ow Brian, shrinking
before her, and yet with anger in his face. "Are you crazed, woman?
Drogheda has fallen; O'Neill must join with the royalists, and never
shall I ride into the west. Be off, for I have no money."

He turned to mount, but again she stopped him. It seemed to him that
there was strange power in that withered hand which rested so lightly on
his arm.

"The Black Woman needs no money, Yellow Brian," she cackled merrily.
"You shall meet me once again, on a black day for you; and when you meet
with Cathbarr of the Ax you shall remember me, Brian Buidh; and when
you ride into the west and meet with the Bird Daughter you shall
remember me.

"So go, Yellow Brian, upon whose heart is stamped the red hand of the
O'Neills! _Beannacht leath!_"

"_Beannacht leath_," repeated the man thickly.

There was a rustle of bushes, and he was alone, wiping the cold sweat
from his face.

"Woman or fiend!" he muttered hoarsely. "How did she know that last?
Yes, she was crazed, no doubt. I suppose that I do look like the
earl--since he was my grandfather!"

And with a bitter laugh he climbed into the saddle and pushed his horse
up the bank. The bushes closed behind him, the night closed over him,
but it was long ere the weird words of the old hag who called herself
the Black Woman were closed from his mind.

For, after all, Yellow Brian was of right not alone an O'Neill, but The
O'Neill.

CHAPTER II.

THE BEGINNING OF THE STORM.

The people of every nation--that is, the tillers of the soil, the people
who form the backbone of their race--are in continual expectancy of a
Man and a Day. Theirs is always the, perhaps, dumb hope, but still the
hope, that in their future lie these two things, a Man and a Day.
Sometimes the Man has come and the Day has failed; sometimes the Day has
come and there has been no Man to use it; but now all Ireland had swept
up in a wild roar, knowing that the Man and the Day had come together.

And so, in truth, they had. Owen, the Ruadh, or red, O'Neill, had fought
a desperate struggle against the royalists. Little by little he had
cemented his own people together, his personal qualities and his
splendid generalship had overborne all else, and the victory of Benburb
had crowned the whole. Then Owen Ruadh was stricken down with sickness,
Cromwell landed and stormed Drogheda, and Yellow Brian had fought clear
and fled away to the kinsman he had never seen.

Now, standing on the cast