for you.”

“I shall drink as much as is bad for me if I please,” said Cúchulinn,

“so bring me some mead, my treasure.”

“I shall bring you ale or cider.”

“Mead,” said the Cú.

“Ale, my little love,” said the charioteer.

“Bring mead for the Cú when he wants it,” Emer ordered indignantly.

“Sweet mistress,” said Laeg, “we have to bring him home to-night.”

“Then give him ale,” said Emer.

“It will surely be ale,” cried the delighted Conachúr.

“Mead,” Cúchulinn pleaded.

“You will want to fight the moon and stars as we go home,” Emer rebuked

him.

“I can fight on ale just as well,” Cúchulinn asserted.

“And it is good heady ale,” the king assured him.

“Let it be ale, then,” said Cúchulinn.

“I think that not one person whom we know is absent from this banquet,”

said Fiachra the Fair, Conachúr’s youngest son.

The conversation turned as they all looked down the great hall. “There

is So-and-so, and So-and-so.”

“Who,” said Emer, “is that tall, sad man with three men’s chins about

him?”

“He is such a one,” said Fiachra.

“And the black bulk beside him with the beard that was stolen from a

porcupine?”

“His name is Borach, the son of Annté. He has a fortified rock half in

and half out of the sea. He catches sharks through his window, and his

banquets are all made of fish.”

“He is preparing a banquet for me,” Conachúr cried.

“I shall not accept a feast from that man,” said Fergus.

“You must if he asks you,” Cúchulinn replied, “for it is geasa[10] on

you not to refuse a feast.”

“That is so; but the feast must be ready before I am offered it, and

as I do not visit his part of the world I shall never have to eat his

sharks.”

“You think there is no one absent?” asked Conachúr.

“Not one,” they agreed.

“I am sharper than you all,” he continued, “for I can count three who

are not here.”

Again they scrutinized the hall without finding any missing friends.

They appealed to the herald who stood by Conachúr’s chair. He, too, was

mystified.

“What three are they?” said Fiachra.

“The three sons of Uisneac,” the king replied smilingly. “The three

Lights of Valour of the Gael.”

At the words a moment’s silence came on the dais and no person knew

exactly what to say or do. Fergus turned his direct gaze on the king.

“They are in Scotland,” he said.

“They went there seven years ago when Naoise ran away with Deirdre,”

said Conachúr.

Conall Cearnach turned his harsh forehead to the king:

“They are in great distress,” he said.

“I have just heard so,” the king replied gravely. “We must bring them

home.”

At the words the face of every person changed. It was as though a

cordial had been dropped into each heart.

Cúchulinn flashed enthusiasm and delight at the king:

“You will let them come back?”

“They shall be at our next banquet.”

“If I could love you more,” Fergus affirmed, “I would love you more for

that.”

“I know you love me well,” said Conachúr, “and I love you, my heart.”

“We have been wearying to see Naoise again,” cried Cúchulinn.

“What is he like?” said Emer.

“He is under geasa about his return,” Bricriu interposed.

Conachúr turned abruptly to him.

“What geasa is that?”

“He will come back in the company of Fergus or of Conall or of the Cú,

otherwise he will not come back.”

“Ah!” said Conachúr.

“He was always a sensible, far-seeing boy,” Bricriu continued

thoughtfully.

The king’s eye rested on Bricriu for one weighty moment ere he replied:

“We shall send one of the three, or all of the three to fetch him.”

“What is she like?” Emer insisted.

Bricriu replied:

“She has been sleeping in ditches for six years. She will be like

nothing that you have ever heard of, sweet lady.”

“She----” said Cúchulinn.

“She----” said every voice at the one moment.

“She,” said Conachúr with a grave smile, “was called the Troubler; she

has given and received her share of trouble.”

[10] Geasa = taboo.

CHAPTER IV

“You understand?” said the king.

“I understand well, master,” said Lavarcham.

“First you are to send Conall to me. Half an hour afterwards you shall

send Cúchulinn. In another half-hour you shall send me Fergus, and when

he comes you shall see that Borach is in waiting.”

“I understand well, master.”

“In a little while you shall see your babe again.”

She scrutinized his face humbly and gravely.

“You are most gentle, master.”

“Are you not contented?”

“I am filled with joy and grief,” she answered.

“And grief!” the king echoed mildly.

“She will not be the girl I knew,” said Lavarcham.

“How so?”

“She will have been destroyed by hardship.”

“Girls are tougher than women pretend,” said Conachúr.

“A man grows directly from the boy he was,” she continued. “He keeps

the boy you knew even when he is an old man. But a girl grows suddenly

at an angle to all that she was. She becomes a stranger in a year.”

“Hum!” he scoffed.

“The Deirdre we knew is dead, and some weather-wise, weather-wasted

woman will look at me with unknown eyes and say, ‘How do you do.’ I

shall not know how to talk to her,” said Lavarcham.

“If it is so we shall see it so,” said Conachúr. “Go now and send me

Conall, and then the others in the order I told you.”

Lavarcham left the room.

When she was beyond the king’s hearing she stood for a good five

minutes musing deeply within herself; listening as it were to her

heart, to her instincts, to that monitor on whom we call when the times

are momentous and doubtful and there is no other help but our own to

be summoned. She sighed inaudibly, tremulously, and went about her

business.

* * * * *

Conall Cearnach stood in the doorway.

“Good, O Chief and King!” he saluted.

“Life and happiness!” Conachúr replied briskly. “Sit here, my heart,

for there is but one chair. I shall walk up and down while we discuss

this business.”

His guest sat down.

“It is about Uisneac’s boys. You think they should come home?”

“Every one thinks so; there is a gap among your gentlemen while they

are away.”

Conachúr nodded.

“There is an even worse gap among your captains.”

“It is so.”

“And among the boys growing from the troop,” Conall resumed, “there

is no one to replace these three. They were already at the force of

manhood, and even then their skill and knowledge were remarkable.”

“True,” Conachúr agreed. “They were trained by me.”

“The last six years of combat and ambuscade and flight will have made

them but the better soldiers.”

The king strode to his visitor and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Conall, my friend, these three have treated me shamefully.”

“The only way to forgive a thing is to forget it. You have forgiven,

Conachúr--and forgotten.”

“If they returned with you, Conall, and if evil happened to them while

under your surety, what would you do?”

Conall rose from his chair, and in rising displaced the king’s hand. He

looked at the king with his steady, pale regard.

“If evil came to a person placed under my protection I would kill the

person by whom that evil came.”

Conachúr laughed merrily.

“Even the king himself?” he quizzed.

“I would kill any person that dishonoured me,” said Conall sternly.

“You would be quite right to do so,” said Conachúr heartily.

He seated himself in the chair that Conall had vacated.

“The matter I wish to discuss is your uncle, Cet mac Magach, Cet of

Connacht. That man scorns our borders, and his depredations are costly

and impertinent. Our young men also are not equal to that able reiver.

Could you not talk to him, Conall, and draw him off us?”

“I talk to Connachtmen with a sword.”

“You may talk to him that way if you please.”

Conall reviewed the invitation imperturbably.

“I would not care to kill Cet mac Magach. He is my mother’s brother.”

“And he is not an easy person to kill,” said Conachúr. “We shall make

our own arrangements about him. Blessing and long life to you!”

The dismissed champion strode from the room.

“That man,” Conachúr thought moodily, “has been hammered together stone

by stone, and is no more than a petrified vanity. He loves nothing but

his honour, which is that he loves himself.”

“Come in, the Cú,” he called. “Come in, and an hundred welcomes, my

sweet lad.”

Cúchulinn, magnificent in red silk and gold embroideries, came leaping

in.

“Well, my pulse!” cried Conachúr. “And you have a new mantle!”

“Emer made it,” the Cú boasted. “She does the finest embroidery in the

world. She told me so herself.”

“If she told you so----” said Conachúr. “Let me look at the sleeve. It

is not bad, my delight. But I have a few pieces somewhere--Did you pass

Conall Cearnach as you came in?”

“I did; he smiled a frozen smile at me, and clapped my shoulder with a

fist of lead.”

“We were arguing about honour. If a person was placed under your

protection and was then killed, what would you do, Cúcuceen?”

“I would kill the other person,” said Cúchulinn.

“If it was the king, my pet?”

“I would kill the king.”

Conachúr sat round at him in a rage.

“Would you kill me?” he demanded.

“I would,” Cúchulinn returned as fiercely. “I would kill any one who

destroyed a person under my protection.”

“You would _not_ kill me, Cúchulinn!”

“As sure as dawn begins the day.”

“Begone, young puppy! Begone, cockscomb!” he thundered.

“Honour----” Cúchulinn commenced.

“You do not love me,” the king stormed.

“I do love you.”

“Begone,” the king roared, and stamped the floor.

The laughing Cúchulinn backed before his rage.

“I do love you,” he shouted; and he continued to shout, “I love you....

I love you,” until he reached the end of the corridor and turned the

corner, where the guards poked each other in the ribs and giggled with

joy.

Conachúr tugged at his beard half in anger and half in laughter.

Another vanity in a mantle, he thought. That boy loves me indeed, and

he would as surely kill me, for it is certain that I could not think of

killing him. Is there no person in my realm who loves me better than

his own poor pride? And what a three that--Naoise--must choose for his

sureties!

He strode savagely up and down the room.

“We shall see now what Fergus is like,” he sneered. “He professes to

adore me, and eyes me with the devotion of a dull dog. A dull dog he

is, and a monster of sufficiency to boot.”

If he dares to thwart me--the king gloomed, and went into a bitter rage

of meditation.

A great voice boomed on him.

“Good my soul, Conachúr!”

“It is Fergus,” cried the king joyfully, and strode to meet his visitor.

“Come, my pulse and best. Sit you and I shall stand. Nay, sit,” he

chided gently. “Indeed, if things were right you should sit always, and

this man,” tapping his own breast, “should bend a lover’s knee before

you. You bear no ill-will, sweetheart, for that trick of long ago?”

The giant sat.

“I never think of it, or I think of it with relief when I remember the

Judgement Seat, and the knots and tangles and questions that came day

by day. I was not bad at justice, but I was a sad fumbler at law, and

the best man has the best place, my dear. Do not torment yourself with

memories of that old----”

He halted for a word.

“Treachery,” said Conachúr.

“That is not the word I wanted,” Fergus laughed. “You are too

sensitive, Conachúr. The nobles agreed and I agreed that you should be

the king, and I am your most loving subject.”

“You do love me?”

“Have I not proved it?” the other smiled.

“Many a time. Times out of mind,” said Conachúr.

He turned aside and closed his eyes. A pang of dull hate smouldered and

stirred in him.

“If this man were dead!” he thought with weary despair. “If this man

would but cease and disappear and begone, how free my soul could be!”

He turned again to Fergus.

“Let us talk of other things,” he said. “Those sons of Uisneac----”

“You did a rare deed there,” said the other approvingly.

“Rare or not rare they will be brought back, and you shall go for them.”

Fergus nodded.

