They seemed an
ill-assorted pair, but Thorgils was plainly trying to be friendly
with every one in reach of him, and soon I forgot him in the
pleasantness of all that went on at our table.
However, by and by Howel said to Nona suddenly, in a low voice:
"Look yonder at the Norseman. He must be talking heathenry to yon
priest, for the good man seems well-nigh wild. What can we do?"
Truly, the face of Morfed was black as thunder, while that of the
Norseman was shining with delight in some long-winded story he was
telling. The white-robed servants were clearing the tables at this
moment, and the prince's bard, a fine old harper with golden collar
and chain, was tuning his little gilded harp as if the time for
song had come.
"Make him sing," said Nona. "I bade him here tonight that he might
do so. He has some wondrous tale to tell us."
Howel beckoned to the harper, and signed to him, and the old man
rose at once and went to Thorgils. It was not the first time that
he had sung here, it was plain. Then I noted that the priest was
scowling fiercely at myself, and I wondered idly why. I supposed,
so far as I troubled to think thereof that he was one of those who
hated the very name of Saxon.
Now Thorgils took the harp without demur, smiling at the bard in
thanks, and so came forward into the space round which the tables
were set, while a silence fell on the company.
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