bear the banner, for all who do so get their death"; so Thorstein held back. "Hrafn the Red," cried Sigurd, “bear thou the banner." "Bear thine own devil thyself," was the surly reply. "'Tis fittest the beggar should bear the bag," said the Earl with grim humour, wrapping it round his own body. Soon after Asmund fell and the Earl was immediately transfixed with a spear. Hrafn the Red believed that the devils were about to seize him at the river (? Tolka) and vowed to be "St. Peter's dog" and "run to Rome." King Sitric, son of Olaf Cuaran, sat on the walls of the fort of Dublin, watching the battle afar off, and it appeared "like a party reaping a field of oats." His wife, a daughter of Brian, sat beside him. "Well do the foreigners reap the field," said he; many a sheaf do they cast from them." "The result will be seen at the end of the day," said his queen. It was now evening and the tide was flowing in before the Danish ranks broke. Whither should they fly? The Irish were between them and the bridge leading into Dublin ; on the other side lay the ships, but now out of reach, and, the Tolka, too deep to be waded, the only hope lay in getting across at the weirs or swimming to the ships, and many were drowned, for the sea had grown rough and great tide waves came in. Tordelbhach, Murchadh's son, had followed the fugitives down to the weir, when he was washed out with more than one of the foe, clinging together till they were drowned.

Sitric and his queen still sat on the battlement, and the patriotic woman saw the flight. "The foreigners have gained their patrimony." "What meanest thou, woman?" Sitric asked fiercely. "The sea," she replied; and he struck her so savagely on the face that he struck out her teeth.

BRIAN'S DEATH.

Brian knelt in his tent-the Norse saga says, "in a shield burg," or ring of armed men; the Irish says with a single page, Latean. "Watch the battle while I pray," said Brian, and Latean went out. Then the King sang fifty psalms, prayers, and Pater Nosters, and asked how went the fight. Latean could only say that the noise was as if seven battalions were felling Tomar's Wood. Brian asked if his son's banner was standing, and was told that it and the standards of the Dal Cais were still aloft. The page settled the King's cushion, and Brian con

tinued his supplications to Heaven. He asked again, and was told that the confusion was worse than ever, and the flag had gone further but was still visible. So he prayed and, at intervals, asked for news; no messenger seems to have left the battle to reassure him. The standard fell and the youth entreated the King to mount his horse and ride back to the camp. "O God! thou boy, retreat becomes us not, and I myself know that I shall not leave this place alive; and what would it profit me if I did? Then he told his servant how the banshee had foretold his death, and bade Latean take the horses and go with his blessing. He declared his will that he should be buried at Armagh; blessed his son, Donchad, and bade him to give legacies to the churches of Armagh, Killaloe, Swords, and to ask the Comharb of St. Patrick to fetch his body from Louth. He scarcely ended when the boy called out that people were coming. Alas! what people?" cried Brian. Blue naked people," said the page, as some Danes, in their close-fitting blue byrnies appeared. Brian rose from the cushion and drew his sword. Three Danes passed; one, unfortunately recognised him, and shouted, "The King! the King." The second, Earl Brodir, looked and said, "No, no; a priest, a priest." "By no means, it is the great King Brian," persisted the soldier. Brodir grasped his axe and entered the tent. All was over in a moment. Brian struck and wounded the Earl on the knee; Brodir cleft the King's skull. The Irish told how the King hewed off the apostate's left leg at the knee, his right at the foot; the Norse said that Brodir had burst through the guard, struck off Brian's head, and that the Earl, wounding the boy who attempted to ward off the blow,* had been taken and disembowelled alive and all his men slain. Whatever took place, at least the greatest of Irish kings lay in his blood across the cushion on which he had prayed all day for the cause of Ireland.

(To be concluded.)

* Also that the King's blood cured the boy's wounded arm, and that Brian's head joined itself to his body.

HEARD ON THE HILLS OF PIEDMONT

"G

OOD-BYE; salute Turin for me." These were the last words I heard as the afternoon train moved out of the station of Genoa. My friend remained on the platform, envying me, because in a short time I should be in the capital of his native Piedmont, where all his affections were centred.

I found myself in a compartment with only two other travellers, who began almost at once, in the usual Italian fashion, to speak of their journeys, of which this few hours' run was only a part. One, a portly, bald personage, with large protruding eyes and a heavy white moustache that constantly got in his way as he spoke, was returning from a few weeks' sojourn in the South of France, and the other was on his way back to his native city of Alexandria in Piedmont, after a trip to Alexandria in Egypt. This was a middle-aged, dapper, nervous little man, who sat on the edge of the seat, with his hands extended stiffly, one on each knee, and seemed to live in constant fear of offending somebody or inadvertently making some one disagree with him.

