ave
none other, general. You know the gist of my story, and here is the
rest. I broke with my father, for he would hear nothing of my coming to
Ireland. So I cast off his name and left him to his cursed idleness,
reaching Drogheda barely in time to take part in the siege. I managed to
cut through, as you know, and meant to take service with you--"

He paused, for words did not come easily to him, as with all his race. A
low groan broke from the crippled warrior.

"Too late, kinsman, too late! Cromwell is come, and I will never sit a
horse again--ah, no protests, lad! How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"By my faith, you look thirty! Lad, my heart is sore for you. I am
wasted and broken. I have no money, and Cromwell will shatter all before
him; I can do naught save give you advice."

"I want naught," broke in Brian quickly, a little glint as of ice in his
blue eyes. "Not for that did I cast off my name and come to--"

"Tut, tut, lad!" O'Neill reproved him gently. "I understand, so say no
more of that matter. You are Brian Buidh, but to me you are my kinsman,
the rightful head of my house. You can do two things, Yellow
Brian--either follow my advice, or go down to ruin with all Ireland. Now
say, which shall it be?"

Brian gazed at him with thoughtful face. What was the meaning of this
dark speech? As he looked into the keen, death-smitten eyes of the man
who might have saved Ireland, he smiled a little.

"I see naught but ruin, Owen Ruadh," he replied slowly. "I care little
for my life, having no ties left on this earth--"

"Oh, nonsense!" broke in the other impatiently. "You are young, lad--the
bitterness will soon pass, trust me. Now see, here is my advice, such
advice as I would give no other man alive. I am dying, Yellow Brian.
Well, I know that Cromwell will break down all I have built up, and I
can see no brightness for my country. But for you I can see much. You
are young, powerful, the last of the old race; you look strangely like
the old earl, Brian!"

The younger man started. For the first time in many days he remembered
that crazed hag he had met by the Dee water the night of Drogheda.

"Now, harken well. I tell you that our house lies in the dust, Brian;
there is no hope for it or for any O'Neill. But for Yellow Brian there
is hope. You must carve out a holding for yourself, for you are a ruler
of men by your face, lad. Go into Galway, and there, where Cromwell's
men will have hardest fighting of