"Here Ina says that this is borne by one whom I know. Is it you or
this young warrior?"
Then Owen went forward and fell on one knee before the king, and
said in his own tongue--the tongue of Cornwall and of Devon:
"I am that one of whom Ina has spoken. Yet it is for Gerent to say
whether he will own that he knows me even yet."
I saw the king start as the voice of Owen came to him in the
familiar language, and he knitted his brows as one who tries to
recall somewhat forgotten, and he looked searchingly in the face of
the man who knelt before him, scanning every feature.
And at last he said in a hushed voice, not like the harsh tones of
but now:
"Can it be Owen?--Owen, the son of my sister? They said that one
like him served the Saxon, but I did not believe it. That is no
service for one of our line."
"What shall an exile do but serve whom he may, if the service be an
honoured one? Yet I will say that I wandered long, seeing and
learning, before there came to me a reason that I should serve Ina.
To you I might not return."
But the king was silent, and I thought that he was wroth, while
Owen bided yet there on his knee before him, waiting his word. And
when that came at last, it was not as I feared.
Slowly the king set forth his hand, and it shook as he did so. He
laid it on Owen's head, while the letter that was on his knees
fluttered unheeded to the floor as he bent forward and spoke
softly:
"Owen, Owen," he said, "I have forgotten nought.
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