le ramparts overlooking Lough Oughter, Yellow
Brian stared moodily out at the lake. His identity had been revealed to
none, and the name of Brian Buidh had little meaning to any in Ireland.
Years since he who was The O'Neill, the same whom the English called
Earl of Tyr-owen, had fled with his family from the land. His eldest son
John had settled at the Spanish court.

John was a spineless man, unworthy son of a great father, content to
idle away his life in ease and quiet. And it was in the court of Spain
that Brian O'Neill had been born, with only an old Irishwoman to nurse
him and teach him the tongue and tidings of Ireland which his father
cared nothing for.

Yellow Brian had written out these things, sending the letter to the
sick general who lay within the castle. His terrible news of Drogheda
had created consternation, but already O'Neill's forces had been sent to
join the royalists against the common foe. All Ireland was distraught by
war. Royalist, patriot, and Parliament man fought each against the
other, and the only man who could have faced Cromwell lay sick unto
death.

The Day was passing, the Man was passing, and shadow lay upon all the
land.

A man came up and touched Yellow Brian's arm, with word that Owen Ruadh
would see him at once. Brian nodded, following. He was well garbed now,
and a steel jack glittered from beneath his dark-red cloak as he strode
along. Upon his strong-set face brooded bitterness, but his eyes were
young for all their cold blue, and his ruddy hair shone like spun gold
in the sunlight; while his firm mouth and chin, his erect figure, and
his massive shoulders gained him more than one look of appreciation
from the clustered O'Reillys.

He followed the attendant to a large room, whose huge mantel was carven
with the red hand and supporting lions of the clan Reilly, and passed
over to the bed beside the window. He had requested to see O'Neill
alone, and the attendant withdrew silently. Brian approached the bed,
and stood looking down at the man who was passing from Ireland.

Sharp and bright were the eyes as ever, but the red beard was grayed and
the face was waxen; a spark of color came to it, as Owen Ruadh stretched
forth a hand to take that of his visitor.

"Brian O'Neill!" he exclaimed, in a voice singularly like that of Brian
himself. "Welcome, kinsman! But why the silence you enjoined in your
letter?"

"My name is Yellow Brian," answered the younger man somberly. "I h