even Rubh bore against the left-hand rein until it wearied
the King's wrist. He wondered at this; but at the base of the cairn he
wondered no longer, for the old gray wolf, for whose head Graul had
offered a talent of silver, was loping down the hillside in full view,
with her long family at her heels. She passed within a stone's throw
of the King and gave him one quiet, disdainful look out of her green
eyes as she headed her pack to the southward.

Then the King understood. He looked southward and saw the plain full
of moving beasts. He looked northward, and two miles away the rolling
downs were not, but in their place a bright line stretched taut as a
string, and the string roared as if a great finger were twanging it.

Queen Niotte's horse had come to a standstill. Graul lifted and set
her before him on Rubh's crupper, and called to Gwennolar to follow
him. But Gwennolar's horse, too, was spent, and in a little while he
drew rein and lifted her, too, and set her on the stallion's broad
back behind him. Then forward he spurred again and southward after
the wolves--with a pack fiercer than wolves shouting at Rubh's heels,
nearer and yet nearer.

And Rubh galloped, yet not as before; for this Gwennolar was a
witch--a child of sixteen, golden-tressed, innocent to look upon as a
bird of the air. Her parents found no fault in her, for she was their
only one. None but the Devil, whom she had bound to serve her for a
year and a day, knew of her lovers--the dark young sailors from
the ships of Tyre, who came ashore and never sailed again nor were
seen--or beneath what beach their bodies lay in a row. To-day his date
was up, and in this flood he was taking his wages.

Gwennolar wreathed her white arms around her father and clung to him,
while her blown hair streamed like gold over his beard. And King Graul
set his teeth and rode to save the pair whom he knew to be dearest and
believed to be best. But if Niotte weighed like a feather, Gwennolar
with her wickedness began to weigh like lead--and more heavily yet,
until the stallion could scarcely heave his strong loins forward, as
now the earth grew moist about his hoofs. For far ahead of the white
surge-line the land was melting and losing its features; trickles of
water threading the green pastures, channelling the ditches, widening
out into pools among the hollows--traps and pitfalls to be skirted,
increasing in number while the sun sank behind and still the great
rock of