Then a word from Morfed caused the other two to turn, and they saw
us, and there flashed from under their robes--which were like those
of their leader, save for golden ornaments--a long knife in the
hand of each, and they made as if to fly on us.
Morfed held up his hand, and they stayed, glaring at us. I listened
for the coming of more of his followers down the water course, but
I heard none.
Then Morfed spoke a word or two to his men, and came toward us,
leaving them standing where they were, some twenty paces or less
behind him, and as he came his pale face shewed no sort of feeling
of any kind. His strange bright eyes seemed to look past us, as if
we were but stones at the path side.
"So it is the Saxon," he said, staying close before us. "Well, I
have waited for you, if I did not look to see you here. And this is
Howel of Dyfed. Surely a Briton knows that to break in on the rites
of the Druid is death? But Howel ever was rash. And this is the
outlaw. It is a true saying that he who sees this place shall die,
Evan."
Then said Howel boldly: "Briton I am, and therefore I know that the
rites of the Druid are banned by Holy Church. Wherefore does one of
her priests come in this heathen robe to such a place as this on
the eve of midsummer?"
"Seeing that none but the initiated may know what truth the ancient
faith holds, it is not for you to say that this is heathenry,
Prince," Morfed answered more quietly than I expected.
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