“If they claim my protection----” he began.

“They do claim it, and they will return under your protection.”

“Then I shall go for them. I shall be glad to see these boys again:

they had the makings of great fighters in them.”

“That is settled,” said Conachúr. “You can start to-day?” he inquired.

“I can start within the hour.”

“Good.”

Conachúr mused, and turned thoughtful eyes on his companion.

“If anything happened to these three while they were under your

protection, Fergus, what would you do?”

“I would kill the person who interfered with my protection.”

“No matter who it was?”

“No matter who it was.”

“I wonder would our mutual love withstand even an attack on honour,”

said Conachúr thoughtfully. “There are bounds to love, but I doubt that

I could lift a hand against you even if you attacked my honour.”

“Our love is a great bond,” said Fergus simply; “it would be hard to

destroy.”

“Nevertheless,” the king smiled, “if I injured your honour--say that I

attacked these sons of Uisneac while in your surety, your affection for

me would scarcely withstand that.”

“That would be a hard case indeed,” Fergus laughed.

“You would kill me?” the king queried with a genial smile.

“You know,” said Fergus, “that I could not kill you whatever you did.”

“We love one another well,” said Conachúr. “It is a great thing to love

as we do, my friend.

“But now,” he continued briskly, “we must attend to this troublesome

business, and we must have a third person present in order that the

world may know how we despatch it.”

He clapped his hands, and, to the servant who appeared:

“Who is in waiting?”

“Borach, lord.”

“Tell him to come here.”

“That is the man who feeds his guests on sharks,” said Fergus.

“He is on duty of honour to-day,” the king replied carelessly, “and

he will be witness to the world of my instructions and of your charge.

Come forward, good Borach.”

The bulky man strode in.

“You shall listen to my instructions to our dear Fergus, and you shall

be the witness to this arrangement.”

Fergus thereupon stood up and Conachúr seated himself.

“Fergus, my friend, you shall go to Scotland and bring back to this

court the three sons of Uisneac and the woman Deirdre. There shall be

no delay about the execution of this duty.”

“There shall be no delay,” Fergus affirmed.

“The instant they set foot in Ireland you shall proceed here with them;

and if, from any cause whatsoever, you cannot come yourself, you shall

cause them to come to me without the delay of even one half-hour.”

“That will be done,” said Fergus, “but I shall be with them.”

“With you or without you, whether they arrive by day or by night in

Ireland, they shall be sent here to me without the delay of even one

half-hour.”

“That will be done,” said Fergus.

“I bind that on you to the letter,” said Conachúr.

“I accept it so,” Fergus returned. “I shall bring my two sons to

Scotland, and if, by any miracle, I should be delayed myself, they

shall go forward with every speed and deliver these four people safely

at Emain Macha.”

“A speedy return to you,” said Conachúr. “Go at once, my dear friend.

But you, Borach, stay yet awhile. I have the matter of our feast to

discuss with you.”

Fergus smiled broadly as he withdrew.

“Sharks,” he murmured quite joyfully. “Sharks!”

CHAPTER V

On the slope of a sunny hill overlooking Loch Eitche, Deirdre was

cooking the meal which her husband and his brothers had run to earth

and carried home on their shoulders.

“The food is ready,” she called.

“It is not as ready as I am, for I could eat land and water,” Ardan

averred.

“We shall not give you any,” she mocked.

“Serve the greedy person right,” said Ainnle. “He eats in his sleep.”

“But I must get the part I killed,” Ardan protested.

“What part is that?”

“I don’t know its name, but it is the tenderest part.”

“This is also a thievish person,” said Ainnle indignantly; “he is

trying to claim the part I killed.”

“Fight for me, Naoise!” Ardan implored. “Be on my side, Deirdreen!”

“You shall be served last,” said Deirdre severely, “and you shall get a

tough piece.”

“Ochone! ochone for ever!” he lamented.

“How do you like that piece?” said Deirdre vindictively.

“I could eat a cow’s horn if you cooked it,” he wheedled. “Won’t you

give me more in a minute, little sister?”

“I shall give you ten kisses,” said Deirdre.

“Do not go between that man and his meat,” Ainnle warned; “he will bite

you.”

“The law says that you are my brother, but I shall certainly divorce

you,” the other cried, “and then you will be sorry.”

“You are silent, Naoise!” said Deirdre.

“No man can talk with his mouth full except me,” Ardan explained.

“Half an hour ago,” said Naoise, “I saw a ship beating in from the sea.”

“A fishing-boat?”

“I think it was a boat from Ireland.”

“Why should you think so?”

“It had the cut of an Irish boat.”

“If it is any of our friends from Ireland,” said Ainnle, “they will be

almost at the strand now.”

“We have no friends in Ireland,” Deirdre returned coldly.

“Run to the strand, Ardan my pulse, and see who came in that ship.”

The boy scrambled to his feet.

“If they are friends I’ll give them kisses. If they are enemies I’ll

steal their supper.”

But Deirdre was woebegone as she looked on the two brothers.

“What ails you, little sister?” Ainnle inquired.

“I had a dream last night,” she replied, “and it troubles me.”

“We share all things, and our troubles. Tell us your dream.”

Deirdre looked away distantly to the sea.

“I dreamed that three birds came flying from Emain Macha.”

“Happy birds,” said Naoise dreamily, “that can fly, and fly back.”

“They had each a sip of honey in their beaks. They left the three sips

of honey with us, and they took away from us three sips of our blood.”

“The ending,” said Naoise, “is not so sweet as the beginning.”

“How do you interpret that dream?” his brother asked.

“I think that three people will come to us carrying a sweet, deceitful

message from Conachúr.”

“A dream is a dream,” he soothed her.

“And my dreams!” she cried. “How many times have we fled on the advice

of my dream? and as we looked back we saw that happening which we fled

from. Is that true, brother?”

“It is true. Our Deirdre has second sight.”

Naoise turned his shoulder along the grass, and laid his ear to the

wind.

“I hear a shout,” he said.

“It is some man of these parts giving a hunting call,” she answered.

“It seemed to me like the shout of an Irishman.”

“It may be Ardan returning.”

“It is not his call.”

“It is Fergus and his two sons,” said Deirdre miserably. “They are

coming to us with three sips of honey in their mouths.”

“What is in Fergus’ mouth is in his heart also,” Naoise cried joyfully.

“One time or another even your dream may be wrong, for if Fergus agrees

to be a messenger the message will be as true as his own truth.”

“Remember,” said Deirdre, “that I told you they were coming without

having seen them.”

Fergus and his two sons, with Ardan doing circles and whoops around

them, rose on a slope of the hill, and came striding over the tussocks.

Behind them came the shield-bearer and the shield itself, and at the

sight Ainnle fled to meet them, but Naoise drew back to keep Deirdre

company, for she had not moved.

“It is Fergus,” he said, with shining eyes.

“He has come for our blood,” said white-lipped Deirdre.

“Queen of queens,” her husband laughed, “you do not know Fergus.”

At that the whole band came together, and they all kissed each other

fondly.

“Welcome to this land,” said Naoise.

“And thou art Deirdre!” cried Fergus, as he kissed her on either cheek.

She smiled wanly as she returned his kisses.

“We shall teach you to laugh in Ireland,” he trolled.

“What news is there from the lovely country?” her husband demanded.

“The best. The news that you are to return there.”

“Ah!” said Naoise.

“The king himself has sent me to bring you home under my surety and

protection.”

“Whoo-oop!” said Ardan.

“He bids me tell you that he has forgiven you, and wishes you all

happiness.”

But Deirdre turned to him, smiling and fearful.

“We are happy here in Scotland,” she said.

“Nay,” said Fergus, “one cannot be satisfied when one is in exile, for

his native land is dearer to a man than any other.”

“This is truly a dear country,” she replied.

“And it is well known,” Fergus continued, “that if a man of Ireland had

the lordship of another country he would yet be unhappy unless he could

see Ireland every day.”

“It is so,” said Ainnle.

“There is no one knows its truth better than the sons of Uisneac,”

cried Naoise.

“You see,” the great man chided her.

“I know that this is a dear land,” said Deirdre stubbornly, “and that

here the sons of Uisneac might rise to any destiny they aimed for.”

“It may be so,” Naoise affirmed. “But Ireland is dearer to me than

Scotland.”

“Scotland is safer,” she said.

“Will you be safer in Scotland than with me?” cried Fergus in

amazement. “I have yet a little power,” he smiled.

“We will go with you,” said Naoise.

“Do not go, my pulse,” said Deirdre in great agitation. “Do not trust

yourself where Conachúr is.”

“Women and cats dislike change,” Naoise laughed, “but you will love

this change.”

In half an hour they strode down the hill, and in an hour their sails

were bent for Ireland.

It was then Deirdre made her first poem, beginning

A lovable land is that in the east,

Marvellous Alba....

CHAPTER VI

As they approached harbour they noticed a band waiting at the

landing-place, and these people raised mighty cheers as the ship swung.

“That man!” said Fergus, indicating one who stood apart and issued

commands. “I surely know that man! It is Borach,” he laughed. “It is

the man who feeds people on sharks,” and he explained to his party all

that he had heard of Borach at the banquet.

“The gods be praised,” he murmured, “we cannot wait for his feast even

if he offers it.”

When they landed Borach ran to meet them. He kissed Fergus three times,

and he kissed each of the others also.

“Welcome to this land,” he said; “all Ireland welcomes you.”

He looked with his black, deep-set peep at Deirdre and kissed her, but

when she looked at him he turned aside.

He was ill at ease, and all his movements were self-conscious and

unhappy. He turned, almost truculently, to Fergus.

“Fergus,” he said, “I am honoured to see you in my lordship.”

“You are kind,” said Fergus, “and I shall bind you to visit me in mine.”

“I am so delighted,” Borach continued hastily, “that I have prepared a

feast for you, such as is only offered to a king.”

“The king did say,” Fergus rumbled joyfully, “that you had a feast

ready for him.”

“That is the feast I am offering to you,” said Borach.

“What?” cried the giant.

“The king has notified me that he cannot come to my banquet, so I am

offering it to you instead.”

Fergus stared at him.

“You were present, and you heard Conachúr’s instructions that there

should be no delay on this journey. I shall come and feast with you

another time, my dear.”

“I insist that you stay and feast with me for one week,” Borach growled.

“You insist!” he murmured in astonishment.

“I invoke your geasa,” said the other stubbornly. “You must remain with

me for a week.”

At that Fergus became one purple mass from the crown of his head to the

soles of his feet, and his face swelled so that the bystanders feared

he would burst with the excess and violence of his rage. Borach was

nervous, but his own men were around him, and although he was terrified

of Fergus he was yet more frightened of the king.

“I insist,” he shouted, “and you cannot refuse a feast that is offered

to you kindly.”

“This is a trick,” said Fergus. “You know my oath; you listened to it,

for the king made me swear in your very presence, that, was it by day

or by night, I should speed the sons of Uisneac to him from the moment

we landed. And you offer me a feast and a week’s delay! What dog’s deed

do you intend, you Borach? Do you not value your life?” he roared.

