the Saxon, that we are to die on these hills, gnawing the flesh from
our bones? Think ye not the hour is come?"

"The hour will come, when the sheep, and the horse, and the dog are
devoured," replied Modred, "and when the whole force, as one man, will
cry to Gryffyth, 'Thou a king!--give us bread!'"

"It is well," said the third, an old man, leaning on a wand of solid
silver, while the mountain wind, sweeping between the walls, played
with the rags of his robe,--"it is well that the night's sally, less
of war than of hunger, was foiled even of forage and food. Had the
saints been with Gryffyth, who had dared to keep faith with Tostig the
Saxon."

Owain laughed, a laugh hollow and false.

"Art thou Cymrian, and talkest of faith with a Saxon? Faith with the
spoiler, the ravisher and butcher? But a Cymrian keeps faith with
revenge; and Gryffyth's trunk should be still crownless and headless,
though Tostig had never proffered the barter of safety and food.
Hist! Gryffyth wakes from the black dream, and his eyes glow from
under his hair."

And indeed at this moment the King raised himself on his elbow, and
looked round with a haggard and fierce despair in his glittering eyes.

"Play to us, Harper; sing some song of the deeds of old!" The bard
mournfully strove to sweep the harp, but the chords were broken, and
the note came discordant and shrill as the sigh of a wailing fiend.