htened glance
around.

"Master--what is that wail? If I ever heard a banshee, that is the cry!
Beware of the Little People, master--"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Brian, drawing rein also and listening. He heard a
faint, sobbing cry come from ahead, and so mournful was it, so charged
with wild grief, that for an instant his heart stood still, and the
color fled from his face.

"It is some woman wailing her dead, Turlough," he said at length,
although doubtfully. "Yet I have never heard a _caoine_ like it; but
onward, and let us see."

"Wait, master!" implored the old man. "Let us cut over the hills and go
by another path--"

"Go, if you are afraid," returned Brian, and spurred forward. The other
hesitated, but followed unwillingly, and a moment later Brian came upon
the cause of that mournful wailing, as the trees closed about them and
the road wound into a hollow.

The dingle was so sheltered by the brooding pines that there was little
snow, except on the track itself, and no wind. Under the spreading
splay-boughs to the right was what seemed to be a heap of rags and
tatters, though the wailing cry ceased as the two riders clattered down,
with Turlough keeping well behind Brian.

The latter drew rein, seeing that the creature under the pine-boughs was
some old crone whose grief seemed more bitter still than his own.

"What is wrong, mother?" he cried cheerily. "Are you from one of the
Bertragh farms?"

The tattered heap moved slightly, and a wrinkled, withered face peered
up at him.

"Nay, I come from farther than that," and to his surprise there was a
mocking note in her voice, though it was weak. "That is a good horse of
yours, _ma boucal_; he must trot sixteen miles to the hour, eh?"

"All of that, mother," returned Brian, wondering if the old crone was
out of her senses. "Was it you whom I heard wailing a moment ago? Where
is your home?"

The old woman broke into a cackle of hideous laughter.

"My home, is it? Once I had a home, Yellow Brian--and it was in
Dungannon, with Tyr-owen and Cormac and Art and the noblest of the
chiefs of Ulster to do me honor! Have you forgotten me, Brian O'Neill,
since we met at the Dee Water?"

Then Brian gave a great cry, and swung down to earth, for now he
recognized the Black Woman. But as he strode toward her she tried to
rise and failed, and forth from the midst of her rags came a quick gush
of red blood. Brian leaped forward and caught her in his arms, pitying
her.