guiding them, had gone before up the steep, rocky path. In single file, the horsemen began the ascent to the cave. The narrow path led up to a shelving ledge, that spread before the entrance of the cave, overhanging a sheer, unguarded precipice. Near the door of the cave, there had been hollowed out of the hillside rough stalls for horses. Here the travellers left their steeds, and with the Arab still leading, they crouched down and entered the dark cavern.
The lamp suspended from the ceiling of the cell gave just sufficient light to discern the few objects in the rocky room. One brilliant, star-like point seemed to concentrate all the feeble rays of lamplight; and Thorgills recognized, with a pang of memory, the jewelled crucifix he knew so well. The sound of heavy breathing brought them to the couch spread upon a corner of the floor. Thorgills stooped down to see the sleeper, tossing in the cruel unrest of fever. Tall, gaunt, wasted, there was scarcely anything of the valiant viking of the past, except the keen eyes now vividly gray in their fevered light. Thorgills bent over and whispered, in soothing tone: “I have found thee—I, thy own true scald, thy scald who would have walked to the ends of the earth to find thee.”
The sick man smiled as a tired child, and held Thorgills’ hand for a space. Then he seemed to sleep; and when he awoke, Eogan O’Niall spoke a few words recalling their former friendship. Not