“I value my life indeed,” Borach replied, “and”--looking round on his

attendants--“and I shall take great care of it. I hold you to the

feast, Fergus.”

“Come apart with me,” said the bewildered giant to his companions, “and

let us discuss this wonder.”

“What ought we to do?” he asked.

“It seems that you must make a choice,” said Deirdre timidly.

“What choice is there, sweet queen?”

“You have to choose whether you will forsake the feast or forsake us,”

she murmured.

Her heart swelled as she spoke, so that her voice was not steady, for

she was astonished and unhappy and her mind was bewildered.

“In truth I must leave one or the other,” said Fergus.

Naoise and his brothers stared at the fogged noble.

“Dear champion,” she pleaded, “it would be more fitting to leave the

feast, but it would not be right to leave us in the middle of our

enemies.”

“But I cannot leave a feast,” Fergus explained, “for that is my

compact with the gods. One cannot break his geasa.”

They stared at him and at one another in consternation.

“Whatever is in his mind, this Borach will not release me from the

eating of his accursed sharks,” Fergus continued wrathfully. “Eat them

I must, but I shall leave my sons with you, and they will protect you

on the road to Emain.”

“By my hand,” said Naoise, “you are doing a great deal for us! The

protection we seek is that of your name and fame and station. Any other

protection we do not value, for we are well used to taking care of

ourselves.”

“But----” said Fergus.

“We did not come here under your weapons,” said Naoise, “we came under

your guarantee.”

“You mistake me,” said Fergus mildly. “My sons carry my guarantee, and

with them you will be as secure as though I were present.”

He turned to Rough-Red Buinne and Iollann the Fair.

“Is not that so?”

“It is so,” said Buinne.

“The Council of All Ireland would not tolerate the breaking of this

notable surety,” said Iollann. “It is known now through the whole

country.”

“And what man would dare to break my guarantee?” Fergus inquired.

Naoise bit his lip.

“Let us go on,” said he.

He turned his level gaze on Fergus’ sons.

“You are our guarantors,” he said, “and we accept your protection.”

They returned to where the black-avised chieftain was waiting, and

him Fergus stared and out-stared until he was reduced to a mass of

unhappiness.

“I shall eat sharks because I must, Borach,” he thundered.

“What sharks are you talking about?” said Borach.

“Lead me to your miseries of the deep,” said Fergus, “but do not talk

to me about them.”

CHAPTER VII

As the travellers proceeded they were morose and thoughtful, and even

Ardan’s high spirits flagged. But as they looked on a native sky, and

on the fields and hedgerows of an Irish countryside, something of their

disquietude was eased and a lightening of the heart became apparent in

each of them.

“Dear girl,” said Naoise, and he placed an arm about her shoulders. “We

are in Ireland,” he said.

At the word every misery fled from Ardan’s breast, so that he began

to look truculently on his brother Ainnle, and even to give him an

occasional shoulder as they marched.

Deirdre leaned to her husband.

“I have had other visions,” she said.

She moved her hand languidly towards Fergus’ two sons, who strode a few

paces in advance.

“These are our sureties!” she mocked.

“They represent their father,” Naoise affirmed.

“They represent nothing but themselves,” she answered, “and if their

father leaves us for a feast, they will leave us for any other prank.”

“It was his geasa,” said Naoise patiently.

“Whatever it was,” said Deirdre.

“We are utterly alone,” she continued. “We have no backing of any kind,

and we will arrive in Emain Macha at the absolute mercy of Conachúr.”

She seized her husband’s arm.

“You also are under geasa not to return unless in the company of

Fergus. He may be delayed for a week. Let us camp here and wait until

he comes up with us.”

“Dear child,” said Naoise, “how can we insult these good youths?”

But Deirdre was in terrible agitation.

“I dread appearing in the presence of Conachúr if Fergus is not by us.”

“His guarantee is with us,” and Naoise indicated the two young men.

“There it is, four legs of it marching stoutly.”

“At least,” she pleaded, “let us go to Cúchulinn’s fortress in Dun

Dealgan and wait there until he or Fergus can come with us--if you will

do that, I shall complain no more.”

“Fergus,” he replied, “has bound himself before the king that he would

send us on without an hour’s delay.”

“And he bound himself to stay with us, but he has broken his word.”

“We must keep his word for him with the king,” said Naoise.

“Another person’s honour is another person’s business. That compact is

broken by him, and your geasa is not kept by keeping his. Let us turn

to Dun Dealgan and take Cúchulinn’s protection.”

Naoise indicated the two who were marching in front.

“I shall ask their advice, and if they agree to it we will go to Dun

Dealgan.”

He called the two, and put the question to them. But they were

scandalized.

“You have no confidence in us,” said Buinne.

“And none in our father’s word,” said Iollann.

“This woe has come on us because of your father’s word, and he has left

us in our danger for a feast,” she raged.

“The whole world,” said Buinne, “knows Fergus mac Roy, and the worth of

his protection.--You know it,” he said to Naoise, “although your queen

does not.”

“You are right,” said Naoise. “We may go on without misgiving, my dove.”

And they went on.

On their journey the next day they reached Slieve Fuad. Deirdre strayed

behind, and in the movement and conversation her absence was not

noticed for a long time. Naoise retraced his path from the White Cairn

of the Watching, and came on her sleeping in a grassy hollow. When he

awakened her she stared and clutched him, and cried wildly and bitterly.

“What is it?” he asked in alarm.

“I have had a vision,” she sobbed. “I have had a dreadful vision.”

“What did you see?”

“I saw Iollann with no head on him, and I saw Buinne with his head

safe on his shoulders.”

Naoise took her in his arms.

“Be glad,” he laughed, “that one of our friends will escape the doom

you have planned for us all.”

But she stared at him in distraction.

“No friend of ours will escape,” she moaned.

“But Buinne kept his head on in your dream!”

“The man who had no head had been fighting for us, and the man who had

a head was fighting against us,” she whispered.

Naoise was shocked.

“How you have changed, my one treasure,” he said mournfully.

She threw her arms about him.

“Do not speak unkindly to me,” she begged.

“That lovely mouth spoke always lovely things, and now it speaks

nothing but evil.”

She closed his lips with her hand.

“No, no,” she said. “Do not say more. Or say only that you love me. You

do love me, my husband?”

“Little tender wife!” he smiled. “After all the dangers we have gone

through you are frightened at last.”

“Yes,” she breathed, “I am terribly frightened. I die of fear for us

all. When I remember Conachúr.... He looked so at me, Naoise! He----!

Come with me to Scotland. We will be safe there. We will be happy

again. We will hunt in the Woods of Cuan and Glen da Rua. I shall never

complain again in this life if you will come with me to Scotland.

Let us go away. You and I, and our darlings, Ainnle and Ardan. He is

so young to be killed, our brother Ardan. He is but twenty-one years

old, and he is gay and loving and fearless. We will be together again;

we four: alone and happy. Listen! we will hunt and feast and defend

ourselves and fear nothing. You shall win a kingdom there: in sweet

Alba of the heathery uplands; but let us fly from Conachúr. You do

not know him. Only I and Lavarcham know that terrible king. He is

thoughtful. He is bitter and unforgiving, and his memories are rooted

deep like the roots of a deep tree.”

But Naoise put her hands away.

“If you must speak badly of others,” he said coldly, “speak to me of

foreigners, and not of my own people!”

“Alas, my husband!” said Deirdre. “Alas and alas for all of us!”

She rose wearily.

“Do not be angry with me. Let that last unhappiness be spared me. I am

your wife, Naoise. I would prefer that evil should happen to all the

world rather than one small misfortune should come to you. I am not

Deirdre any more. I am Misery.”

But he kissed and petted her, putting back the hair from her brow and

framing her face in his hands.

“We are here now,” he said, “and no matter what awaits us we must go to

meet it. You would not wish me to run away, Deirdreen.”

“We ran away before,” she said, “and we have greater reason to run away

now than we had then. The spider is waiting for us in the web.”

“You forget, and you will keep on forgetting it, that we are under the

protection of Fergus, and through him we are under the protection of

all Ireland.”

But she looked at him almost angrily.

“Fergus,” she scoffed. “He is a traitor, that Fergus. He is being used

by the king to betray us.”

Naoise bit his lip and his eyes became hard and sombre.

“Let us go on,” he said. “We should reach Ard Saileach ere the

evening.”

CHAPTER VIII

They stood on the slope of a hill in a rounded and rolling country

looking down on Emain Macha. The evening was advanced, and the late

sunlight, all a glimmer of gold, was shining tenderly on the city, so

that the mighty ten-acre palace of Conachúr shone back again as though

it also were a sun. The great bronze doors, polished like mirrors, were

blazing in red lakes of flame, the glass windows of the women’s sunny

rooms were like blinding pools of gold, and the roofs, painted in broad

reaches of red and green and orange, glowed and sparkled in the mellow

evening.

“It is good to look on that again,” said Naoise in a low voice.

“I had almost forgotten it,” said Ainnle.

But Ardan squatted in the grass and stared and stared with his soul in

his eyes.

“You have not seen the city for seven years!” said Buinne.

Naoise drew Deirdre to him.

“Are you not contented now, my heart?”

“Our wanderings are ended,” he continued tenderly. “We are outlaws no

more, and that long vagabondage is done with. You will sleep at last in

a bed,” he smiled.

“Oh, my dear!” she breathed.

“We are home again,” he said, and his heart filled suddenly so that he

could not tell if it were really joy that stayed his tongue and blinded

his eyes, or if the grief of seven long years had risen within him like

a wintry tide.

But Deirdre was not happy. She saw Ainnle’s contained joy, and the

ecstasy in Ardan’s eyes.

“Alas, my darlings!” she said.

“You still think,” said Naoise, “that the king of such a land can act

towards us like a traitor?”

“I shall give you a sign,” she replied mournfully and gently. “If

Conachúr lodges us this night in his own house we are safe.”

“He has sent for us of his own royal will,” said Ainnle, “and he will

lodge us, as is proper, in the Royal Branch.”

“Poor trusting gentlemen!” said Deirdre. “Conachúr could not live again

in the house where you three had lodged. He will send us to the Red

Branch.”

“And if he does?” said Naoise.

“I,” Ardan cried, “am going to put a new edge on my sword if he does.

There is a good edge on it already,” he explained, “but I am going to

put edges all over it.”

“If we are sent to the Red Branch,” said Ainnle, “I shall let you give

my blade a rub too.”

“I call on Iollann and Buinne for protection,” Ardan cried indignantly.

“That man makes me work for him like a horse,” he complained.

Naoise turned to the two sons of Fergus.

“If we are sent to the Red Branch what will you do?”

“We will go there with you,” said Buinne.

“The king’s house is always filled with guests,” Iollann said. “He

cannot know just when we should arrive, and he may have no place for us

at a moment’s notice.”

