heard. The bell went on and then stopped, and I thought I heard
footsteps on the far side of the barrier. They came nearer, and
then were almost at the door, paused for a moment, and then the
door was opened and the red light from a fire flashed out on me,
showing the tall form of a man in monk's dress in its opening.

"Come in, my son," said a grave voice, speaking Welsh, that had no
wonder in it, though one could hardly have expected to see an armed
and gold-bedecked Saxon here in the storm.

I stumbled into what I had thought a rock, and found when my eyes
grew used to the light that I was in a house built of great stones,
uncemented but wonderfully fitted together, and warm and bright
with the driftwood fire, though I heard the spray rattle on the
roof of flat stones, and the wind howled strangely around the
walls. Both ends of this house were of the living rock of the sides
of the gorge, and at one end seemed to be a sort of cave with a
narrow entrance.

The man who had bidden me in stood yet at the open door looking out
on his staircase, but he did not bide there long. With a sigh he
turned and closed the door and came in, hardly looking at me, but
turning toward the cave I had just noticed. He was an old man, very
old indeed, with a long white beard and pale face lined with
countless wrinkles, and he stooped a little as he walked. But his
face was calm and kind, though he did not smile at me, and I felt
that here I was safe with one of no common sort.

"Come, my son," he said, "it is the hour of prime. Glad am I to
have one with me after many days."