And ne'er a one could touch him; but the child
Play'd with his shaggy ears and great rough coat,
As no grown man had dared.

MONK.

I know there is
A strange nobility in dogs, to bear
The utmost sport of children, that would seize
Man by the throat e'en for a finger touch--
But to your tale--

MORGAN.

Well! suddenly at noon,
Llewellyn, baffled of his game, hied back,
Striding right grimly in his discontent,
And whistling, oft his spear upon the ground,
Slaying the visions of his fretful dreams;
And presently he thought him of his child:
So with its winsome ways to wile the time,
He went unto the chamber where it lay,
Watch'd o'er by Gelert, as his custom was:
But there, alack! or that the child had crost
The savage humour of the beast, or that
Some sudden madness had embolden'd it,
He saw the child lie bloody mid the sheets,
Slain by the hound, as it would seem, for there
Lay Gelert lapping from his chaps the blood,
That hung in gouts from every grisly curl.