It was a vision of a place, and no more, though it was
a place the like of which I had never seen.
I seemed to stand in a deep hollow in wild hills, and round me
closed high cliffs that shut out all but the sky, so that they
surrounded a lawn of fair turf, boulder strewn here and there, and
bright with greener patches that told of bog beneath the grass. In
the very midst of this lawn was a round pool of black, still water,
and across on the far side of that was set a menhir, one of those
tall standing stones that forgotten men of old were wont to rear
for rites that are past. It was on the very edge of the pool, as it
seemed, and was taller than any I had seen on our hills.
And when in my dream I had seen this strange place, always I woke
with the voice of Owen in my ears calling me. That was the thing
which made me uneasy more than that a dream should come often.
Three times that dream and voice came to me, but I said nought of
it to any man. Then one day into the courtyard of the king's hall
rode men in haste from the westward, and when I was called out to
meet them the first man on whom my eyes rested was Jago of Norton,
and my heart fell. Dusty and stained he was with riding, and his
face was worn and hard, as with trouble, and he had no smile for
me.
"What news, friend?" I said, coming close to him as he dismounted.
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