"If my song goeth not smoothly in the British tongue, Prince,
forgive me. I can but do my best. Truly, I have even now asked my
neighbour, Father Morfed, if it is fairly rendered, but I have not
had his answer yet."
He ran his hand over the already tuned strings, and lifted his
voice and began. It was not the first time that he had handled a
British harp, by any means, but if he played well he sang better. I
do not think that one need want to hear a finer voice than his; and
though he had seen fit to doubt his powers, his Welsh was as good
as mine, and maybe, by reason of constant use, far more easy.
And next moment I knew that he was going to sing nothing more or
less than of King Ina's Yule feast, and what happened thereat. He
had promised to tell the princess the story, and this was her
doing, of course. I could not stop him, and there I must sit and
listen to as highly coloured a tale as a poet could make of it.
Once he saw that I was growing red, and he grinned gently at me
across the harp, and worked up the struggle still more terribly.
And all the while Morfed the priest glowered at me, until at length
he rose and left the room.
I was glad enough when Thorgils ended that song, but Nona must ask
him for yet another, and that pleased him, of course, and he began
once more.
Pages:
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211