"Nay, but the frost is cruel, and he would have been sorely feared
with the leaping and howls of the beasts. There were always trees
at hand as we fled, if needs were to take to them. It was in my
mind that it were best to try to get him home, or near it."

Then said my father, gripping the hand that met his: "There is more
that I would say, but I cannot set thoughts into words well. Only,
I know that I have a man before me. Tell me your name, that neither
I nor the boy may ever forget it."

"Here, in the Saxon lands, men call me Owen the Briton," he
answered simply.

"I thought your voice had somewhat of the Welsh tone," my father
said. "And your English is of Mercia. I have heard that there are
Britons in the fenland there."

"I am of West Wales, Thane, but I have bided long in Mercia."

Then came my old nurse, and there were words enough for the time.
Her eyes were red with weeping, but it was all that my father could
do to prevent her scolding me soundly then and there for the fright
I had given her. But she set a great bowl of bread and milk before
me, and the men began to come in at that time, and they stood in a
ring round me and watched me eat it as if they had never seen me
before, while my father spoke aside of the flight to Owen on the
high place. But concerning his own story my father asked the
stranger no more until he chose to open the matter himself.

After supper there was all the tale to be told, and when that was