THE TRIBUTE FROM BREFNY.

TH

HERE was hurry and noise in the courtyard of the Ard-Righ's palace at Teamhor, for the tributes were pouring in from south, and east, and west-tributes of wild eagles from the Achills, kine and hill-ponies, tributes of slaves, and tributes of cloaks. Now the tribute from Brefny was a tribute of cloaks, and to see these tokens of service was King Citheng's earliest pleasure. There were six cloaks cast down on the ground of the sleepingplace, and each covered a human body. Under the first cloak lifted-a plain, gray mantle of the coarsest stuff-there slept a slave, beautiful to see, with white skin and long red hair, in which she had twined her cold hands; under the next, a cloak of two colours, black and white, there lay a man of the hills, wild-haired and wild-eyed, with a knife in his grip; and lying beside the Kern, with his yellow head laid wearily back on the hillsman's naked breast, was a lad of some twenty years, as fair to see as the slave-girl, and with as white a skin. Under the next cloak, which was of five colours, lay a six months child, naked and crowing, and beside the babe a woman was huddled, and they that looked on drew back and spoke no word, for though the fear of death was in her face, and the coldness of death in her clenched hands, and there was no gold on hair or arm of her, they knew her for the Queen of Brefny. And the sixth cloak seemed as if its seven colours also covered a sleeping figure, but when they raised it there was no one there. So they held their peace a little while: and then he that had lain asleep on the Kern's breast leapt up, and stood unarmed before the face of Citheng, the king, and said, speaking the lower that his passion ran in him so high:

"Six cloaks has Brefny sent thee, High King of Eri, and in each cloak a gift. And first my mother Una sends thee the slave's cloak, and the slave-girl Gudrun to lighten thine idle hours, that she herself may not lighten any more. And next, my father Brian, of Brefny, sends thee Breas, my foster-brother, a strong man, of his hands to serve thee as thou wilt. And this gift is because once thou didst

deal nobly with my father when his enemies were stronger than he; and when thou wert a man and not a devil. And the third cloak covers me. Put back thy steel, Citheng; my mother's son has more to say yet, and anon thou canst slay me more slowly than by the knife. And under the fourth cloak my mother sends thee Una the second, and she bids thee love thy daughter well. And under the fifth cloak is my mother, whom thou hadst once, living, and whom my father sends to thy keeping, dead."

"And now remain," said Citheng, mocking. "The third cloak and the sixth-that which wrapped thee, young cockatrice, and that which lies empty yonder."

"The empty cloak is seven-coloured, and fit only for a king's wear," said young Aluinn. "My mother wove it for you, my lordnay, feel and see it-there is no trickery in it; and once the fingers that wove it were dear to thee." Citheng took the cloak up, and threw it over his shoulder. "Well, and is thy message done, son of Brian the Fighter?" he said. "Hadst thou spoken less boldly, I had slain thee, perhaps; but because I am a fox I love a wolf and a wolf's cub, and thou mayst go back to thy valleys scatheless. Moreover, for a space of six years Brefny shall pay me no more tributes. And now-where are my Ollamhs, Miledh, and Cabham and Leabhar? Take up the Queen of Brefny, and bid my singing women come and lament her as if she were the high queen of Ireland, instead of "-he looked at Aluinn's listening face, and some devil whispered into his ear the next words that he spoke-" the fairest wanton that ever a high king tired of." Then Aluinn leapt forward again, and two stood quickly between him and the king, thinking that he had a knife in hand, but still he stood unarmed and his clenched hands were empty. "There yet remain two cloaks to complete the tale of six, lord," he said laughing lightly as he looked up into the king's mocking eyes. "The third cloak covered me-for all eyes to see, but the sixth cloak that ye wear now covered one ye saw not-nor any of your Ollamhs. Death, Citheng, lay underneath-the black Death that slew first my mother's beauty and then my mother-and now it shall slay thee, Citheng the king. Ay, kill me now, for my errand is done.”