“There is nothing Conachúr does not know,” said Deirdre. “Borach will

have sent a runner to tell of our arrival, and his own spies will have

told the king in what place we camped each night, and at what hour we

marched again in the morning. He knows now that we are here, and if he

sends us to the Red Branch we are lost.”

“I am as full of curiosity as an old woman,” Naoise laughed. “Let us go

on and find out everything that is going to happen.”

In a short time they were among the streets and booths around Emain

Macha, but the twilight had descended and the passers-by did not

recognize the six travellers.

“Yonder is the Speckled Branch, the Armoury,” said Ainnle. “The Boy

Troop will be going to bed shortly. You remember those nights, Naoise,

and all the chattering?”

“And the climbing out of windows by a cord,” said Ardan. “And the

scrambling back again while the comrades above threw all the world at

the guards who were trying to stick spears in us as we shinned up.”

“There is the Red Branch,” said Naoise.

“Is it truly full of dead men’s heads?” Deirdre chattered through

frozen lips.

“There is generally a head or two,” he answered carelessly,

“Connachtmen mostly.”

“Very hairy, beardy, toothy kinds of heads,” said Ardan. “I remember

them, and they used to get hairier and beardier and toothier every

second day. At last,” he explained to Deirdre, “there wouldn’t be any

head at all, no face at all, only a mat of hair as long as a woman’s,

and it in knots, and a shiny grin among the knots.”

“You are all wrong,” said Ainnle. “A dead man’s hair grows lank and

long like a drink of water.”

“Pooh!” said Ardan. “You remember everything! You are the great man of

the world! The wind knots them and twists them and wobbles them all in

and out like a doormat.”

“Yonder is Conachúr’s house, the Royal Branch,” said Naoise.

“We will give a good thundering knock at the door and make them jump,”

said Ainnle gleefully.

“I’ll give it a kick,” said Ardan.

Naoise did give a thundering knock.

The door opened and a guard appeared.

“Who asks admission at this hour?” he demanded.

“The sons of Uisneac.”

The guard stared.

“Come in, nobles, and sit for a moment while I seek instructions.”

“Let a message be sent to the king,” said Buinne, “that the protection

of Fergus mac Roy and those he protects have arrived as he ordered.”

The chamberlain came, Scel, son of Barnene.

“The household have retired,” he said. “But the king sends his regrets

and courtesies, and has instructed that his noble guests are to be

lodged in the Red Branch for this night. A guard will escort you

there.” He motioned to the captain of the guard, who ranged his men.

“Don’t forget about the edges you promised to do for me,” said Ardan to

his brother.

“No wriggling, young lazy-bones,” Ainnle retorted. “You shall do your

work and be respectful to your betters also.”

“Is not that man a tyrant?” said Ardan. He turned to the captain of

the guard. “Hold me away from him, good sir,” he implored.

“I am at your orders, gentlemen,” said the smiling captain.

CHAPTER IX

But Conachúr had not retired.

He was seated in the central room away in the heart of his monstrous

palace, and the great crystal ball swung at his shoulder. He had stared

into it for hours and had seen nothing.

Lavarcham also was there, seated humbly on a stool.

“Fill my cup,” said Conachúr. “I am thirsty to-night, my heart. I could

drain a sea and not drown this thirst.”

“You are troubled, lord. All this business has fevered you.”

“And you! Are you not excited at the thought of seeing your babe again?”

“I have interested myself in so many things these seven long years,

master, I have almost forgotten her. She has dropped out of my mind,

and now I would as readily not see her as see her.”

“I thought you loved that babe!”

“After all, she is not my babe. Felimid mac Dall’s wife bore her.”

“Is it so?” Conachúr mused. “I had almost forgotten that old tale.”

“I had but the labour of rearing her, and of being disappointed by

her,” she said bitterly.

* * * * *

“You did not fill my cup, Lavarcham.”

“I did, master, but you have emptied it.”

“Fill it again, good friend.... She was beautiful, Lavarcham! She was a

thing of joy and wonder!”

“Young girls are beautiful while they are young, master, but in a few

years they look like any other person.”

“You think so?”

“They get fat or they get thin. It is not girls that are lovely,

master, it is youth.”

“And I am forty-seven years of age! The years go by doing what I know

to me, but for her there has been only the time to ripen what was

immature. The green fruit will be ruddy and fragrant worked on by the

sun and the wind. What age is she now, woman?”

“She is seven years older in time, and twenty years older in hardship.

She will have forgotten how to lie in a bed, or how to eat proper food.”

“She will surely have changed,” said Conachúr.

A brisk moment returned to the great man, and he aroused himself.

“How will she look after her years of lying in the butt of a wet ditch

or in the bog?”

“Ah me!” said Lavarcham.

“She will have plodded over tough hills with a thin belly and a dry

lip. She will have slept with her fingers in her mouth to keep them

warm in the winter. She will be lean and red-handed and windy-faced;

with the arches of her feet broken down by too much walking, and her

knees sagging under her like an old ploughman’s. Is that how the

Troubler will look, Lavarcham?”

“I think, master, that she may be a long, thin, tough woman. She will

be rheumatic----”

“She will awaken in the night coughing like a sick horse,” said the

cheerful king.

“I do not wish to see her,” said Lavarcham sourly.

“No more do I,” said Conachúr. “Let her go.... My cup!” he murmured.

“Lavarcham, you do not attend me well.”

Again he became moody.

“If I were not the king I would steal to the Red Branch and spy on

her ruin through a window. I should like to see that she is lank and

depressed.... Go you, Lavarcham; the guards know your privileges. Look

through the window and bring me back that tale.”

“I do not want to see her at all, master. Let her stay with the people

she has chosen, and let her torment our sleep no more.”

“Go, nevertheless, and bring me a full account of her. Fill up my

glass. Examine her carefully, my soul, so that you can bring me a true

report. But do not delay, for I shall be waiting for you. I am lonely

to-night, woman; I am very lonely. Send me a man of the guard to fill

my cup!”

Lavarcham, with every sign of distaste, almost of annoyance, set on her

errand.

* * * * *

“Sit there, and take your ease,” the king ordered the guard who came

in. “Do not stare at the floor, good soul, nor at the ceiling. Ah me!

stand behind my chair then, and when my cup is empty refill it for me.”

The embarrassed soldier moved gratefully to cover, and the king fell

again to his woeful meditations.

“Guard!” he said.

“A Rí Uasal!” the guard rolled sonorously.

“Have you ever looked in a crystal?”

“Never, king.”

“Look in this crystal, my friend. Can you see anything?”

“There is a fog in the crystal.”

“It has been there these three days. Look again, good lad.”

“I think there is a woman’s face.”

“What sort of a woman?”

“It has gone, majesty.”

“What sort was she?”

“I saw the loveliest face that ever brightened the world. It seemed

like the face of a sky-woman or a lady of the Shí.”

“Sit on this little stool, and fill my cup. What age are you, guard?”

“Twenty-two years, majesty.”

“What is your name?”

“I am called Strong Fist, sir.”

“I remember you, Tréndorn, you are my hereditary man. Your father was

my man before you. How did he die?”

“He was killed by Naoise, the son of Uisneac, sir.”

“I remember,” said Conachúr, “and your two brothers were killed by that

Naoise. Do you remember that also?”

“I would not forget it, sir.”

“There are things that one should not forget, guard. Would you do an

ill turn to the same Naoise?”

“If I had that chance I would take it, sir.”

“He is in the Red Branch,” said Conachúr. “He is there with the woman

whose face you saw in the crystal. Go there for me, good soldier, and

look through the window. See that no person within observes you, for

these are murderous and skilful men, and if they saw you they would

stop your breath.”

The guard stood glowering.

“In what way do I get equal with Naoise?” he demanded.

“Each thing in its time, good soul, for you would not understand how

the king moves. This is but the first step, and the second shall be

taken in no short time. Climb to the window, and look carefully at the

woman who is there with Naoise. Examine her well and bring me back news

of how she seems and what she looks like. You have seen women before?”

“I have, majesty.”

“You know what to look for; you will know how to look at a woman. Go.

Fill my cup, guard, and go on my errand.”

CHAPTER X

“Still,” said Ardan, “we are not treated too badly. There is plenty of

food.”

“And there are beds in the alcove,” said Ainnle.

“We shall sleep well to-night,” said Deirdre, and she burst into tears.

They sat dumb, each feeling as if a chill wind had touched him.

“Forgive me,” said Deirdre. “I shall not complain any more. Let us sit

to our meat.”

“I shall eat and eat and eat,” said Ardan. “I am so hungry I could

growl over my food.”

“You shall be served first, Ardaneen,” said Deirdre, “and if there is

one tender piece you shall have it.”

“Our Buinne is even hungrier than I am; let him have the first piece.”

Deirdre looked kindly at Buinne, but as she looked her eyes widened and

she went white to the lips. She spoke to him with a shy smile.

“You will have the first piece, Buinne,” she stammered.

“I shall take what comes,” said Rough-Red Buinne.

Deirdre sank back in her chair.

“Naoise, my dear,” she said, “please carve for me. I am not well.”

“Buinne is sensible,” said Naoise. “He has a head on his shoulders.” He

stumbled in his carving, and cast a swift glance at Deirdre.

“The first portion,” he continued gravely, “shall be for Buinne, the

second for Iollann, the third for Deirdre, the fourth for Ainnle, the

fifth for Ardan, and the sixth for Naoise.”

“My piece is to be the tenderest,” said Ardan complacently; “Deirdre

said so. Fight for me, Deirdreen!”

“Ardan, my dear brother,” said Deirdre, “come to me and give me ten

kisses.”

“I’ll miss my turn,” he wailed, as he moved round to her.

They ate their supper, and were sitting at chess--that is, Deirdre and

Naoise were playing, while the others watched the game--when there came

a tapping at the door which was nearest to them. Naoise held a piece

poised in his fingers.

“Go, Ainnle, and challenge that person.”

“It is a woman’s voice,” said Ainnle.

“Let her come in.”

The great bolts were pushed back, and Lavarcham entered.

“My babe, my treasure!” she cried, and she ran to Deirdre.

“Oh, my sweet mother!” said Deirdre.

“I have no time,” Lavarcham panted. “I must fly back to the king. He

sent me to spy on you through the window.”

“There is danger, mother?”

“There is terrible danger. Conachúr’s household men are standing to

arms in the Speckled Branch, and there is a posse at each of the gates

of this place. He will attack before morning. Oh, Deirdre, Deirdre,

that you could have come here knowing Conachúr as I taught him to you!

What madness brought you from Scotland, child? Are you glad to see

me? Do you love your mother still, little one? I have told the king

that you would be ruined with hardship and sorrow; alas! you are more

beautiful than ever. I shall tell him that you are one-eyed and lame,

I shall tell him anything to quieten him for this night. To-morrow

Naoise’s people will get news of your return and he may fear to attack.

If only I can quieten him for this night! He is drinking. He may go

to sleep. Oh, my darling, my one love! I must fly. Keep all the doors

barred. Do not open to any one. I shall send messengers to Uisneac’s

people. Kiss me again. Oh, my love of all loves! I must fly.”

