and musical voice to the sound of his instrument.

Old Wenwynwyn was a study in himself; his flowing hair, his fiery eyes,
his picturesque garb and free, untrammelled gestures giving him a weird
individuality of his own. But it was not upon him that the eyes of the
brothers dwelt, nor even upon the soldier-like figure of their stalwart
father leaning against the wall with folded arms, and eyes shining with
the patriotic fervour of his race. The attention of the lads was
enchained by another and more sumptuous figure --that of a fine-looking
man, approaching to middle life, who was seated at a little distance
from the minstrel, and was smiling with pleasure and appreciation at the
wild sweetness of the stream of melody poured forth.

One glance at the dress of the stranger would have been enough to tell
the brothers his nationality. His under tunic, which reached almost to
the feet, was of the finest cloth, and was embroidered along the lower
border with gold thread. The sur-tunic was also richly embroidered; and
the heavy mantle clasped upon the shoulder with a rare jewel was of some
rich texture almost unknown to the boys. The make and set of his
garments, and the jewelled and plumed cap which he held upon his knee,
alike proclaimed him to be English; yet as he gazed upon the noble face,
and looked into the clear depths of the calm and fearless eyes, Wendot
felt no hostility towards the representative of the hostile race, but
rather a sort of reluctant admiration.

"In faith he looks born to command," he whispered to Griffeth. "If all
were like unto him --"

But the lad did not complete the sentence, for he had suddenly caught
sight of another figure, another face, and he stopped short in a sort of