age until he died,
and after. He made pacts too easily."

"Well?" asked Brian again, but a dull flush crossed his cheeks.

"I gave you my rede," said Turlough sullenly. "I said to stand alone,
receiving aid from neither man nor faction. Now there is mischief to be
repaired."

"Then my sword shall repair it," said Brian, and ordered the men to
swing in after him. "Guide us to this tower of Cathbarr's, for my honor
is in my own keeping."

They swung about and headed to the south and the sea.

The hill-paths, which Turlough Wolf seemed to know perfectly, were
cruelly hard on the horses; none were as yet trodden down, for the snow
was fresh, and all the west coast lay desolate. The plague had stricken
Galway and Mayo heavily that year, smiting the mountains with death.
Some few parties of Roundhead horse had come through, because they
feared God and Ireton more than the plague, and some Royalists had fled
up from the south for much the same reason.

In any case, Yellow Brian found all the land desolate, and liked it. The
more wasted the land, he reflected, the more chance for that sword of
his to find swinging-room. As he had ridden, news had come from the
east--news of the Wexford killing and the curse that was come upon the
land. Owen Ruadh O'Neill was not yet dead, but Brian knew that he had
prophesied truly. Ireland's day was gloaming fast.

Despite the dismal tone of Turlough Wolf, Brian told himself that he had
done a good day's work. O'Donnell Dubh would keep his word beyond any
question. As for the man he was to slay, the only part of it which
troubled Brian was the prediction of the Black Woman at the Dee water.
She had known him, and had prophesied O'Neill's death, and had spoken of
the west and this Cathbarr of the Ax. After all, however, she might have
shot a chance shaft which had gone true. Brian had no faith in magic.

All that afternoon he rode on, Turlough Wolf ahead of him, the men
behind. They feared and hated the old Wolf as much as they feared and
loved Brian.

Progress was slow, owing to the bad paths, the snow, and sundry changes
of direction, so that when night fell they had covered but eight miles
of the ten. Turlough suggested that they push on and finish their
business at a stroke, but Brian curtly refused. So the men made camp in
lee of a cliff and proceeded to feast away the last of their provisions
and wine, in confidence that on the morrow they would have more, or else
would need no