like wind in pine forests far off--

"The hammer o' Len."

"An' how'll I get ye back to him, not knowin' where to find him?" asked Artan. "Sure, the winds must rise up an' blow me to the end o' the rainbow, where he sits, or I'll never get there at all."

The words were scarce past his lips when down across the hills came a warm gust o' south wind--the last o' the storm--an' caught him up, still clingin' to the hammer, an' swept him upwards till he could see naught for mist an' hurryin' clouds. Then came a feelin' o' sinkin', an' a sudden jar; an' there he was standin' on green turf, lookin' at white mountains, risin' higher nor aught he'd seen, an' between him an' them shimmered the rainbow itself, glowin' all colors in the light o' sunset.

"Ay, 'tis aisy seein' where I am," laughed Artan, startin' toward it bravely.

For a while he went on, an' at last he came nigh enough to see the mighty shape o' Len, standin' waitin' at his forge. An' while night was fast comin' on, an' the stars showin' out in the sky over all, yet the sunfire was still flamin' up in his smithy, workin' his will at a word.

If fear had had place in the heart of Artan, then was time for it, when he saw the deep eyes o' Len, like dark sea-water in caves, lookin' far an' through him. But never had that come to him, an' without speakin'

he raised the hammer toward the sthrong knotted hand that claimed it.

"Whist, then!" says Len, graspin' it quick for fear the metal was coolin'. "Say naught till I'm done!" With that he beat an' turned the shield, an' gave the endin' touches to it. Then, with another big shout, he hung it on the rainbow, flashin' an' shinin' till men on earth below saw it for Northern Lights in the night sky.

"How came ye here in me forge, Artan, son o' Duallach?" he cried.

"That I know not," spoke out Artan. "When I held yon hammer in hand, an'

cried on the wind for blowin' me to him that owned it--for no other road there was for returnin' it--the warm blast came out o' the south an'

caught me up here."

"Ay," laughed Len, deep an' hearty. "The winds are at the will o' him that handles it; but too great a power is that to be given careless to mortal man. What reward will ye have, now? Whether gold, or power above other men, or the fairest o' maids for yer wife?"

Then the blood reddened the face of Artan.

"Naught care I for gold," says he. "An' power over men should be for him that wins it fair."

"Then 'tis the fairest o' maids ye'll be afther wantin'?" asked Len.

"Have ye seen such a one?"

"Nay," says Artan. "Dark are the faces in the house o' Duallach, an'

little to me likin'."

"Then shall ye have one fair as day," says Len. He turned to where the shield was hangin', an' from the heart o' that same he plucked a rose o'

the beaten gold, an' gave it to Artan.

"Cast it in the sea surf at sunrise," says he, "callin'

'Darthuil!'--then shall ye have yer reward. But one thing mind. Safely yer own is she not till first lost an' won back. When ye know not where to seek aid in searchin', cry on me name at the sea-coast, an' aid will there be for ye if ye come not too late--wind, wave, an' wandherin'

flame. Never does Len forget. Hold fast yer rose."

As he spoke, again came a gale, chill from the north this time, an'

whirled Artan past cloud an' above surgin' seas, an' left him on the hilltop above the beach at the last hour before the dawnin'.

Quick Artan hastened down the cliff, still graspin' the golden rose, an'

stood where the little small waves curled over the stones, waitin' for the first gleam o' the sun to touch the sea. Hours it seemed to him, but minutes it was in truth, before he caught a long breath, raised the rose high in air, an' tossed it swift an' sure into the snowy crest of a green incomin' wave.

"Darthuil!" he cried, an' the cliff echo made a song of it.

As the drops flew upward in the red dawn an' the breaker swept in, there by his side stood a maid with the gold o' the rose in her hair, an' the white o' sea-foam in her fair skin, an' the color o' the sunrise in lips an' cheek. Blither nor spring, he caught her hand an' led her over the hills to the house o' Duallach, they two singin' for joy o' livin' as they went.

Now not long had the two been wed (an' welcome were they under the roof of Duallach), when Myrdu, that was half-brother to Artan, but older nor him, came back from far huntin', ill-pleased at missin' Artan for his companion, an' for helpin' him carry the red deer he'd shot.

"'Tis an ill youth," says he, "an' will get no good from lyin' on the cliff edge an' lettin' the hunt go by."

"Nay," says Duallach, slow to anger. "Fair fortune has he won, an' the favor o' the G.o.ds; an' has brought home a bride, fair as the sun at noon."

Then was Myrdu half ragin' from bein' jealous; but not wishin' to show that same, he called for meat an' dhrink to be brought him in the great hall. An' Artan, wishin' to be friendly like, cried out for Darthuil to serve his brother. Sure, when Myrdu saw her comin' toward him--shinin'

among the dark la.s.ses o' Duallach's household like a star in the night sky--fury was in his heart for thinkin' that Artan, bein' younger nor him, had won what he had not, an' soon he laid plans for stealin' her from his brother.

