Howel the Tall walked slowly to the presbytery, the house of Pabo, that was soon to be his no longer. The tidings that an armed body of men was on its way into the peaceful valley—whose peace was to be forever broken up, so it seemed—had produced a profound agitation. Every one was occupied: some removing their goods, and themselves preparing to retire to the hovel on the summer pastures; those who had no hafod to receive them were concealing their little treasures.

A poor peasant was entreating a well-to-do farmer to take with him his daughter, a young and lovely girl, for whom he feared when the lawless servants of the bishop entered Caio.

But all could not take refuge in the mountains, even if they had places there to which to retire. There were their cattle to be attended to in the valley; the grass on the heights was burnt, and would not shoot again till spring. The equinoctial gales were due, and rarely failed to keep their appointments. There were mothers expecting additions to their families, and little children who could not be exposed to the privations and cold of the uplands. There were no stores on the mountains; hay and corn were stacked by the homes in the valley.

Some said, "What more can these strangers do than they have done? Do they come, indeed, to thrust on us a new pastor? They will not drive us with their pikes into church to hear what he has to say! They are not bringing with them a batch of Flemings to occupy our farms and take from us our corn-land and pasture! The Norman is no peaceful agriculturist, and he must live; therefore he will let the native work on, that he may eat out of his hands." And, again, others said: "There will be time enough to escape when they flourish their swords in our faces." But even such as resolved to remain concealed their valuables.

The basin of the sanctuary was extensive; it was some seven miles long and five at its widest, but along the slopes of the hills that broke the evenness of its bottom and on the side of the continuous mountains were scattered numerous habitations. And it would be an easy matter for those on high ground commanding the roads to take to flight when the men-at-arms were observed to be coming their way.

Howel entered the presbytery.

Like every other house in Wales, excepting those of the great princes, it comprised but two chambers—that which served as hall and kitchen, into which the door opened, and the bed-chamber on one side. There was no upper story; its consequence as the residence of the chief was indicated by a detached structure, like a barn, that served as banqueting-hall on festive occasions, and where, indeed, all such as came on Sundays from distances tarried and ate after divine service, and awaited the vespers which were performed early in the afternoon. There were stables, also, to accommodate the horses of those who came to church, or to pay their respects, and to feast with their chief.

With the exception of these disconnected buildings, the house presented the character of a Welsh cottage of the day in which we live. It was deficient in attempt at ornament, and, unlike a medieval edifice of the rest of Europe, lacked picturesqueness. At the present, a Welsh cottage or farmhouse is, indeed, of stone, and is ugly.

Although the presbytery was lacking in beauty, of outline and detail, it was convenient as a dwelling. As Howel entered, he saw that the body of the hermit still lay exposed, preparatory to burial, with the candles burning at its head. But Morwen was the sole person in attendance on it, as the professional wailer had decamped to secrete the few coins she possessed, and, above all, to convey to and place under the protection of the Church a side of bacon, the half of a pig, on which she calculated to subsist during the winter.

By the side of the fire sat a lean, sharp-featured boy, with high cheek-bones; a lad uncouth in appearance, for one shoulder was higher than the other.

He stirred the logs with his foot, and when he found one that was burnt through, stooped, separated the ends, and reversed them in the fire.

This was Goronwy Cam, kinsman of Pabo, the son of the late Archpriest, who had been passed over for the chieftainship, partly on account of his youth, mainly because of his deformity, which disqualified him for the ecclesiastical state.

He lived in the presbytery with his cousin, was kindly, affectionately treated by him, and was not a little humored by Morwen, who pitied his condition, forgave his perversity of temper, and was too familiar with ill-humors, experienced during her mother's life, to resent his outbreaks of petulance.

"Go forth, Goronwy," said Howel. "Bid Morgan see that the grave for our dead saint be made ready. They are like to forget their duties to the dead in their care for themselves. Bid him expedite the work of the sexton."

"Why should I go? I am engaged here."

"Engaged in doing nothing. Go at once and speak with Morgan. Time presses too hard for empty civilities."

