"Look you, Saxon," he said, lifting his eyes to me; "now I must
die, and with me ends the line of the Druids of this land of the
olden faith. Yonder in the Cymric land beyond the narrow sea whence
Howel came it shall not be lost. The hills shall keep it, and there
the slow mind of the Saxon shall not slay the old powers as you
have slain them in me. Now I know that nought but the power of the
cross shall avail on such minds as yours, for the lore of the older
days is not for you. See! This is an end, and now you in your
simpleness shall do one last thing for me."
I saw that the hand which yet rested on the altar was swelling
already, and was waxing fiery red with four black marks where the
fangs struck it. And I had a sort of pity for him, seeing him bear
this, which he deemed his punishment, bravely. Still, he had
answered nothing as to where Owen was.
"Morfed," I said, therefore--"if it is indeed the last hour for
you, make amends for another ill by telling me where Owen is, and I
will do what you ask me, if it is what I may do honestly and as a
Christian."
"Grave me a cross on yonder menhir in token that the days of the
Druid are numbered," he said softly, sitting down on the stone with
his head bowed, as if in deadly faintness.
Two steps took me to the menhir, and I drew my seax that I might do
as he asked me.
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