Like an explosion of fire-damp in a coal-mine—sudden, far-reaching, deadly—so was the convulsion in South Wales.

All was quiet to-day. On the morrow the whole land from the Bay of Cardigan to Morganwg, was in flames. The rising had been prepared for with the utmost caution.

The last to anticipate it were the soldiery under Rogier, who were quartered in Caio. Notwithstanding imperative orders from the bishop at Llawhaden to return to him, they had remained where they were, and had continued to conduct themselves in the same lawless manner as before. They scoffed at the tameness with which their insolence was endured.

"They are Cynwyl conies—des lapins!" they said. "Say 'Whist!' and nothing more is seen of them than their white tails as they scuttle to their burrows."

For centuries this had been an oasis of peace, unlapped by the waves of war. The very faculty of resistance was taken out of these men, who could handle a plow or brandish a shepherd's crook, but were frightened at the chime of a bowstring and the flash of a pike.

Yet, secretly, arms were being brought into the valley, and were distributed from farm to farm and from cot to cot; and the men whose wives and daughters had been dishonored, whose savings had been carried off, who had themselves been beaten and insulted, whose relatives had been hung as felons, were gripping the swords and handling the lances—eager for the signal that should set them free to fall on their tormentors. And that signal came at last.

On Christmas Eve, from the top of Pen-y-ddinas shot up a tongue of flame. At once from every mountain-side answered flashes of fire. There was light before every house, however small. The great basin of Caio was like a reversed dome of heaven studded with stars.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked Rogier, issuing from the habitation he had appropriated to himself, and looking round in amazement.

"It is the pylgain," replied his man, Pont d'Arche, who knew something of Welsh.

"Pylgain! What is that?"

"The coming in of Christmas. They salute it with lights and carols and prayers and dances."

"Methinks I can hear sounds."

"Aye! they are coming to church."

"With torches—there are many."

"They all come."

Then a man came rushing up the hill; he was breathless. On reaching where stood Rogier, he gasped: "They come—a thousand men and all armed."

"It is a river of fire."

Along the road could be seen a waving line of light, and from all sides, down the mountains ran cascades of light as well.

"There is not a man is not armed, and the women each bear a torch; they come with them—to see revenge done on us."

Then up came Cadell. He was trembling.

"Rogier," he said, "this is no pylgain for us—the whole country is stirring. The whole people is under arms, and swearing to have our blood."

"We will show these conies of Cynwyl that we are not afraid of them."

"They are no conies now, but lions. Can you stand against a thousand men? And—this is not all, I warrant. The whole of the Towy Valley, and that of the Teify, all Dyfed, maybe all Wales, is up to-night. Can you make your way through?"

Rogier uttered a curse.

"By the paunch of the Bastard. I relish not running before those conies."

"Then tarry—and they will hang you beside Cynwyl's bell, where you slung their kinsmen."

Rogier's face became mottled with mingled rage and fear.

Meanwhile his men had rallied around them, running from the several houses they were lodging in; a panic had seized them. Some, without awaiting orders, were saddling their horses.

"Hark!" shouted Rogier. "What is that?"

The river of light had become a river of song. The thunder of the voices of men and the clear tones of the women combined. And from every rill of light that descended from the heights to swell the advancing current, came the strain as well.

"They have come caroling," said Rogier disdainfully.

"Carol, call you this?" exclaimed Cadell. "It is the war-song of the sons of David. 'Let God arise, and let His enemies be scattered: let them also that hate Him, flee before Him. Like as the smoke vanisheth, so shalt Thou drive them away: and like as wax melteth at the fire, so let the ungodly perish——'"

"I will hear no more," said Rogier. "Mount! And Heaven grant us a day when we may revenge this."

"I will go too," said Cadell. "Here I dare not remain."

Before the advancing river of men arrived at the crossing of the Annell, the entire band of the Normans had fled—not one was left.

Then up the ascent came the procession.

First went the staff of Cynwyl, not now in its gold and gem-encrusted shrine, but removed from it—a plain, rough, ashen stick, borne aloft by Morgan ap Seyssult, its hereditary guardian, and behind him came Meredith, with his two attendant bards, all with their harps, striking them as the multitude intoned the battle-song that for five hundred years had not sounded within the sanctuary of David. The women bore torches aloft, the men marched four in breast, all armed and with stern faces, and Pabo was there—and led them.

The Archpriest, on reaching the church, mounted a block of stone, and dismissed the women. Let them return to their homes. A panic had fallen on those who had molested them, and they had fled. The work was but begun, and the men alone could carry it on to the end.

