THE SPRING GALE HAD blown itself out. The sky smiled blue overhead and the sea lay placid as a pool, with only a few scattered bits of driftwood along the beaches to give mute evidence of her treachery. Along the strand rode a lone horseman, his saffron cloak whipping about behind him, his yellow hair blowing about his face in the breeze.
Suddenly he reined up so short that his spirited steed reared and snorted. From among the sand dunes had risen a man, tall and powerful, of wild, shock-headed aspect, and n***d but for a loincloth.
“Who are you,” demanded the horseman, “who bear the sword of a chief, yet have the appearance of a masterless man, and wear the collar of a serf withal?”
“I am Conn, young master,” answered the wanderer, “once an outlaw, once a t****l—always a man of King Br