“Ainnle, Ardan, run round all the doors. See that they are secure,”

said Naoise.

He turned to Buinne and Iollann.

“Your father may be too late to help us. I give you back your

protection, gentlemen.”

“I shall stay with you,” said Buinne.

“And I,” said Iollann.

“Good comrades!” Naoise cried, and his eyes sparkled with delight and

gratitude.

“We are five,” he said, “trained to arms from the moment we could

walk. No person of our quality will be against us, for no gentleman

of Ireland would take part in such an attack. There will be only the

common soldiery: hardy men, but as skilful at our trade as ploughmen.

They cannot break in, for the Red Branch was designed not to be broken

into. These bronze doors----”

“The windows!” said Ainnle.

“God pity the man that gets in through a window!” said Naoise.

“Moreover, they are too high. A man’s legs would be splintered if he

jumped from them.”

“Fire!” said Ardan.

“Conachúr will not burn his own fortress.”

“There is a man at the window now,” said Deirdre.

Naoise’s hand was on the table. He picked up a heavy chessman of gold

and ivory and with an underhand flick he sent it buzzing up and through

the glass.

A roar of pain came from without and then a scream. “My eye! my eye!” a

voice wailed.

“He won’t peep through windows again in a hurry,” said Ainnle.

“Conachúr has overreached himself,” said Naoise. “We can hold out until

the morning, and if Lavarcham sends her messages my people will be

baying around Conachúr like wolves, and there will be many another one

with them.”

“The people of Fergus mac Roy will be with them,” cried Buinne.

“That king will learn what it is to dare my father’s protection,”

Iollann raged.

“Why,” said Naoise joyfully, “we are as safe as if we were in Scotland.”

“If we are only as safe as that!” said Ardan with a giggle. “Buinne, my

soul, we used to be running from morning until night. We ate our food

on the run. We used to run in our sleep. I tell the world that in six

years I have not felt safe for a minute until this minute, for there

are stout walls around us, and food to last a week’s siege. The gods be

praised,” he said piously, “we cannot run even if we have to.”

The band of young men shouted with laughter, and Deirdre chimed in as

joyously as any of them.

CHAPTER XI

“It is as you thought, master,” said Lavarcham. “The girl is ruined.”

“You saw her?”

“Her cheeks are hollow and her eyes are red. One would pity her,

master. Indeed, I shall go to see her to-morrow.”

“You did not want to see her any more,” said the king.

“It was so,” she replied humbly. “But my heart was wrung when I looked

on her wretchedness.”

“And the young men?”

“They are stout young men, master.”

“And the guards that I posted?”

“They were at their posts.”

“There ends a tale, and seven of my poor years ...!” said Conachúr.

“What did she look like, woman?”

“She is thin and haggard, and she leaned by the table as though all the

weariness of the world were in her sides.”

“Thus ...!” said Conachúr. “And we fash ourselves for these things

and spend our years and our pith ...! Fill my cup, Lavarcham. Let the

years go and the rest, for we are fools and children. Get to your rest,

friend, and let me mourn my foolish years and all my nonsense.”

“Nay, go to your bed also, sweet king,” said Lavarcham. “You shall rest

to-night, for that bad dream is ended. You will be troubled no more.

To-morrow will be a new day, and all that the world has is for the

king.”

“It is so,” said Conachúr. “This will be the last of those nights. Go

to your bed, good soul, and I shall go to mine in a moment.”

Lavarcham left the palace with her mind in a turmoil of weariness and

fear, but with hope dawning in her soul. She sent secret runners to the

men of Uisneac and to those of Fergus mac Roy, warning them that their

chiefs were in urgent danger; and when she slept she was too happy even

to remember what the king might do when he discovered her treachery.

That memory would be for the morrow.

* * * * *

But the king did not sleep.

“I shall wait the report of that guard,” he said, “and then I will be

able to sleep.”

The guard came moaning and limping.

“What ails you, man?” said the astonished king.

“Naoise,” the guard stammered. “He has knocked out my eye.”

He removed his hand from his face, and there was one eye there, and a

bloody mess where the other should have been.

“Did I not tell you,” the king stormed, “that they were murderous men?

Did you take no heed in your work.”

“It was the woman saw me,” the guard stammered. “She told the man, and

before I could move he threw a chessman at me and knocked out my eye.

My leg is broken too, master, for I fell from the window.”

“You will make a better herdsman than soldier,” said the king harshly.

“You are one-legged, one-eyed, and stupid. Go to your bed, and be

careful that you do not cut your throat by taking off your boots. What

did the woman look like?”

“What woman, majesty?”

“The woman I sent you to look at.”

“She looked like the woman I saw in the crystal.”

“I know she did. What did she look like, fool?”

“She looked like the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Conachúr turned his great head and wide eyes on the soldier.

“Be careful how you report to me, guard. How did that woman look? Is

she thin-faced? Is she pale and haggard and wretched?”

“She is not, majesty. She is red-lipped and sweet-eyed and delicious.

She is the loveliest woman that moves in the world.”

“Sit on that stool. Do not mind your eye for a moment. We shall mind

it for you in a little time. Answer my questions. Did that woman look

young or old?”

“She looked young as a bride.”

“Are her cheeks thin?”

“They are not thin; they are round and rosy.”

“Are her eyes red and sunken?”

“They are clear as sweet water, majesty; they are coloured----But for

looking into them I should have got away, for, having looked, I could

not but keep on looking until Naoise threw his chessman.”

“You are muddled,” said Conachúr sternly.

“I would give my other eye for another look at her,” said the guard

savagely.

Conachúr leaped furiously to his feet.

“You shall be cared for,” he said. “Go to your bed. A doctor shall

be sent to you. A comrade will help you along.... Ho, there!” he

thundered. “Ho, there, the guards!”

CHAPTER XII

“What do you hear, Ardan?”

“Big feet, and a big lot of them.”

“The doors are well secured?”

“Every bolt is drawn.”

“And the door we arranged for is left with only one bolt shot?”

“Yes. It is a quick, well-oiled bolt. It will open and close again like

lightning.”

There came a loud command, and, in a moment, a thundering knock.

Naoise strode to the door.

“Who goes there?”

“The king’s men.”

“What do you want?”

“We want the woman who is with you.”

“Is that all you want?”

“And we want Naoise, the son of Uisneac.”

“They are both here,” said Naoise.

“Open this door,” the voice commanded.

“Ah, no,” Naoise laughed; “why should we do your business, honest man?”

There was no reply for a moment, but the rumble of conversation could

be heard; then the voice came again:

“You others, Ainnle and Ardan and the sons of Fergus, open this door

and you shall go free.”

Naoise looked gravely at his companions.

“That is the necessary second part,” said Buinne, hitching his

sword-belt round.

Naoise’s brothers took no notice, but their faces grew savage and their

eyes narrowed and sparkled.

“Iollann and Deirdre, keep an eye on the windows,” Naoise warned.

Iollann dangled a sling in his hand and Deirdre held another with a

copper bolt in it.

“If,” said the voice, “the woman Deirdre comes out we will go away.”

“Watch the windows,” Naoise warned; “they are talking to keep us

occupied.”

Deirdre’s arm swung viciously, and a wild yell told that the bolt had

gone home.

“I thought so,” said Naoise. “They cannot get in through the windows

because of the bars, but they could manage to fly an arrow through,

although it would be an awkward shot.”

“Why,” said Ainnle, “we could go to sleep here!”

A series of thundering knocks came on the door.

“A ram!” said Buinne.

“Half an hour of that might bring even these doors down,” said Naoise.

He turned to his companions.

“Ardan, yours will be the first sortie. They will not be prepared,

lad, for it is very awkward to work a ram and to keep guard at the

same time. Do not mind the men with the ram; they will be unarmed. But

behind them there will be a mass of men. You know how deep a fighter

can penetrate! It depends on his own weight. The instant you touch that

weight fight backwards. When you are two yards from the door Ainnle

will shout. Turn then and run. I shall have the door closed on you

almost before you are through. The moment the door slams, you, Buinne,

push in the bottom bolt. I shall slide the middle one with my right

hand and will be reaching for the top one with my left. You are ready!

Ardan, listen to me. The men immediately in front of you will give back

a step until they start to come on. Fight, therefore, to the right

sidewards, and with the point all the time. Keep your left covered with

the shield, and if there is a press cut with its cutting edges. The

moon is high, and you will be able to see. No foolhardiness, boy! The

moment you touch weight fight backwards, and then sweep broadly with

the edge, and, when Ainnle shouts, run.”

He turned again.

“Buinne, stand to the bolts. Iollann, Ainnle, Deirdre, place yourselves

so, and sling the ramsmen or they may cumber his retreat.”

Under the thundering batter of the ram and the savage roaring of the

invaders the bolts were half drawn.

“Ready all!” said Naoise. “Ready, Ardan?”

Ardan hunched the shield to his left side and crouched, staring.

“Good boy!” said Naoise. “Now, Buinne--Pull!”

They heaved the great door wide and Ardan went through it like an arrow.

“Sling, children,” said Naoise. “Keep me informed, Ainnle. I must stick

behind the door.”

“He is at them, and well in.... Ah!” said Ainnle, and he slung

shrewdly. “He has forgotten to thrust and is cutting. My thanks,

Iollann, for that bolt. His shield work is excellent, brother, but he

will cut. There is his limit, if he knows it. He is fighting back,

and now he is thrusting where he should use the sweeping blade for a

retreat! That ramsman, Iollann! This one for me, and you, sister, for

the crouching man. I shall shout now.”

“Ardan!” he roared.

The boy dropped his combat as a dog drops a toad. In three seconds he

was through the doorway, and in four the door had slammed.

* * * * *

Naoise towered long and lean over his young brother.

“Good lad!” he said. “Well done, Ardan!”

“I killed a million,” said Ardan.

A savage, raging yell came from without.

“They will begin to warm to it now,” said Naoise, “and we must keep

them occupied. It is your turn, Ainnle. Give your sling to Ardan.”

Ainnle whizzed at one window and Deirdre at another. Two loud shouts

were heard.

“Whether they are hit or not their skulls are cracked by the fall,”

said Naoise, “but the windows do not matter. Come to this door.”

“Why cannot I go out?” said Buinne.

“You and I are the heaviest metal, my heart, and when the real fighting

commences we shall have plenty to do. This is only a little fun for the

boys. Ainnle, listen carefully. You will slip out by this door, and

will run, and fight as you run. Range where you please, but run always.

In five minutes--do not delay, Ainnle--make for yonder door. This one

will be shut, and the slings-men will be inside that door to cover your

retreat. It is understood?”

Ainnle nodded, and made his blade whistle through the air. He heaved

the shield from his back to his shoulder.

“The instant you are in, Ainnle, fly to this door again, while we close

the other behind you. Open all the bolts but one; Buinne will help,

and I and Iollann will dart out for five minutes. I wish to see what

arrangements they are making.”

“Are you protecting my brother?” said Buinne savagely.