"You have no right to order me, none to send me from this house."

"I have a right in an emergency to see that all be done that is requisite for the good of the living, and for the repose of the dead. Do you not know, boy, that the enemy are on their way hither, and that when they arrive you will no further have this as your home?"

"Goronwy, be kind and do as desired," said Morwen.

The young man left, muttering. He looked but a boy; he was in fact a man.

When he had passed beyond earshot, Morwen said, "Do not be short with the lad; he has much to bear, his infirmities of body are ever present to his mind, and he can ill endure the thought that but for them he would have been chief in Caio."

"I have not come hither to discuss Goronwy and his sour humors," said Howel; "but to announce to you that Pabo is gone."

"Whither?"

"That I do not know."

"For how long?"

"That also I cannot say."

"Is he in danger?" Morwen's color fled, and she put her hand to her bosom.

"At present he is in none; for how long he will be free I cannot say, and something depends on you."

"On me! I will do anything, everything for him."

"To-morrow the sleuth-hounds will be after him: his safety lies in remaining hid."

"But why has he not come to me and told me so?"

"Because it is best that you know nothing, not even the direction he has taken in his flight. Be not afraid—he is safe so long as he remains concealed. As for you and that boy, ye shall both come to my house, for to-morrow he will be here who will claim this as his own. The bishop who has stepped into David's seat has sent him to dispossess our Archpriest of all his rights, and to transfer them to Cadell, his chaplain."

"But it is not possible. He does not belong to the tribe."

"What care these aliens about our rights and our liberties? With the mailed fists they beat down all law."

"And he will take from us our house?"

"If you suffer him."

"How can I, a poor woman, resist?"

"I do not ask you to resist."

"Then what do you require of me?"

"Leave him no house into which to step and which he may call his own."

"I understand you not."

"Morwen, say farewell you must to these walls—this roof. It will dishonor them to become the shelter of the renegade, after it has been the home of such as you and Pabo, and the Archpriests of our race and tribe for generations—aye, and after it has been consecrated by the body of this saint." He indicated the dead hermit.

"But again I say, I do not understand. What would you have me do?"

"Do this, Morwen." Howel dropped his voice and drew nearer to her. He laid hold of her wrist. "Set fire to the presbytery. The wind is from the east; it will cause the hall to blaze also."

She looked at him in dismay and doubt.

"To me, and away from this, thou must come, and that boy with thee. Thou wouldest not have Pabo taken from thee and given to some Saxon woman. So, suffer not this house that thou art deprived of to become the habitation of another—one false to his blood and to his duties."

"I cannot," she said, and looked about her at the walls, at every object against them, at the hearth, endeared to her by many ties. "I cannot—I cannot," and then: "Indeed I cannot with him here,"—and she indicated the corpse.

"It is with him here that the house must burn," said Howel.

"Burn the hermit—the man of God!"

"It would be his will, could he speak," said Howel. "He, throughout his life, gave his body to harsh treatment and treated it as the enemy of his soul. Now out of Heaven he looks down and bids you—he as a saint in light—do this thing. He withholds not his cast-off tabernacle, if thereby he may profit some."

"Nay, let him be honorably buried, and then, if thou desirest it, let the house blaze."

"It must be, Morwen, as I say. Hearken to me. When they come to-morrow they will find the presbytery destroyed by fire, and we will say that the Archpriest has perished in it."

"But they will know it is not so. See his snowy beard!"

"Will the flames spare those white hairs?"

"Yet all know—all in Caio."

"And I can trust them all. When the oppressor is strong the weak must be subtle. Aye, and they will be as one man to deceive him, for they hate him, and they love their true priest."

"I cannot do it."

"It may be that the truth will come out in a week, a month—I cannot say; but time will be gained for Pabo to escape, and every day is of importance."

"If it must be—but, O Howel, it is hard, and it seemeth to me unrighteous."

"It is no unrighteousness to do that which must be."

"And it must?"

"Morwen, you shall not lay the fire. I will do it—but done it must be."