said, "but she will learn. Keep thou my word to her, Aonan; sing a dirge for her beauty a-dying."
"I cannot sing," Aonan-na-Righ said, shivering as there rose another shriek. "Let them slay her, my lord, and have done."
"My will runs otherwise," said Cathal, smiling. "Sing, if thou lovest thy life."
"My lord knows that I do not," Aonan answered; and Cathal smiled again.
"Belike not; but sing and lessen the Dane's punishment. When the song is finished she shall be released, and even tended well."
So Aonan sang the song of the Dane-land over the water, and the Danes that died in the Valley of Keening—which is now called Waterford; of the white skin and red hair of Astrild; of her grace and daring; of the sons that lay dead on the battle-place; of Coloman the dreamer that read the stars; and of the beautiful boy whose breast was a nest of nightingales. And then he sang— more softly—of the Isle of the Noble where Acaill dwelt, and how she would have shadowed Astrild with her pity if she had lived; and then he stopped singing and knelt before the King, dumb for a moment with the passion of his pity, for from the open door they could hear a woman moaning still.
"Lord," he said, "make an end. My life for hers—if a life the King must have; or my pain for hers—if the King must needs feed his ears with cries."
"Graciously spoken, and like Acaill's son," King Cathal said. "And Astrild shall be set free. You within the chamber take the Dane to her son the lord Coloman's keeping; and thou, my son Aonan, tarry here till I return. I may have a fancy to send thee with a message to thy mother before dawn. Nay, but come with me, and we will go see Coloman, and ask how his motherdoes.