“No, my heart, I am giving him a run and spying their dispositions.”

“I claim this combat,” said the rough young man.

“You shall have one immediately afterwards. You and I together will

make the tour of this fortress, shoulder to shoulder, Buinne. Will not

that content you?” Naoise laughed.

“I was beginning to feel lonely,” said Buinne. “We shall have a

pleasant run.”

“Ten minutes for our run,” said Naoise. “Ready, Ainnle?”

His brother nodded.

“Run straight out, thirty feet out if you can. Double then as you

please. Remember the door you are to come in by, and do all the damage

you can. If you are in difficulty give our call.”

“I could not get into difficulty in five minutes,” Ainnle smiled.

“Ready, Buinne? Pull!”

Ainnle sped out, and the door slammed on him like thunder.

The uproar without had been terrific, but now it redoubled, and at

times a long scream topped the noise as spray tops a wave.

* * * * *

“We cannot see our brother,” said Deirdre nervously.

“We know his work,” Naoise replied. “He is as safe for five minutes as

if he were in bed.”

“Your combat, Naoise!” she breathed.

“It will be the easiest of them all. There will be a rough companion

with me. Run all to the other door,” he cried. “Iollann! Deirdre!

Ardan! Your slings! The bolts, Buinne! Pull, my soul!”

Far out in the moonlight Ainnle was coursing like a deer. The moon

flashed on his blade and on his shield. Men ran from him, and men ran

to head him off, and into the middle of these he went diving like a

fish. A band from the right came rushing for the open door.

“Out, Buinne, for ten seconds, and back when he is through.”

Naoise and Buinne leaped out with whirling weapons. There was a clatter

of shields, a medley of shouts and curses, and in ten seconds they were

in again and the door was closed.

“You opened a minute too early,” said Ainnle. “I was all right.”

“You did some damage?”

“Not badly.”

“You didn’t kill as many as I did,” said Ardan.

“Pooh!” Ainnle retorted. “No one could kill as many as you except

Cúchulinn.”

“Let us arrange the next sortie,” said Naoise.

CHAPTER XIII

Conachúr had come to the Red Branch, and a great roar of cheering

greeted him. He strode to the captain of his troop.

“Well, my soul?”

“We have begun, majesty.”

“How is it going?”

“Excellently,” said the captain. “We have lost about forty men already.”

Conachúr stared at him.

“How did that happen?”

“It happened because of the king’s royal decision to lodge these men in

a fortress.”

“You have five hundred men here!”

“When they are all killed,” said the captain sourly, “we can call out

another five hundred.”

“What is the difficulty?” his master growled.

“A fortress with six doors. They leap in and out of these doors the

way frogs leap in a pool. While we are using the ram on this door

they make a sally by another door, this door, any door--and they are

the devil’s own fighters! We don’t know where to expect them, and

any one of those within is the equal of ten of our men in fighting,

and the superior of them all in tricks. I am to have them out before

morning--it is the king’s orders, but I don’t know how it is to be

done.”

“Ram all the doors,” said Conachúr.

“I have but one ram. I can get others to-morrow.”

“To-morrow will be too late,” said the king furiously. “We shall have

half Ulster on our backs to-morrow.”

“I want scaling ladders, grapnels,” said the officer angrily. “This

work has been thrown on us at a moment’s notice, and we are not

prepared for it. I can get them out in a day, but not in a night.”

“Attack a door with your ram,” snarled Conachúr, “and guard your other

doors.”

“I am doing that,” said the captain, “and my men, I fear, are beginning

to love the work.”

He returned to his place, and in a few minutes the thud and batter of

the ram was heard again. Conachúr strode there and watched the work

with savage impatience. The captain returned and stood by him.

“You put good doors in the Red Branch, majesty,” he said cheerfully;

“an hour of that ramming will begin to make them quiver.”

A shout arose, but it was multiplied from every side by the roaring

soldiery, and one could not tell from which direction danger came.

“They have popped out somewhere,” said the captain. “In about two

minutes they will pop in again, somewhere--they know but we don’t,--and

in those two minutes we will lose five men or twenty.”

“Stick to the ram!” Conachúr roared. “Keep at that door, my men!”

A wild yelling came from the side and a burst of men came pell-mell

round the corner. Weapons were striking everywhere and anywhere.

“Which are our men and which are theirs?” said the captain. “Ours don’t

know in this light which is friend and which is enemy. _They_ know,”

he said bitterly; “but we are killing one another.”

* * * * *

Two figures detached themselves in the moonlight. They were bounding

like great cats, and wherever there was a mass they bounded into it,

burst through it, and leaped on.

“Ho, Conachúr!” a voice called. “Do you remember Naoise?”

“Ho, traitor king!” another boomed. “Do you remember Fergus?”

“It is Naoise and Buinne this time,” said the captain.

The two figures leaped at the ramsmen. The ram was dropped and the

unarmed crew fled yelling. The door that was being battered opened and

shut, and the two figures were gone.

“That’s how it’s done!” said the captain.

“Get to the ram!” Conachúr roared.

CHAPTER XIV

“The king himself is there,” said Naoise.

“Let us hunt him,” cried Ardan in savage glee.

“He will move about,” Naoise replied. “We would never know where he

is, and we should only waste time. We have but to hold out until the

morning, and we can do it with ease. Why!” he cried, “we have forgotten

our days of travel; Fergus himself may be here to-morrow.”

“He will travel day and night, and by chariot where we came on foot,”

said Iollann. “He may be here in the morning.”

Naoise nodded joyfully.

“He will have choked whatever is in it out of Borach’s throat long

before this,” Iollann continued, “and he will be an angry man.”

“If he came, even alone,” said Naoise, “that rabble would fly.”

“They will fly before he comes,” Ardan boasted, “for it’s my turn to go

out now, and I shall show them a trick or two.”

“It’s two by two now, babe,” said Ainnle, “so we are going out

together.”

“That man,” Ardan mourned, “is trying to cheat me of my fame. Fight for

me, Deirdreen! Back me up, Naoise!”

* * * * *

“Hark to them battering,” said Iollann.

“How angry some people get!” Ardan giggled.

“Let us make a full sortie,” Buinne cried. “We five could eat those

soldiers.”

“One must be left for the door,” Naoise replied. “Ardan----”

“No door for me!” said Ardan violently.

“Ainnle,” said Naoise, “our lives will depend on the doorman.”

“I shall go out the next time all by myself,” Ainnle bargained.

His brother nodded, while Ardan danced for joy.

“Pooh!” Ainnle gibed. “He thinks he is Cúchulinn!”

Ardan squared up and began to shoulder him and to speak very roughly.

“And I am better than Cúchulinn,” he concluded.

Ainnle seized his head and gave him three kisses.

“Little brother!” he said, “you are even better than I.”

“You are a good brother,” said Ardan. “I shall not divorce you,” and he

returned the three kisses.

“Are we ready all?” said Naoise. “Then let us arrange this sally.”

“It shall be in two parties. Buinne and----” he halted for one moment;

“Buinne and Ardan, Iollann and myself.”

“You trust Ardan to me!” said Buinne shortly.

“Why not?” said Naoise.

Deirdre was staring at her husband with a fixed, white stare, and

Naoise’s throat went suddenly dry. He strode to her.

“What is it?” he murmured.

“I have no vision,” she whispered. “I do not know.”

“You still think----?”

“I know it,” she said, “but I do not know when.”

He closed his eyes and turned again.

“We go through this door. Once out, you turn to the left, Buinne, and

I to the right, and away each on a grand half-circle. When we meet we

form in line and charge back to this same door: six feet between each

man for sword-play; Buinne and I on the outside.”

“I shall be quite on the outside,” said Buinne.

“As you will, friend,” said Naoise. “Get to the bolts, Ainnle. You two

will watch over each other?” he said, but it was at Buinne he looked.

“I shall bring him back,” said the gruff man.

“If one of Buinne’s hairs is touched,” Ardan boasted, “I shall give him

one of my own hairs instead of it.”

“You are ready, Ainnle?”

“How shall I know when to open the door?” Ainnle roared.

“My wits are going!” said Naoise. “We shall fight in silence, and when

you hear our battle-cry open the door at that instant.”

“Wait!” said Buinne. “Heavier blades are wanted for this sortie. It

should be two-handed work at the edge of a thirty-foot line, and the

shields must be left behind.”

“My wits are indeed going!” said Naoise.

“I shall bring him back,” said Buinne. “I take him under my

protection,” he growled.

“You two,” said Naoise, “keep your shields. Buinne and I take the great

swords, and we leave our armour off for speed. The outside men must run

twice as quick as the inside ones,” he explained to Buinne.

Buinne nodded and began to unlace his battle-coats. Deirdre flew to

help him, and she looked at him with such soft affection that the youth

marvelled. Naoise was bending the great blade that he got from Manannan

mac Lir, the God of the Sea.

“Now, Ainnle, the door! Buinne is out first, I second, Iollann and

Ardan together. Ready! ... Pull!”

They were gone.

* * * * *

Ainnle and Deirdre slammed the door, and he stood with his back

leaning against it, staring as it were inwardly, and listening with

every pore of his body. Deirdre threw her arms about his neck.

“O Ainnle! dear Ainnle!”

“It is lonely here,” he muttered.

Her head drooped on his breast.

“Do not faint, sister; the door has yet to be opened, and you must help

with the bolts. Hear those clowns roaring!”

“If our own men would but shout once!” she moaned.

“I should open the door immediately,” he smiled, “and this noble combat

would have a stupid end.”

“To-morrow will never come,” she moaned.

“Do not make my teeth chatter,” said Ainnle.

“We must attend to the door,” he continued. “I shall draw the top bolt

now. Crouch down with your hands on the bottom one, and, when the shout

comes, draw it; I will draw the middle one, and when I say, ‘Pull,’

drag with me on the door. It is almost too heavy for one man to move,

but between us--and they will push from the outside.”

Deirdre crouched at his knees. A vast confusion of noise began to draw

nigh.

“They are coming back,” said Ainnle. “Draw your bolt now, sister, and

take hold of the knob.”

Above the infernal uproar there came the shout they knew.

“Pull!” he roared.

The door gave, a great push from without helped it, and the four leaped

through. A blade leaped in behind them and was snapped in pieces as

Ainnle, and a shoulder helping, smashed-to the door.

Buinne was panting heavily.

“That deserves a rest,” he said.

And the other three began with one voice to narrate the sortie to the

two who had been within.

CHAPTER XV

Buinne stood up.

“Naoise,” he said sternly.

“My soul?” said Naoise.

“You interfered in my combat.”

“Your end of the line was almost too heavy for any man, dear heart.”

“You did it twice.”

“Thirty feet out is a great distance. All the press was in your path. I

did but lighten it when my own front was easy.”

“I will accept no man’s assistance,” said Buinne.

“We are comrades,” Naoise replied gently. “We give and take help.”

“Did I call for help?” the other growled.

Naoise’s great chest rose, but his voice was calm.

“No man will ever hear you call for help, Buinne.”

