ing down the road.

It was hard to make the maddened Scots take prisoners, but Brian did it,
and when Turlough's men came back he found that they had in all thirty
captives. Some forty of the attackers had fallen and the rest had fled.

Since all his captives expected no less than a quick death, Brian
ordered ten of them bound on spare horses, of which there were plenty.
He himself had lost twenty-three of his Scots, and the remaining score
of captives cheerfully took service under him. Then, picking out one of
them, he gave the man a horse and told him to ride home.

"Tell your master, O'Donnell Dubh," he said, "that his men made this
attack on me, and therefore there is war between us."

The man grinned and departed at a gallop, and word passed through the
men that the Dark Master had found his match at last. As to this,
however, they were fated to change their opinion later.

"Now," said Brian to old Turlough, as between them they bound up a slash
in Cathbarr's thigh, "do you put the wounded in the wagons and begone
home again. Set out sentries against an attack from O'Donnell, and
scatter a score of men out along the roads to watch for other parties.
You might pick up another score of recruits, Turlough Wolf."

Turlough shook his head and tugged at his beard.

"Best take me with you, master, instead of this overgrown ox. You may
need brains in dealing with the Bird Daughter, and he has no more brains
than strew his ax-edge. Also he is wounded."

Brian pondered this, while Cathbarr furtively shook a fist at Turlough.
There was wisdom in the advice, but on the other hand Brian did not like
to leave his precious two hundred men in care of Cathbarr. If the Dark
Master attacked suddenly, as he was like to do, brains would be more
needed than brawn.

On the other hand, he counted on Cathbarr's open face removing the
evident suspicion that the smooth-tongued Turlough had raised in Gorumna
Isle. It had been a mistake, he saw plainly, to send such an emissary on
his mission. Picturing this woman who led her own ships to war, he
limned her in his mind as a large-boned, flat-breasted, wide-hipped
creature--and with good reason. He had seen women fighting at Drogheda
and he had seen them in other places as he rode to the rest, for in
those days many a woman took her slain lord's _skean fada_ and drew
blood for Ireland before she was cut down. And when women rode to battle
there was no mercy asked or given, from Royalis