Tidings of the blow to be struck, reaching the hearts of many families—six only at first, but with prospect of more afterwards—had spread through the tribal region. Those who had drawn the unmarked sticks hurried to their homes, not tarrying to learn who were all the unfortunates; and, although relieved for the present were in fear lest they should be unfortunate at a subsequent drawing.

All knew that Pabo was in concealment, and that his place of concealment was known to none, not even to his wife or to Howel. They had not a clue as to where he was. Some supposed that he had fled to the mountains of Brecknock, others to Cardigan; some, again, that he had attached himself to Griffith ap Rhys, who was traversing South Wales, stirring up disaffection and preparing for a general rising of the Welsh against their oppressors.

Yet hardly half a dozen men desired that he should be taken, and thus free themselves from death. The great and heroic virtue of the Celt lies in his devotion to his chief, for whom he is ready at once to lay down his life.

The hideous prospect that lay before the unfortunate people of Caio was one of illimited decimation. Would Rogier weary of his barbarous work? Would it avail to send a deputation to the bishop? It was doubtful whether the latter was not as hard of heart as his lay brother.

Gwen, the wife of Howel, was as one stunned. She leaned with both hands against the wall of her house, her head drooping between them, with dry, glazed eyes, and for long speechless.

Morwen was now in Howel's house. She had returned to it.

She was pale, and quivering with emotion under the weight of great horror, unable to speak.

Her eyes were fixed on the despairing woman, from whose lips issued a low moan, and whose bosom heaved with long-drawn, laborious breaths. Morwen was well aware what sacrifices the tribe was making and would have to make for her husband's safety, and this gave inexpressible pain to her.

The moans of the poor woman cut her to the heart. At length, unable to endure it longer, she went to her, put her arms round her, and drew her to herself. Then, all at once, with a cry, the wife of Howel shook herself free, and found words—

"Monday! It is on Monday that he must die, and that is our thirtieth wedding-day? For all these years we have been together, as one soul, and it will tear the heart out of my body—and to be hung on the gallows—the shame, the loss—and Howel so clever, so shrewd! Where has been his wit that he could not get free? He always had a cunning above other men. And on our wedding-day!" She ran to a coffer and opened it, and drew forth a knitted garment, such as we should nowadays call a jersey.

"See, see!" cried the wretched woman. "I have been fashioning this; a thought of him is knitted into every loop I have made, and I have kissed it—kissed it a thousand times because it was for him. He feels the cold in the long winters, and I made this for him that he might be warm, and wherever he was remember me, and bear my kisses and my finger-work about him. And he must die, and shiver, and be cold in the grave! Nay, shiver and be cold hanging on the gallows, and the cold winds sway him. He shall wear my knitted garment. They will let me pass to him, and I will draw it over him."

Then in at the door came the old man, who had been left when his son was taken. He was supporting that son's wife, and at the same time was carrying her child, which she was incapable of sustaining. She was frantic with grief.

"I have brought one sorrowful woman to another," said the old man. "This is Sheena. She must not see it. They are taking my son now to ——. Keep her here, she is mad. She will run there, and if she sees, she will die. For the child's sake, pity her, make her live—calm her."

She had been allowed an hour with her husband in their house, and then the soldiers had led him away, bound his hands behind his back, and had conducted him towards the church.

She had followed with the child, crying, plucking at her hair with the one free hand, thrusting from her the old man who would hold her back, striving to reach, to retain her husband, her eyes blinded with terror and tears, her limbs giving way under her.

The five men confined within the court-house heard her piercing cries, her entreaties to be allowed once more to kiss her husband, her screams as she was repulsed by the guards. They shuddered and put their hands to their ears; but one, the foxfaced man, whose name was Madoc, burst into a torrent of curses and of blasphemy till Morgan the Sacristan went to him in reproof, and then the wretched man turned on him with imprecations.

"Come now, man," said the smith, "why shouldst thou take on so frantically? We leave wives that we love and that love us; but thy old cat, good faith! I should esteem it a welcome release to be freed from her tongue and nails."

On nearing the gallows, where stood Rogier, that captain ordered the removal of Sheena; and when she saw a ladder set up against the crosspiece that sustained the bell, her cries ceased, she reeled, and would have let the child drop had not her father-in-law caught it from her.

"One kiss—one last kiss! I have forgot something to say—let him bless his child!" she entreated.

Rogier hesitated and consented, on the condition that she should then be at once removed. Thereupon the desolate woman staggered to the foot of the gallows, threw her arms round her husband's neck; and the man who acted as executioner relaxed the rope that bound his wrists, that he might bring his hands before him and lay them on his infant's head. Then the death-doomed man raised his eyes to heaven and said, "The benediction and the strength of God and the help of our fathers David and Cynwyl be with thee, my son, and when thou art a man revenge thy father and thy wronged country."