“Let no man give what is not called for.”

“But for that help, Buinne, you would now be dead.”

“I was not fit for the end of the line?” said Buinne harshly.

“You are young yet, comrade, but in two years you will have the speed

and smash that such a post calls for.”

“Your speed! your smash!” said the sardonic Buinne.

“The world knows,” Ainnle interposed, “that the four greatest champions

of Ireland are Cúchulinn, Fergus, Conall, and Naoise.”

“And Ainnle,” Buinne completed with a grin.

The young man turned his dancing length of whipcord and his narrowed

brow on Buinne.

“I, myself----” he said gently.

“And so could I,” said Ardan.

“Do not quarrel,” Naoise interrupted. “In two years Buinne will be the

equal of any man you have named. Hush,” he said.

He bent his head sideward and hearkened in amazement. The others

listened, with their eyes turned questioningly on each other. They

listened to nothing, for the ram had ceased and there was a silence of

the dead without.

In a few moments there came a gentle tapping, then a louder knocking at

the door.

Naoise stood before it, frowning.

“Who goes there?”

“The herald.”

“What do you want?”

“Parley.”

“Say what you have to say, herald.”

“If the woman Deirdre is put out through this door the troops will

march away.”

“And what then?”

“No vengeance will be for ever exacted against the sons of Uisneac.”

“There is no answer,” said Naoise.

“I have yet a message,” said the voice.

“Deliver it.”

“It is for the ear of the sons of Fergus.”

Buinne strode forward.

“Deliver it,” he said.

“There is no quarrel,” said the herald, “between the king and Fergus

mac Roy. The king’s love for Fergus is such that he wishes at any cost

to save his two sons from a death that is certain.”

“Well?” said Buinne.

“The king says that if these young men retire from the combat he will

bestow a lordship on them.”

“What lordship?”

“A cantred of land greater than that which Fergus himself has, and the

king’s friendship.”

Buinne looked under steep red brows at Naoise.

“I shall go out,” he said.

He turned to his brother.

“You will come out with me.”

“I shall not,” said Iollann.

His brother stamped a foot.

“My father is my chief,” said Iollann. “What he orders I do. I cannot

protect the sons of Uisneac as he commanded, but I can fight beside

them.”

Buinne turned.

“Herald,” he roared, “tell Conachúr that I shall go out to him.”

His hand went to the door, but Naoise stepped forward.

“Do not touch a bolt,” he commanded. “You shall go out by the door I

choose. That door,” he pointed, and strode to it. “Iollann, Ainnle,

stand so with the spears. Ardan, Deirdre, sling from this point.

Buinne, stand so, one foot beyond the swing of the door.”

“We may meet again, Naoise,” said Buinne.

“If we meet in the press, Buinne, I may perhaps spare you for the sake

of my brother Iollann. Ready, Buinne! When the door is opened I shall

count three. Be gone ere the last count or I shall smash you to a pulp.”

Naoise gave one mighty heave, and counted. Then Buinne was gone and the

door had closed again.

* * * * *

“I claim this sortie,” said Iollann, as the ram recommenced on the door.

“It is my turn,” said Ainnle, “but we will go together, friend.”

“I wish to go alone, and bring honour back to the name of Fergus. I am

a better fighter than you think,” he insisted.

“You are a good fighter, in truth,” said Naoise, “but a solitary

venture is now dangerous. They are more accustomed to the light and

to our methods, for there is nothing to vary in them. We must emerge

by a door, and they are watching every door like hawks. But before you

go, Iollann, there is one work we must do for safety’s sake. Listen

carefully, my dear ones.”

CHAPTER XVI

“This is endless,” Conachúr gritted. “Has that Buinne come out yet?”

“The men will shout when he appears.”

“Bring him here and we will get their dispositions from him.”

“There is nothing to get, majesty. Their plan is the simplest. They

have six doors: they choose one to come out by and one to get in by.

That is the whole plan.”

“Post men in such a way that when one does come out he will not be able

to get in again through that door or any door. Send for reinforcements

and put fifty men against each door.... Those ramsmen have women’s

shoulders,” he growled. “They would beat a mud wall down in a month.”

“It must give shortly,” said the captain, “but there will be no

entrance when the door is down.”

“No?” said Conachúr.

“They will have the inside barricaded, and our men will not dare that

narrow, black, impeded passage. We could leave an hundred dead in that

doorway and be no farther.”

* * * * *

“There is Buinne,” the captain continued, as a shout came from the side.

“Buinne,” said Conachúr, “you will fight for me?”

“My lordship, Conachúr?” said the gruff young man.

“It shall be as I said, and more,” said the king. (It was given as

promised, and was known for long as Dal Buinne, but it is now called

Slieve Fuad.)

Buinne told what he could of the defence, but, as the captain had

foreseen, there was nothing to tell.

“This door,” said Conachúr, “will be down shortly. Have they barricaded

it on the inside?”

“They have not,” said Buinne.

The captain became active and violent.

“Ah!” he cried, “there is always something forgotten. Get at the ram,

you there,” he roared. “Put your shoulders into it.”

He turned to the king.

“We have them!” he said.

Conachúr, with his eyes gleaming and a savage smile curling his lips,

strode towards the rammers, but as he moved, the door swung open and

four men leaped from its yawning blackness. In a second two of the

ramsmen were dead, and the rest were flying wildly, bustling the very

king in their passage.

“By my hand!” the captain gurgled.

Two of the assaulters lifted the ram and trotted with it through

the door. The other two made an onslaught of such ferocity that the

soldiers were appalled. Then one fled back through the door, which

instantly slammed, and the other sped like lightning around the

building.

“After him!” roared Conachúr.

But the captain remained where he was, howling and dancing with rage.

“I’ve lost my ram,” he bawled. “I’ve lost my ram.”

“We have you, Iollann!” said Conachúr. “Traitor to your king!” he

growled.

“Traitor to your friends,” Iollann retorted.

“Deliver yourself to me,” said Conachúr, “and you shall be spared.”

“I came out for a purpose,” said Iollann. “I demand single combat.”

“There are no gentlemen here,” Conachúr replied, “except your brother,

so your claim cannot be granted.”

“I shall cuff him,” said Buinne, “but I will not fight him,” and he

strode away.

“I shall take this combat,” said a voice.

Conachúr turned and saw his own son, Fiachra, standing there, and his

heart sank.

“You have no arms,” he said harshly.

“You will lend me yours,” said Fiachra.

Conachúr stared on the fierce circle that surrounded him. He stared at

Iollann, who stood with his back to the Red Branch swinging his blade,

and he knew that the combat must take place.

“Iollann and I were born on the same night,” said Fiachra. “It is an

equal combat.”

Conachúr took off his own battle-coats and gave them to Fiachra. He

gave him his shield, the enchanted Aicean, and his green sword.

“Fight, then,” he said, “and remember my teaching. Remember my shield

work and my thrust.”

They fought then, but at the first stroke from Iollann the great shield

roared; for that virtue was in the Bright-Rim, to roar when the man it

covered was struck at, and in answer to its roar the Three Waves of

Ireland, the Wave of Tua, the Wave of Clíona, and the Wave of Rury,

roared in reply, and thereby all Ireland knew that a king was in danger.

* * * * *

Away in the palace Conall Cearnach sat drinking, listening to some

great brawl, as he thought. He heard the roaring of Aicean, and leaped

to his feet.

“The king is in danger!” he said.

He seized his weapons and fled from the palace of Macha, and came on

the great combat.

In the dim light he thought it was Conachúr himself was behind the

shield, and from the daring and mighty onslaught of the opponent he

saw there was no time to lose. He burst his blue-green spear through

the press and through the back of Iollann.

Iollann staggered to the wall of the Red Branch.

“Who has struck me from behind?” he said.

“I, Conall Cearnach.”

“Great and horrible is the deed you have done, Conall.”

“Who are you?” Conall demanded.

“I am Iollann the Fair, sent by my father to protect the sons of

Uisneac.”

“By my hand,” said Conall fiercely, “I shall undo some of what I have

done,” and with one side twist of the sword he lifted the head from

Fiachra.

“Help me to that door, Conall,” said Iollann. “The sons of Uisneac are

within.”

The appalled soldiery shrank back, and on Conall’s arm they came to the

door. There Iollann gave his shout. A feeble one it was, but it was

heard and the door opened. Iollann staggered in.

“Fight bravely, Naoise!” he said, and with that he sank on the floor,

and he was dead.

* * * * *

Outside the Red Branch Conachúr ran hither and thither like a man

enraged by madness.

CHAPTER XVII

“We are yet three,” said Naoise. “Draw the bolts, Ainnle, for one

sortie of friendship. We have no doorman, for Deirdre could not close

or open the door by herself. You and I, Ainnle. Be quiet, Ardan! Come,

my brother, and put all your arm into the blade. We will come in by the

door we go out of. This door! Be ready for our shout, Ardan!”

They went out and returned with red weapons, and for a long time they

sat in the dim flare of a torch watching by their dead comrade.

“He was a brave boy,” said Deirdre.

“He did not obey my order,” her husband sighed. “I do not know what he

did.”

“I smell--smoke,” said Ainnle suddenly.

“I have smelled something for a long time,” said Deirdre, “but I could

not think what it was. I am weary because of the death of this good

friend.”

But little by little the vast building became full of smoke, and in a

while a fierce roar and crackling was heard also.

Naoise was again the hardy leader.

“They have fired the fortress! We do not know what happened while

Iollann was away, but Conachúr has reached the end of the world. Who

could have foretold that he would fire the Red Branch! We must prepare

for all that can happen.”

“We are not dead yet,” said Ardan.

“What do you counsel, brother?” said Ainnle.

“Sit down, there is less smoke on the floor.”

A ruddy glare could be seen by each window.

“Fire is laid all round the building. We must make our plans quickly.”

Ainnle turned gleefully to his younger brother.

“You shall run after all, my poor friend.”

“In good truth,” Ardan grinned, “I thought in Scotland that I should

never want to run again, but I feel now that we have been staying too

long in the one place. After all,” he said complacently, “I am a man of

action.”

“And, of course,” Ainnle gibed, “no one can run as quickly as you can.”

“No one,” said Ardan, “except Deirdre.”

* * * * *

“Listen,” said Naoise. “We have still more than a chance. We can run.

Scotland trained us in that certainly, and if we can surprise but forty

yards on the men without, we shall outrun their best in twenty minutes.”

“Where shall we run to?”

“We shall take the road to our own lordship. If Lavarcham’s message

has been sent, our kinsmen should be marching at this moment on Emain.

But,” he said, and pointed, “we cannot wait for them.”

They looked in silence.

A huge golden flame licked screaming through the window, wavered hither

and thither like some blindly savage tongue, and roared out again.

“It was ten feet long and three feet thick,” said Ardan in a whisper.

“In ten minutes we shall go,” said Naoise.

“What arms?”

“Shield and spear, brother. Strip off all armour. We must run lightly.

