petty strife that was ruining the land, Res Vychan, the present Lord of
Dynevor, had made some considerable sacrifice in order to keep in his
own hands the fair palace of his fathers.

The majestic pile stood out boldly from the mountain side, and was
approached by a winding road from the valley. A mere glance showed how
strong was the position it occupied, and how difficult such a place
would be to capture. On two sides the rock fell away almost sheer from
the castle walls, whilst on the other two a deep moat had been dug,
which was fed by small mountain rivulets that never ran dry; and the
entrance was commanded by a drawbridge, whose frowning portcullis was
kept by a grim warder looking fully equal to the office allotted to him.

Lovely views were commanded from the narrow windows of the castle, and
from the battlements and the terraced walk that ran along two sides of
the building. And rough and rude as were the manners and customs of the
period, and partially uncivilized as the country was in those far-off
days, there was a strong vein of poetry lying latent in its sons and
daughters, and an ardent love for the beautiful in nature and for the
country they called their own, which went far to redeem their natures
from mere savagery and brute ferocity.

This passionate love for their home was strong in all the brothers of
the house of Dynevor, and was deepened and intensified by the sense of
uncertainty now pervading the whole country with regard to foreign
aggression and the ever-increasing claims upon Welsh lands by the
English invaders. A sense as of coming doom hung over the fair
landscape, and Wendot's eyes grew dreamy as he stood gazing on the
familiar scene, and Griffeth had to touch his arm and hurry him down to
the castle.