He spoke of the miserable way in which he had slept in the train on the previous night, and then proceeded to remark, in a lower voice, how poorly Italian trains compared with those of other countries, confirming his remarks by the sayings of a German, who had been his fellow-passenger on some previous occasion. "Really," he concluded, one is not at all so well off in our own country as he is abroad."

"You mean when travelling, of course," objected the stout

man.

"Oh, yes, when travelling only," he explained apologetically. Because there is no country like our own to live in," added the other, and turned away to show that that topic of conversation had been sufficiently dealt with.

Now, it so happened that this was the third time in a few days I had heard the last remark, and I mechanically raised my head to look at the person who made it. He was sitting diagonally opposite to me, and was turned in my direction.

Our eyes met, and he immediately called out cheerily, in Italian : "Good day, sir."

Then a short pause, during which he eyed me all over.

He continued to stare me for a moment, waiting, probably, to see if I was going to satisfy his curiosity on the subject of my nationality, and then making some remark on the heat," settled himself in the corner and closed his eyes.

After a short time I began to speak with the Alexandrian, and he came to sit directly opposite to me. Scarcely had he changed his position when our other companion did likewise, and sat on the side where I was sitting. I laid down beside me the book I had been reading, and, when a pause came in the conversation, he stretched his hand towards it, asking if he may see it. It was a book of poetry, and happened to be open at a page containing Milton's Sonnet on the late Massacre in Piedmont." He evidently did not understand English. “Ah! Piedmont!" he exclaimed, beaming, when he saw the name. "I am Piedmontese. We are in Piedmont now. I ought not speak Italian any more. But perhaps you do not understand Piedmontese?"

Hearing that I did not, he went on :

What does he say of Piedmont? Ah!" (seeing the author's name) "it is Milton-the great Milton. He was in Italy. Of course he came to Piedmont. All the poets visit Piedmont. What does he say of it?"

I was sorry to have to disappoint him, and when I told him that the "bloody Piedmontese were mentioned in the seventh line, his face fell, and apparently his conception of Milton underwent a sudden change.

"What does he mean?" he gasped. "I suppose he was one of those cold-blooded men who could not appreciate born soldiers like the Piedmontese."

I explained in a few words the subject-matter of the poem, but without waiting for me to finish, he flushed up angrily, spoke of bigots, of prejudice, of ignorance, of truth, and all kindred virtues and vices, until he paused for breath and halted. to see what effect his words had produced. No one having any remark to make, he went on to tell of the glories of Piedmont and Savoy, until we had almost arrived at Alexandria. Seeing

the passenger whose destination was that city making preparations to leave, he stopped, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and asked me if I was getting out also. Hearing that, like himself, I was bound for Turin, he asked the Alexandrian on which side of the station the book-stall was, and then sank into the corner with the satisfied smile of one who has something good up his sleeve.

When we arrived at the station, where there was a fairly long delay, he alighted, and after a few minutes returned. When the train was in motion again he drew a book from his pocket, began cutting the leaves with his pocket-knife, put on a pair of pince-nez, and summoned my attention with a Listen to this, sir." Then, bending back the two divisions of the book so as to open it well, after a long breath he began to declaim, gesticulating with his right hand, which still held the knife:

"Su le dentate scintillanti vette"

Carducci's poem on Piedmont. Coming to the words, "Salve, Piedmonte!" he paused, and looked at me triumphantly, as if to say, "There! I told you." Then he continued, pronouncing with emphasis the different names of the towns individually lauded in the poem, until he came to "Asti republicana."

"I am from Asti," he paused to remark; "it is the city of Alfieri."

He read a few more stanzas here and there, and then concluded. "There!" he exclaimed, "that's what poets who know Piedmont write about it," and he seemed satisfied that he had vindicated the honour of his province.

After that he remained in silence for awhile, but as soon as we came near his native town, and he looked on the vineclad hills, from which is drawn the fruit that makes the famous wine of Asti, a new thought seemed to strike him. He took a time table from his pocket, and turned towards me again.

"Must you arrive at Turin by this train?" he asked. I replied that I wished to arrive there at a reasonable hour, but the exact time was of little consequence.

"Listen," he said, "you must do me a favour to make up for that unjust poem you were reading. Get out with me at a little station beyond Asti, and I shall show you something to make you remember Piedmont all your life. After a few hours we can resume our journey to Turin."