“I shall be out first,” he continued. “Give me twenty seconds before

you follow, Ainnle, I can make room in twenty seconds. You will run ten

paces to the left of the door. Deirdre and Ardan will run immediately

into our interval; turn all to the right, and at my shout, run. Single

file; Ainnle at the end. If I shout ‘halt,’ you two turn about and

protect the rear. When I shout ‘run,’ drop every combat and fly. You,

Deirdre, take Iollann’s shield.”

“And his spear,” said Deirdre.

“Keep actually at my back, beloved, and each time we halt drop flat on

the ground.”

He was shouting his instructions now, for the voice of the fire was

like the steady rage and roar of the sea, and through every window

monstrous sheets of flame were leaping and crashing.

“This door,” said Naoise. “A kiss for every one,” he called. “We shall

win yet. Pull, Ainnle!”

“The door is red-hot,” said Ainnle.

“Back for a mantle; two. Now grip. Pull! Give me twenty seconds,

Ainnle.”

He leaped across fire and disappeared.

The others leaped after him, with a wild yell from Ardan.

* * * * *

Conachúr had sent a flying messenger to the palace.

“Bring Cathfa back with you,” he ordered. “Tell him I want him. Say

that the king beseeches him to come.”

The captain of his troop stood by.

“Alas for the Red Branch!” he said mournfully.

“All that can be destroyed can be rebuilt,” said Conachúr. “I shall

rebuild the Red Branch.”

He was in terrible distress and agitation.

“The morn is nigh,” he said.

And he strode unhappily to and fro, with his eyes on the ground and his

mind warring.

* * * * *

Far to the east a livid gleam appeared. The darkness of a summer night,

which is yet a twilight, was shorn of its soft beauty, and in the air

there moved imperceptibly and voluminously a spectral apparition of

dawn. A harsh, grey, iron-bound upper-world brooded on a chill and

wrinkled earth. The king’s eyes and the eyes of his captain scanned

each other from colourless, bleak faces. There was no hue in their

garments; their shields were dull as death; and their hands, each

clutching a weapon, seemed like the knotted claws of goblins.

A slow, sad exhalation came from the king’s grey lips, like the plaint

of some grim merman of the sea, rising away and alone amid the chop and

shudder of his dismal waters.

* * * * *

“The fire is catching,” the captain murmured. “Hark to that crackling!”

“We shall have light,” the king murmured. “The Red Branch will flame.”

“Within ...!” said the captain moodily, and he looked with stern

mournfulness on the vast pile.

“They must soon come out,” he muttered.

“Your men are posted?”

“Every door is held. When they pop out this time----”

“They will have no place to pop into,” said Conachúr. “I have them,” he

growled; and he threw his hand in the air and gripped it, as though in

that blanched fist he held all that could never escape from him.

“They will fight,” said the captain, “and they are woeful fighters.”

“You are nervous, man,” said Conachúr. “At this hour and after this

night,” said the captain, “our men could fly from those three like

scared rabbits.”

“I fear that,” said Conachúr.

“They may get away,” said the captain. Conachúr advanced on him so

savagely and with such a writhe of feature that the man fell back.

“Dog!” said Conachúr. “If they escape I shall take your head.”

“They are surrounded,” the captain stammered; “they cannot escape.”

“They can escape,” Conachúr roared. “You know they can escape. Your

men are cowards and idiots, and what are you? Oh, am I not a thwarted

man! Am I not a forsaken king! Where is Cathfa? Where is the druid?” he

cried.

“Majesty,” the captain implored, “do not curse us. The great magician

is coming.”

* * * * *

The magician indeed had come.

“What has set you raging, Conachúr?” he asked.

“Father,” said Conachúr, “if you do not assist me I am lost.”

The old, old man looked at him.

“Tell me your tale, son. Whom have you locked up in fire?”

“The sons of Uisneac are there,” said Conachúr. “They will escape me,”

he said.

“They are my grandchildren,” said Cathfa.

“It is the woman with them,--it is Deirdre I want. She was mine. She

was stolen from me. I am not myself without her. I am a dead man while

she is with Naoise.”

“What do you fear from boys roared round by flame?”

“They may escape with her. When they come out my men may run from them.

If they escape this time, father, I am dead.”

“If I help you, Conachúr----?”

“I shall do anything you ask. Nothing you can demand will be too much

for Conachúr.”

“It is the woman you want?”

“The woman only.”

“It is not the blood of these boys you lust for?”

“The woman, father, only the woman.”

“I shall help you, Conachúr. Do not lay one finger on my daughter’s

sons, the sons of your young sister.”

* * * * *

“They are out,” the captain said, as a great roar came from the

soldiers.

Conachúr moved to that direction.

“Quick, quick,” he said, twitching his father’s mantle in his

impatience. “They will escape me.”

“They shall not escape me,” Cathfa answered. “There is no need for

haste.”

* * * * *

They were out, indeed, and, like two grim lions or woeful griffins

of the air, Naoise and Ainnle were raging in that press. Into their

interval leaped Ardan, with but one eye peeping from the shield and a

deadly hand thrusting from the rim. Back and forth they leaped with

resistless savagery. Men flew at them and from them. Everywhere was a

wild yelling of orders and the wilder screaming of stricken men. But,

over all, Naoise’s voice came pealing--

“Up, Deirdre. Run!”

She was at his back in an instant, the shield covering her side; her

spear darted viciously by his right elbow, and a venturesome man

dropped squealing. Five feet behind, Ardan was leaping like a cat, all

eyes and points, and ten paces behind him Ainnle was bounding.

“Halt,” roared Naoise.

Deirdre was again on the ground. Ardan ranged tigerishly to right and

left, while Ainnle whirled on the pursuers in ten-foot bounds.

* * * * *

Conachúr had arrived with Cathfa. Men were falling before them at the

rate of three a second. So dreadful was Naoise’s onslaught in the front

that none would face him. Men tumbled over each other when he charged.

“The men will run away in a second,” said the captain.

“Get into the _mêlée_, coward,” roared Conachúr.... “Cathfa----!” he

implored.

The officer whizzed out his blade and leaped forward. In three seconds

he was dead, and five who followed him were rolling in their agony

along the ground.

Naoise’s voice came in a wild shout.

“Up, Deirdre. Run!”

The four were again in line. The men in front melted to either side of

that dreadful file.

“Run!” said Naoise. “We are out!”

* * * * *

In front of him there was but Conachúr and Cathfa. Conachúr drew his

great sword and stood crouching; and at him, with a dreadful smile,

Naoise came on. Cathfa moved two paces to the front and stared fixedly

at Naoise. He extended his two arms widely----

* * * * *

Naoise dropped on one knee, rose again, leaped high in the air and

dropped again on his knee. Deirdre fell to the ground and rose up

gasping. Ardan rolled over on his back, tossed his shield away, and

came slowly up again, beating the air with his hands. Ainnle went half

way down, rose again, and continued his advance on tiptoe.

A look of dismay and rage came on Naoise’s face. He moved with

extraordinary slowness to Deirdre and lifted her to his shoulder.

“We are lost,” he said. “That magician----!”

“Keep on swimming,” Ardan giggled. “There was never water here before,

but the whole sea has risen around our legs, and we may paddle to

Uisneac.”

The arms dropped from their hands, and, in fact, they swam.

Not for a minute or two did the soldiers dare advance, and then they

did so cautiously. They picked up the fallen weapons, and then only did

they lay hands on the raging champions.

Cathfa dropped his arms to his sides.

* * * * *

“We are taken,” said Naoise. “Our run is ended.”

CHAPTER XVIII

Cathfa had gone away, and Conachúr strode to his prisoners.

“So! Naoise,” he said.

“So! uncle,” said Naoise.

“I win in the end. I always win at last,” said Conachúr.

He looked at each with his stern smile, and when he spoke again it was

to Deirdre.

“Little fawn! you have run wild for a long time. You shall rest at

last.”

But she made only the reply that a fawn makes, the reply of parted lips

and terror-stricken eyes.

“You shall come to me,” he said.

Then she moistened her trembling lips and looked at Naoise.

“Do not look at him,” said Conachúr. “He is already a dead man; let

him be forgotten. All tricks and troubles are ended for you, sweet

bird; you shall have peace.”

“Will you have peace to-morrow, Conachúr?” said Naoise. “Fergus is

marching on you.”

“Be at ease, nephew,” and the king smiled grimly. “I shall take care of

Fergus when he comes. For long I have wanted to take care of Fergus.

But, first, I shall take care of you, Naoise, and of your traitor

brothers. Your hour is on you,” he said, “and you die now.”

“Churl and rogue----!” said Ainnle.

But a gesture from his brother stopped him.

“Let this king do his business,” he said.

“That must be done,” said Conachúr.

He turned briskly and moved away.

* * * * *

Now the day was at hand, and these four looked on a world that was

spectral and misshapen, but which was yet the world. On high the clouds

could be seen, a grey immensity, stony as the face of Conachúr, and a

chill wind moaned thinly about them. But far away the grey misery of

morn had lightened, and a silver gleam, slender as a rod, crept up the

east.

To that gleam their eyes turned, and from it to each other’s faces.

At the guards who ringed them in they did not look, or they looked

unseeingly. But those gaunt apparitions stared like statues on the four

and did not move a lip.

“The sun will rise in a little,” said Ardan.... “That magician has

gone,” he whispered. “If we leaped at the guards----!”

“No good, brother, they are too many and we have no arms.”

“We should have one merry minute,” said Ardan.

“We have had a merry night,” said Ainnle, “be contented, babe.”

* * * * *

Naoise looked lovingly on his brothers.

“We were always together,” he said. “We shall always be together.”

“And I ...!” said Deirdre, “am I to be left out at last?”

“Sweet girl,” said Naoise, “he will kill us, but you will be spared.

You shall see that sun come up. You shall look at it for us.”

“Dear husband,” she said, “do you still love me? Do you truly love me?”

His eyes gave her answer.

* * * * *

“Here comes Conachúr,” said Ainnle.

“And a large person with him,” said Ardan.

It was Mainè Rough-Hand, son of the King of the Fair Norwegians, they

say; but others think it was Eogan, son of Durthacht, the prince of

Ferney.

“You shall die at the hand of a gentleman as befits your rank,” said

Conachúr.

“I shall be the first,” said Ardan briskly. “I am first in every great

deed,” he explained to Conachúr.

“Hark to him!” Ainnle laughed. “Respect your elders, young person, and

the heads of your family.”

But Ardan appealed to Mainè.

“Let me be first, sweet sir,” he pleaded. He turned confidingly to

Conachúr. “I cannot bear to see my brothers killed,” he said....

Deirdre knelt by the bodies, and she sang their keen, beginning:

“I send a blessing eastward to Scotland.”

When she had finished the poem she bowed over her husband’s body: she

sipped of his blood, and she died there upon his body.

SO FAR, THE FATE OF THE SONS OF UISNEAC,

AND THE OPENING OF THE GREAT TÁIN

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Transcriber’s Notes:

A number of typographical errors were corrected silently.

Cover image is in the public domain.

Table of Contents added.