she had not answered, for her first soft words to him were her last. And Astrild, watching him, saw his face grow black and angry, and she smiled softly to herself, and aloud she said:
"Oh, Guthbinn, sing again, and sing of thy brothers who fell to-day—sing of Oscar, the swift in battle, and Uaithne, of the dark eyes. And will my lord give leave that I, their mother, go to weep for them in my own poor house where they were born?"
"No," said Cathal. "I bought you and your tears, girl, with gold rings, from Ocaill of Connaught. Sing to me now, and keep thy tears for to-morrow." So Astrild drove back her sorrow, and began to sing, while her son Guthbinn plucked slow music from his harpstrings.
Are over all and done:
And now the web forgets the weaver,
And earth forgets the sun.
I sowed no seed, and pulled no blossom,
Ate not of the green corn:
With empty hands and empty bosom,
Behold, I stand forlorn.
Windflower I sang, and Flower o' Sorrow,
Half-Summer, World's Delight:
I took no thought o' the coming morrow,
No care for the coming night."
Guthbinn's hand faltered on the harpstrings, and the singer stopped swiftly: but King Cathal stayed the tears in her heart with an angry word. "Have I had not always had my will? And it is not my will now for you to weep." So Astrild sat still, and she looked at her sons: but Toran was busy boasting of the white neck and blue eyes of the new slave-girl he had won, and Colomanwas
