The love of fighting seemed born in all these hardy sons of Wales, and
something of warfare was known to them even now, from the never-ending
struggles between themselves, and their resistance of the authority,
real or assumed, of the Lords of the Marches. But petty forays and
private feuds with hostile kinsmen was not the kind of fighting these
brothers longed to see and share. They had their own ideas and
aspirations, and eager glances were turned upon Griffeth, lest he might
be the bearer of some glorious piece of news that would mean open
warfare with England.

But the boy's face was unresponsive and even a little downcast. He gave
a quick glance into the fierce, glowing face of Llewelyn, and then his
eyes turned upon Wendot.

"There is no news like that," he said slowly. "The guests who have come
to Dynevor are English themselves."

"English!" echoed Llewelyn fiercely, and he turned away with a smothered
word which sounded like an imprecation upon all the race of foreigners;
whilst Howel asked with quick indignation:

"What right have English guests at Dynevor? Why were they received? Why
did not our good fellows fall upon them with the sword or drive them
back the way they came? Oh, if we had but been there --"

"Tush, brother!" said young Griffeth quickly; "is not our father lord of
Dynevor? Dost think that thou canst usurp his authority? And when did
ever bold Welshmen fall upon unarmed strangers to smite with the sword?
Do we make war upon harmless travellers -- women and children? Fie upon
thee! it were a base thought. Let not our parents hear thee speak such