In eating, drinking, and singing wild
battle songs, these warriors passed that evening, each thinking himself
a king.
Some of the men were wounded, but little did they seem to care; nay,
many a one even proudly displayed his bleeding cuts, to prove how sorely
bestead he had been in the fight, and the man who had the greatest show
of wounds was looked upon almost with envy. To be wounded was next to
being slain, and to be slain on the field of battle was the most
glorious death a man might die.
"Well, my brothers-in-arms," at length said one who appeared to be their
captain, "'tis a good day's work that we have done. So let us drink and
be merry. Here's waes-hael to king Rudri of Bute. Long life to him!"
Then the men took up their drinking horns and drank deep to the last
drop. But two there were who drank not at all, and they were men of
Colonsay.
"Why drink ye not with me?" growled the captain, frowning.
"Because, Thorolf," said one with flashing eye, "I am but ill-content
with the way that Rudri broke his plighted word to us. When we set out
on this journey, was it that we should but help him to gain his father's
island? No. Did he not solemnly swear that he would give us our full
meed of vengeance upon the whelp who massacred our children? And what
man of us has had that chance? Blood for blood, say I!"
"And so say I," muttered his companion.
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