One fair-haired invader lay across the gunwale of a boat, the manner of his death told by the arrow that transfixed his breast.

In the air, leaping past him into the water, sword in hand, was Billy.

There was no mistaking it.

The striking blondness, the face, the eyes, the mouth were the same.

The very expression on the face was what had been on Billy's the day of the picnic when he faced the three wild Irishmen.
Somewhere out of the ruck of those warring races had emerged Billy's ancestors, and hers, was her afterthought, as she closed the book and put it back in the drawer.