same look," he said to his wakening heart; "that is
the very eye of Saeve."

The grief flooded out of his heart as at a stroke, and joy foamed into
it in one great tide. He marched back singing to the encampment, and men
saw once more the merry Chief they had almost forgotten.

CHAPTER VI

Just as at one time he could not be parted from Saeve, so now he could
not be separated from this boy. He had a thousand names for him, each
one more tender than the last: "My Fawn, My Pulse, My Secret Little
Treasure," or he would call him "My Music, My Blossoming Branch, My
Store in the Heart, My Soul." And the dogs were as wild for the boy as
Fionn was. He could sit in safety among a pack that would have torn any
man to pieces, and the reason was that Bran and Sceo'lan, with their
three whelps, followed him about like shadows. When he was with the pack
these five were with him, and woeful indeed was the eye they turned
on their comrades when these pushed too closely or were not properly
humble. They thrashed the pack severally and collectively until every
hound in Fionn's kennels knew that the little lad was their master, and
that there was nothing in the world so sacred as he was.

In no long time the five wise hounds could have given over their
guardianship, so complete was the recognition of their young lord. But
they did not so give over, for it was not love they gave the lad but
adoration.

Fionn even may have been embarrassed by their too close attendance. If
he had been able to do so he might have spoken harshly to his dogs, but
he could not; it was unthinkable that he should; and the boy might have
spoken harshly to him if he had dared to do it. For this was the order
of Fionn's affection: first there was the boy; next, Bran and Sceo'lan
with their three whelps; then Caelte mac Rona'n, and from him down
through the champions. He loved them all, but it was along that
precedence his affections ran. The thorn that went into Bran's foot ran
into Fionn's also. The world knew it, and there was not a champion but
admitted sorrowfully that there was reason for his love.

Little by little the boy came to understand their speech and to speak it
himself, and at last he was able to tell his story to Fionn.

There were many blanks in the tale, for a young child does not remember
very well. Deeds grow old in a day and are buried in a night. New
memories come crowding on old ones, and one must learn to forget as well
as to rem