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Whistler, Charles W. (Charles Watts), 1856-1913

"A Prince of Cornwall A Story of Glastonbury and the West in the Days of Ina of Wessex"

All the tongue itself has sheer rock faces to the
water, and none might hope to scale them. They and the wall across
the one way from the mainland, as one may call it, make Howel's
home sure, and since the coming of the Danes into the land he had
strengthened what had fallen somewhat into decay in the long years
of peace that had passed.
We had never reached Dyfed, either from land or sea. So I saw hawks
and hounds, stables and guardrooms and all else, and at last we
walked on the terraced edge of the cliffs in the southern sun, and
there a man came and said that Thorgils the Norseman had come.
"Oh," said Nona with a little laugh, "he knows not that you are
here! Let us see his face when he meets you!"
"The prince is busy," said the servant. "Is it your will that the
stranger should be brought here?"
"Yes, bring him. Tell him that I would speak with him, but say
nought of any other."
The man bowed and went his way, and the princess turned to me with
a new look of amusement on her face.
"Pull that cloak round you, Thane, and pay no heed to him when he
comes; we may have sport."
They had given me a long Welsh cloak of crimson, fur bordered, and
a cap to wear with it instead of my helm. And of course I had not
on my mail, though Ina's sword was at my side, and Gerent's
bracelet on my arm, setting off a strange medley of black-and-blue
bruises and red chafed places from the cords, moreover.


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