all, gather a force and make head. I
have heard strange tales of a man who has done this very thing--they say
he has seized on a castle somewhere near Bertraghboy Bay, in Galway,
and-- But I am getting weak, Brian lad. Hearken well--Ireland is lost;
carve out now for your own hand, for the Red Hand of the old house, lad!
And take this for my sake."

Almost whispering the last words, Owen Ruadh took from his finger a
signet graven deeply with the Red Hand of Tyr-owen. Brian accepted it
gravely, kissed the hand that gave it, and with tears choking his
throat, left the chamber of the man who was passing from Ireland.

He had been there a brief fifteen minutes, yet it seemed that an age had
passed. Both he and the sick man had said much in few words, for they
were both men who spared speech and did much. But Brian had received a
great wrench.

As he had said, he had cast off his father, for the grandfather's blood
ran riot within him, and had kindled to burning rage against the
sluggard who had made his name a thing of reproach in all lands. With
the overstrong bitterness of youth he had meant to die sword in hand,
fighting for Ireland. The few burning words of Owen Ruadh had stripped
all this false heroism from him, however, and had sent a flame of sanity
into his brain.

Brian returned slowly to the round tower, and stood looking out over the
waters, for the castle was built on an island in the lake a mile from
shore. It was nearing sunset, and snow was in the air--the first snow,
for this was the end of September.

"Ruin--the storm of men!" He repeated unconsciously the words of the hag
who had stopped him by the Dee water. "What shall I do? Which is the
part of a man, after all; to fall for Ireland or to hew out new lands
and found a new house in the west? By my hilt! That old hag told me
truly after all!"

At that thought he stood silent, his eyes troubled. What was this fate
which seemed to drive him into the west, instead of leading him to the
flame of swords as he had so long hoped and dreamed? Death meant little
to him; honor meant much. All his life he had lived in Spain, yet it had
been a double life. He had ridden and hunted and learned arms with the
young nobles of the court, but he had talked and sorrowed and dreamed
with the old Irishwoman who had nursed him.

After all, it is often the dreams of the youth which determine the
career of the man, he reflected.

Which path should he take? As he stood