Oisin's Mother

Evening  was  drawing  nigh,  and  the  fianna  Finn  had  decided  to  hunt  no  more.  That  day  the  hounds  were  whistled  to  heel,  and  a  sober  homeward  march  began,  for  men  will  walk  soberly  in  the  evening,  however  they  go  in  the  day,  and  dogs  will  take  the  mood  from  their  masters.  They  were  pacing  so  through  the  golden  shafted,  tender  colored  eve,  when  a  fawn  leaped  suddenly  from  COVID  and  with  that  leap  all  quietness  vanished.  The  men  shouted,  the  dogs  gave  tongue,  and  a  furious  chase  commenced.  Fion  loved  a  chase  at  any  hour,  and  with  Bran  and  C?

Olin,  he  outstripped  the  men  and  dogs  of  his  troop  until  nothing  remained  in  the  limpid  world  but  Fion.  The  two  hounds  and  the  nimble  beautiful  fawn  these  and  the  occasional  boulders  round  which  they  raced  or  over  which  they  scrambled.  The  solitary  tree  which  dozed  aloof  and  beautiful  in  the  path  the  occasional  clump  of  trees  that  hive  sweet  shadow  as  a  hive  hoards  honey.  And  the  rustling  grass  that  stretched  to  infinity  and  that  moo  and  crept  and  swung  under  the  breeze  in  endless  rhythmic  billowings.  In  his  wildest  moment,  Fion  was  thoughtful,  and  now,  although  running  hard,  he  was  thoughtful.

There  was  no  movement  of  his  beloved  hounds  that  he  did  not  know,  not  a  twitch  or  fling  of  the  head,  not  a  cock  of  the  ears  or  tail  that  was  not  significant  to  him.  But  on  this  chase,  whatever  signs  the  dogs  gave  were  not  understood  by  their  master.  He  had  never  seen  them  in  such  eager  flight.  They  were  almost  utterly  absorbed  in  it.  But  they  did  not  whine  with  eagerness,  nor  did  they  cast  any  glance  towards  him  for  the  encouraging  word  which  he  never  failed  to  give.

When  they  sought  it,  they  did  look  at  him,  but  it  was  a  look  which  he  could  not  comprehend.  There  was  a  question  and  a  statement  in  those  deep  eyes,  and  he  could  not  understand  what  that  question  might  be,  nor  what  it  was  they  sought  to  convey.  Now  and  again  one  of  the  dogs  turned  ahead  in  full  flight,  and  stared  not  at  Fion,  but  distantly  backwards  over  the  spreading  and  swelling  plain  where  their  companions  of  the  hunt  had  disappeared.  They  are  looking  for  the  other  hounds,  said  Fion,  and  yet  they  do  not  give  tongue.  Tongue.

It  Avran.  He  shouted.  Bell  it  out.  A  heel  on.  It  was  then  they  looked  at  him,  the  look  which  he  could  not  understand  and  had  never  seen  on  a  chase.

They  did  not  tongue  it,  nor  bell  it,  but  they  added  silence  to  silence,  and  speed  to  speed,  until  the  lean  gray  bodies  were  one  pucker  and  lashing  of  movement.  Fion  marveled.  They  do  not  want  the  other  dogs  to  hear  or  to  come  on  this  chase,  he  murmured,  and  he  wondered  what  might  be  passing  within  those  slender  heads.  OIson's  mother,  the  fawn  runs  well,  his  thought  continued.  What  is  it,  Avran?

My  heart  after  her  a  helon  he.  Heart  after  her  a  he.  Land  I  loves.  There  is  going  and  despair  in  that  beast.  Yet  his  mind  went  on.

She  is  not  stretched  to  the  full,  nor  half  stretched.  She  may  outrun  even  Bran,  he  thought,  ragingly.