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Updated: June 28, 2025
Brian's gold-red hair had flung back from his head, along the floor, and presently he felt it burning, until his head was scorched and his brain began to roast and there was the smell of burnt hair rising from him. Then Murrough's rough hand brushed over his torn scalp, quelling the fire, but it did not quell the agony that wrenched Brian. "Paint him," ordered O'Donnell.
A sudden amazed silence fell on every man there, and but for Murrough's warning hand Brian would have sat up. O'Donnell's jaw fell for an instant, then his head drew in between his shoulders, he put a hand to Vere's arm, and whispered something. The royalist nodded, a grin on his coarse face, and the Dark Master settled back easily.
So Brian lay in his tower four days and might have lain there four-score more by dint of Red Murrough's lies, had it not been that on the fourth evening Colonel Vere managed to stay unexpectedly sober. Being thus sober, it occurred to him that he had best make sure he had the right man by the heels.
The giant struggled with himself, for humiliation came hard to him. Then his voice fell curiously low, terrible in its self-restraint. "I pray you for the life of Yellow Brian, O'Donnell." Brian forced himself up, thinking to cry out a warning before it was too late; but Murrough's hand closed over his mouth and forced him back relentlessly.
"If that Cuculain of whom the seanachie spoke be not the man Brian Buidh, then may I go down to hell alive!" And the men, who feared Red Murrough's heavy hand and hated him, muttered that he would be like to travel that same road whether living or dead, in which there was some truth.
Brian saw Turlough behind that tale, but Cathbarr was no man to carry it off with success. "Well," laughed the Dark Master, "none the less shall Brian be slain. Carry back that word to Nuala O'Malley." Cathbarr's mighty chest heaved like a barrel near to bursting. Brian was minded to break his promise, but Murrough's pistol was at his head, and he could but lie quietly and watch.
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