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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"


"Why should I not speak," he said dully. "Let me end quickly. Ay, I
went with them, thinking that he would die on the way, for he was
sorely wounded, and I mocked them and threatened them in vain. I
led them to this place, and when they knew it they fled, and left
him to me. Wherefore I brought him here, that I might see him
die--I and these two carried him on the litter the men made. Then
will I bury him in no hallowed grave, for I myself spoke the
uttermost ban of Holy Church against him, for that he had herded
with the men of the Saxons who follow Canterbury, and has wrought
for peace with them."
Then I knew at last that Owen was not dead, and I think that in my
gladness I lost my hold on Morfed, as it were, for I half forgot
him. And at that moment there came a little cry from one of the men
who waited by the flat altar stone, and both of them looked to
Morfed for some command, as if a time had come. The stone was in
full light now, and I noted that the shadow of the menhir was
creeping toward its base, but not yet quite pointing to it.
But Morfed did not answer the cry, and the great adder, roused by
it, moved restlessly in its coils, darting its long forked tongue
into the hollow of the stone as if it sought somewhat. Then one of
the men who seemed the younger took from under his robe a golden
flask and poured what looked like milk into the hollow, and the
creature lowered its head and lapped it thence.


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