Rogier and his men did not draw rein till they had reached the Ystrad Towy, the broad valley through which flowed the drainage of the Brecknock Mountains. And there they saw that on all sides beacons were kindled; in every hamlet resounded the noise of arms. At Llandeilo they threw themselves into Dynevor, which had but a slender garrison. But there they would not stay; and, avoiding such places as were centers of gathering to the roused natives, they made for Carmarthen.

The castle there was deemed impregnable. It was held mainly by Welsh mercenaries in the service of Gerald of Windsor. Rogier mistrusted them; he would not remain there, for he heard that Griffith ap Rhys, at the head of large bodies of insurgents, was marching upon Carmarthen.

Next day the brother of the bishop was again on the move with his men by daybreak, and passed into the Cleddau Valley, making for Llawhaden.

In the meantime the men of Caio were on the march. None were left behind save the very old and the very young and the women.

They marched four abreast, with the staff of Cynwyl borne before them. Now the vanguard thundered the battle-song of David, "Cyfoded Duw, gwasgarer ei elynion: affÖed ei gaseion o'i flaen ef."

They sang, then ceased, and the rear-guard took up the chant: "When thou wentest forth before the people; when thou wentest through the wilderness, the earth shook and the heavens dropped." They sang on and ceased. Thereupon again the vanguard took up the strain, "Kings with their armies did flee, and were discomfited; and they of the household divided the spoil."

Thus chanting alternately, they marched through the passage among the mountains threaded by the Sarn Helen, and before the people went Pabo, wearing the bracelet of Maximus, the Roman Emperor, who took to wife that Helen who had made the road, and who was of the royal British race of Cunedda.

So they marched on—following the same course as that by which the Norman cavalcade had preceded them. And this was the Pylgain in Dyfed in the year 1115.

The host came out between the portals of the hills at Llanwrda, and turned about and descended the Ystrad Towy, by the right bank of the river; and the daybreak of Christmas saw them opposite Llangadock. The gray light spread from behind the mighty ridge of Trichrug, and revealed the great fortified, lonely camp of Carn GÔch towering up, with its mighty walls of stone and the huge cairn that occupied the highest point within the enclosure.

They halted for a while, but for a while only, and then thrust along in the same order, and with the same resolution, intoning the same chant on their way to Llandeilo. There they tarried for the night, and every house was opened to them, and on every hearth there was a girdle-cake for them.

On the morrow the whole body was again on the march. Meanwhile, the garrison had fled from Dynevor to Careg Cennen, and the men of Ystrad Towy were camped against that fortress, from which, on the news of the revolt, Gerald had escaped to Carmarthen.

By the time the men of Caio were within sight of this latter place, it was in flames.

And tidings came from Cardigan. The people there had with one acclaim declared that they would have Griffith as their prince, and were besieging Strongbow's castle of Blaen-Porth.

But the men of Caio did not tarry at Carmarthen to assist in the taking of the castle. Only there did Pabo surrender the bracelet of Maxen to the Prince, with the message from his sister.

They pushed on their way.

Whither were they bound? Slowly, steadily, resolvedly on the track of those men who had outraced them to their place of retreat and defense, the bishop's Castle of Llawhaden.

Now when Bernard heard that all Caio was on the march, and came on unswervingly towards where he was behind strong walls and defended by mighty towers, then his heart failed him. He bade Rogier hold out, but for himself he mounted his mule, rode to Tenby Castle; nor rested there, but took ship and crossed the mouth of the Severn estuary to Bristol, whence he hasted to London, to lay the tidings before the King. And with him went Cadell, the Chaplain.

It was evening when the host of Caio reached Llawhaden, and Rogier from the walls heard the chant of the war-psalm. "God shall wound the head of his enemies: and the hairy scalp of such a one as goeth on still in his wickedness ... that thy foot may be dipped in the blood of thine enemies: and that the tongue of thy dogs may be red through the same."

He shuddered—a premonition of evil.

Pabo would have dissuaded his men from an immediate assault; but they were not weary, they were eager for the fray. They had cut down and were bearing fagots of wood, and carried huge bundles of fern. Some fagots went into the moat, others were heaped against the gates. The episcopal barns were broken into, and all the straw brought forth.

Then flame was applied, and the draught carried the fire with a roar within.

By break of day Llawhaden Castle was in the hands of the men of Caio. They chased its garrison from every wall of defense; they were asked for, they gave no quarter. Those who had so long tyrannized over them lay in the galleries, slain with the sword, or thrust through with spears. Only Rogier, hung by the neck, dangled from a beam thrust through an upper window.