'Twas not many days before word o' this came to the ear o' Duallach; an'

he, hatin' strife, bade Artan an' Darthuil take horse an' ride swiftly southward to the Lough o' the Lone Valley, to dwell on the little island in it till evil wishes had pa.s.sed from the heart o' Myrdu. So Artan, mindin' what Len had foretold, yet thinkin' it wiser not to be afther losin' Darthuil at all, rode away with her on his left hand when Myrdu was sleepin' an' not knowin' what was bein' done.

When he roused an' found them gone, an' that none o' the house would say whither, he was in a fine pa.s.sion; but he made as if he was afther goin'

huntin', an' took his two fierce hounds an' went off to trace the road they'd taken. An' sure enough, 'twas not many hours before he was on their path.

Now safer would it have been had Artan told Darthuil the full raison why he was takin' her far into the shelter o' forest an' lough o' the wildherness; but she, trustin' him, asked naught, thinkin' no evil o'

livin' man. So scarce had Artan left her in the low cabin on the island an' gone off to hunt, than Myrdu pushed through the bushes, leavin' the hounds on the sh.o.r.e behind, an' floated himself out to the island on a couple o' logs lashed with a thong o' deer-skin. Ay, but Darthuil was startled, not dhreamin' why he'd come.

"'Tis Artan is hurt, an' afther sendin' me for ye," says Myrdu, lookin'

down unaisy like, from not wishin' to meet the rare clear eyes o' her.

"Come, an' I'll take ye where he lies."

Not waitin' a moment was Darthuil, then, but hurried doin' as she was bid, never thinkin' what evil might be in store.

Afther a few hours Artan came back through the trees, an' game a plenty he'd found. He pulled out his boat o' skins, an' quick paddled back to the island. But there he found no Darthuil; no, nor any sign o' her save the little print o' her sandal by the wather's edge.

Then came to his mind the promise o' Len. Never darin' to waste an hour searchin' by himself, he ferried his horse across to the mainland, mounted, an' pushed for the sea. Never once did he stop for restin'

till he was standin' where the waves beat over him, where he had cried on Darthuil, an' she had come to him.

"Len!" he called. "Yer aidin', Len! Darthuil is stolen from me."

There came a rumblin' o' thunder, an' on the sh.o.r.e stood a great figure, like a pillar o' cloud reachin' half to the sky.

"Never safe yer own till lost an' found, I said," came the deep voice.

"Now I give ye wild servants, a wind an' a wave an' a wandherin' flame for helpin' ye to bring her safe again. Mind well that each will obey ye but once, so call on them only when yer sharpest need comes. When ye've again set the feet o' Darthuil safe in the hall o' Duallach, none can take her from ye more. Now follow yer love. 'Tis to the Northland has Myrdu carried her. Let him not pa.s.s the White Rocks, or wind an' wave an' flame will lose power to aid ye. Use yer wit, now, an' use it well."

Artan would have spoken to thank him, but with the last word Len was no more there; so he mounted again an' turned to the north; an' behind him came the wind, whisperin' over the gra.s.s; an' the wave, runnin' up the sthream near at hand; an' the flame, creepin' among dhry leaves, but settin' fire to naught else, its time not bein' come.

Together they all thraveled the betther part of a long day, an' late on Artan saw dust risin' ahead. 'Twas a cloud that Myrdu had raised to hide the way he was goin', an' beyond it he was ridin', carryin' Darthuil before him on his saddle o' skins, with the two hounds lopin' along beside to fright her from tryin' to escape, an' to give warnin' of any followin'; while not many miles ahead were the White Rocks, that he was pushin' to reach.

On hurried Artan, but his horse was wearied, an' little head could he make. Moreover, the cloud o' dust left him uncertain o' what was hid. So he thought well, an' chose wind to serve him first.

"Go on, an' blow the dust far away, whisperin' courage to Darthuil the while," says he. An' at once the wind sped far ahead, obeyin' his command. When the two dogs felt it touch them, they cowered low; but Darthuil took heart, knowin' that help was at hand. An' the dust was no more hidin' her from Artan, so she waved her hand an' called aloud to him to ride in haste.

Then Myrdu, fearin' that he might yet lose her, threw a handful o' twigs behind him in the road; an' fallin' they turned into dead trees, stoppin' the way on all sides. But Artan well knew the way to clear his path.

"Go forward!" he cried to the wandherin' flame, "an' leave not a trace o' them!" As he spoke, the flame swept up high in air, roarin' an'

smokin'; an' in half an instant naught remained o' the logs but a pile o' smoldherin' ashes. But still was Myrdu fast nearin' his goal, an' had one thing more for helpin'.