At once the cord was drawn again, and his hands rebound. The old man took his daughter-in-law in one arm whilst bearing the babe in the other, and seeing that consciousness was deserting Sheena, hurried her to the house of Howel. There, after a moment of dazed looking about her, she sank senseless on the floor.

Morwen flew to her assistance, and Howel's wife somewhat rallied from her stupefaction.

At that same moment in burst Angarad, the wife of foxfaced Madoc.

"Where is she?" she shouted, her eyes glaring, her hair bristling with rage. "She is here—she—the wife of our chief. Are we all to be dragged to the gallows because of him? Is every woman to become a widow? He call himself a priest! Why, his Master gave His life for His sheep, and he—ours—fleeth and hideth his head, whilst those whom he should guard are being torn by the wolves."

"Silence, woman!" exclaimed the old man wrathfully. "I joy that my son has given up his life to save his chief."

"But I am not content to surrender my Madoc," yelled the beldame. "Let us have the hated Saxon or the worst Norman to rule over us, rather than one who skulks and dares not show his face. My Madoc will be hung to-morrow, as they have hung Sheena's man now. I have seen it. They pulled him up."

"Be silent," shouted the old man, and tried to shut her mouth.

"I will not be silent. I saw it all. They drew him up, and then a man sprang from the ladder upon his shoulders and stamped."

A cry of agony from the wife of Howel, who flung out her hands, as before, against the wall, and stayed herself there. Sheena heard nothing—she was but returning to consciousness.

"Why do you not bring him back?" asked the hag, facing Morwen with fists clenched, fangs exposed, and eyes glaring. "Why do you keep him hidden, that we all may be widows—and you be happy with your man? What shall I do without my Madoc? Who will support me? Am I young enough to maintain myself? Is the whole tribe to be dragged down, that you and your husband may live at ease and be merry?"

"Woman," said Morwen, trembling, "I do not know where he is concealed."

"Then find him, and let him come forward to save us all. Shame, I say, shame on him!—the false shepherd—the hireling—who fleeth and careth not for the sheep!"

The rattle of arms was heard, and at the sound Morwen slipped out of the room into the inner apartment that she might not be seen.

Immediately two men-at-arms entered, leading Howel between them.

"He is granted one hour," said the man who could speak a few words of Welsh. "On Monday he dies."

"Clear the room!" said the old man; and to the soldier: "Remove this frantic woman." He indicated Angarad; and he himself, with their assistance, drew her—swearing, struggling, spluttering with rage—from the house. Sheena remained where she had been laid—as yet barely conscious. Howel's wife dropped into her husband's arms, moaning, still powerless to weep.

In the inner chamber, dimly lighted by a small window covered with bladder in place of glass, on a bed sat Morwen, with her hands clasped between her knees, looking despairingly before her. Every word of the cruel woman had cut her heart as the stab of an envenomed poignard.

Did Pabo know what was being done at Caio? No—assuredly not. She who had read his thoughts and knew his heart was well aware that he would readily die himself rather than that any of his people should suffer. He knew nothing. They, with a rare exception only, would meet their fate, the men give their necks to the halter, the women submit to be made widows rather than that their master and chief should fall into the hands of his enemies. Brave, true, faithful hearts! But was it right that they should be called on to endure such sacrifices? She shuddered. What, would she have him taken and die an ignominious death? Him whom she loved better than any one—with a one, soul-filling love? Could she endure such a sacrifice as that? Then she heard the step of Howel coming to the door.

He entered and was with her alone.

"Morwen," said he, in a low voice, "I shall be able shortly to do no more for my dear chief. Should you ever see him again, tell him from us all—all but perhaps one who is beside himself with fear—that we die willingly. But with him I can no more communicate. That must be done by you. It is expedient that he should fly farther; search will be made everywhere for him. Where he is, that I know not, though I may have my suspicion. Do this—at nightfall mount the valley of the Annell till you come to the stone of Cynwyl."

"The stone of Cynwyl," repeated Morwen mechanically.

"Take a pebble out of the brook and place it upon the rock. That will be a sign that he is not safe, and must fly to other quarters."

"What other tokens be there?"

"Two pebbles was to be the sign that all was safe and he was to return. That is not the case at this present time. Remember, then—One pebble."

"And two calls him hither?"

"Two pebbles. But remember, One only."

"Two pebbles," said Morwen, but so that none heard it: it was said to her own heart.