Hair like a wonder of autumn-fire burning, Eyes that divert like the changeable sky, Hidden her reasons, obscure, many-turning; Hard to know what she desires or why. The truth of her mind there is little discerning, But I or her husband at sunrise may die. Felimid mac Fal, The Seeking of Kincaid IN THE AFTERNOON, THERE WAS A RAID. The weather had sweetened; at least, the wind had dropped, and the rain was enfeebled to a misty, drizzling greyness. A man could scarcely see a spear’s cast in front of him. But it was good weather to what had gone before, so the cattle were grazing out. Men on hardy horses watched them. The raiders struck swiftly. Oban’s men were as swift to respond, when curled ram’s-horns shouted the alarm from a wet dimness. This kind of work was their daily bread. They grabbed helmet, targe, javelin, and leaped on their horses’ backs. A man caught at the jakes dragged up his trews and moved, not even finishing what he was about.
