Blair Collection > Celtic magazine > Volume 5

94 THE CELTIC MAGAZINE.
but a poor castaway. Last night my ship was driven on the rocks in a
frightful storm, and every soul but myself perished in the waves."
Something in these words seemed to give offence. A cloud passed
over the brow of the chieftain. He stopped and bit his lip in the act of
suppressing what he did not desire to speak. Cyril also saw him play
with the hilt of his dirk, and he grasped his weapon more firmly prepared
to fight for life if that were necessary. Brian the Viking, for it was no
other than he, bent his eyes for some time on the noble features of the
Irishman, and the frown gradually softened into an expression of great
tenderness — a tenderness which no one could have thought him capable
of, from the habitual sternness of his countenance. There was something
altogether embarrassing to Brian in the look of this stranger — something
he could neither explain nor understand. It awakened kindly and joyous
memories. It carried him back to his buoyant boyhood. It wafted his
thoughts away beyond those miserable years of intrigue and subjection to
the sunny associations of the castle hearth when he was a gay, young
stripling like his son Dermond, overflowing with love and exuberance of
spirits. It reminded him of the glorious days of his father. AU this
was momentary, however, and his brow l^ecame darker with displeasure.
He glared wildly at the stranger, and " What sought your gaUey on our
shores !" burst savagely from his lips.
Cyril trembled at this change of tone, and he felt himself growing
pale with a rising passion. From no man had he been accustomed in his
long life to receive such questions without resenting them. The sudden
change in the manner of the Highlander was altogether startling and in-
explicable. He was too well aware that hospitality on these shores was
surrounded with no end of superstition, and one of its unbreakable laws
was that no stranger who asked for food or shelter should be required to
unfold his name or habitation, if he had either, until a certain period of
time had elapsed, when the host was at liberty to demand an explanation
from his guest. The question of the chieftain was, on that account, aU
the more strange and unreasonable. The thought struck him that perhaps
this man was mad and required humoiu'ing. He did not look unlike one
suffering from the affliction of evil spirits, and there was something alto-
gether eccentric about his words and bearing — the peculiar variations of
his hollow voice, his perpetual restlessness, and the staring brilliancy of
his dark eyes. Cyril could not, however, forget that look of speechless
tenderness when the hard lines about his mouth gave way, the furrows
on his brow relaxed, and the eyes softened with a glistening tear. What
could all this mean ? He reflected for some time, and a flood of harrow-
ing memories bui'st madly on his thoughts. His eye had caught the
name " Dunkerlyne " on the crests of the followers who now began to
crowd curiously round about him, anticipating that something exciting
was about to happen. It occurred to him that Dunkerlyne was surely
the name of the castle bailt by his brother Francis after he had fallen
under the displeasure of his father. Alas ! what sad associations surrounded
the memory from the bursting of the bonds of family affection to the
blood-curdling tragedy which cast a hideous halo around the death of a
brother whom, with all his faults, he loved so well. Cyril's life had been
a chequered one, and the latest calamity — the loss of his two galleys, his
faithful followers, and his only son — was much easier to bear than th.©