Presently I met these folk, and very courteous they were. Dunwal
was a tall, very dark, man, who chose to hold that he was beholden
to myself for the passage home, when he heard why I was sailing so
soon. And his daughter was like him in many ways, being perhaps the
very darkest damsel I have ever seen, though she was handsome
withal. With them was a priest of the old Western Church, a
Cornishman, with his outlandish tonsure. He was somewhat advanced
in years, and strangely wild looking at times, though silent. He
seemed to be Dunwal's chaplain, or else was a friend who had made
the pilgrimage with him. His name was Morfed, they told me.

I do not think that I should have noted him much, but that when he
heard my Saxon name he scowled heavily, and drew away from me; and
presently, when it came to pass that Howel told Dunwal the news I
had brought, I saw his eyes fixed on me in no friendly way as he
listened. Nor did he join with his friends in the words of gladness
for Owen's return, though indeed I had some thought that theirs
might have been warmer. It was almost as if something was held back
by the Devon man and his daughter, though why I should think so I
could not tell. At all events, their way of receiving the news was
not like that of Howel and Nona.

By and by, when we came to sit down at table in the largest room of
the palace, bright with fair linen, and silver and gold and glass
vessels before us, and soft and warm under foot with rugs on the
tiled floor which hardly needed them, as I thought, there was a
guest I was pleased to see. Thorgils had ridden from Tenby at the
bidding of the princess, as it seemed, and his first words to me
were of assurance that all went well for our sailing. The good ship