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He held out his empty hands as if in welcome to the naked knives that shone around him and was dead before the king had shaken himself free of the plague-struck garment: and it was on a dead man's quiet face that the king set his heel. And by order of the king they whipped the hills-man naked through the camp, and the slave girl they strangled in a noose of her own red-gold hair and

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one sent a merciful knife through the child's heart, and they burned its body with Una of Brefny, in Carrownamaddoo, the Place of the Dogs. But this was all the measure of the king's vengeance, for before he had resolved how best to ruin Brefny the Black Plague fell upon him, and he died a dog's death in the straw-the last love-gift of Una of Brefny. And Brefny sent no more tributes to the king who sat next in the high king's place at Tara.

NORA HOPPER.

IN SUBTERRANEAN CAVES.

THE

HERE is a land of fairy waterfalls and subterranean caves in Yorkshire the like of which does not exist in any other part of England. The falls can be seen by all men, but some of the gloomy pits and caverns baffle even yet the courage and the skill of the most expert and adventurous explorers.

In the neighbourhood of Ingleborough, in Yorkshire, raising its massive head above the clouds, the moors are pitted with the yawning gulfs which the people know as pot-holes. Some of these are as silent and mysterious as when primeval man lived near them, and for aught we can tell, the waters that thunder down them when the rains roll from the hills may go through "caverns measureless to man, down to a sunless sea." In this region of Ingleton alone there are subterranean streams that surge along in darkness, and of which the united length can only be reckoned by hundreds of miles; and there are on the moorland everywhere great dismal gulfs, to look into which is to turn any but the strongest head and appal any but the stoutest heart.

Men of iron nerve and thirsting for adventure leave England in increasing numbers for the countries of the Alps or the Himalayas. At their own doors almost they can face descents which are as trying and as dangerous as any climbing in the hills of Switzerland or India.

The origin of these natural pits is simple. The pot-holes are the result of the processes which have carved the carboniferous limestone under the crust of the earth for some miles round Ingleborough into fantastic shapes. The stones themselves are worn by the incessant action of the water, but in the limestones the streams eat out the softer parts and leave the harder casings comparatively intact. The water is, therefore, constantly burrowing underground and scooping out channels, cavities, and caverns; and from time to time this natural sapping and mining causes the strata above to collapse, and so leads to the formation of pot-holes.

Within six miles of Ingleton there are a large number of these natural caves and pits, some of which up to this moment, in spite of

the greatest efforts of explorers, remain unknown. The names of several are clear indications of the awe which the pits have inspired in the minds of the dwellers of the district. There are,

for instance, Gaping Ghyll Hole, the Boggart's Roaring Hole and the Boggart Holes of Ivescar. In the Craven district "boggart " signifies ghost or apparition, and no doubt many an awful story of spirits rising from the bowels of the earth at dead of night has been told by belated shepherds and farmers going home across the desolate moors.

One of the most persistent and adventurous of the body of men who have both the time and money to give to the work of fathoming these subterranean dungeons is Mr. Harold Dawson, of Bradford. He possesses a complete apparatus for the descent of these pot-holes, and has succeeded not only in making numerous descents, but also in getting photographs of the caverns that lie far below the earth's surface. Into one of the most important holes, Alum Pot, he has made half a dozen descents, and has by means of the flash-light obtained numerous photographs illustrative of this adventure. This descent may be taken as a good example in every respect of the risk and labour involved in work of this description.

Alum Pot is about 300 feet deep, 180 feet long, and some 50 feet wide. Two hundred yards westward there is an opening in the ground where the roof of a cave has fallen in. This is the Long Churn, and by this cavern the explorer makes his way to Alum Pot, and emerges into daylight about 80 feet from the surface. Previous to the descent of Alum Pot, Mr. Dawson and a friend of his had made an attempt to descend Long Churn without any appliances whatever, with the exception of a few ropes, but they found it impossible to go very far with safety, owing to the depth of some of the drops; so they determined to go over again, fully equipped for all emergencies.

The articles with which they provided themselves included an electric lamp of ten-candle power. This they found quite useless, inasmuch as though it gave a strong light, it was not penetrating, and did not illuminate the darkness in any way except in its immediate vicinity. Though it was especially made for Mr. Dawson, and was as compact and portable as possible, it was extremely inconvenient to carry, and more trouble than it was worth. There is nothing yet invented for cave exploring that can beat a good wax candle. The party had a wire-rope ladder, 42 feet long, divided into three sections of 14 feet, fastened and unfastened by means of dog-clasps, so that in bearing a great weight it was