The rebellion extended, castle after castle fell; those of the Normans who remained maintained themselves within fortresses, like Pembroke and Aberystwyth, that could receive provisions from the sea. Powys was seething—a thrill of excitement had run through Gwynedd, and the aged King there quaked lest his people should rise, dethrone him, and call on Griffith to reign over them, and combine north and south in one against the invader.

It was in the favor of the Welsh that King Henry was out of the country. He was warring against the French King in Normandy, and the malcontents in the duchy.

In order to punish the Welsh, he had sent Owen ap Cadogan at the head of a body of men into the country. Owen was furious because the people of Cardigan had greeted Griffith as their prince. Cardigan was the kingdom to which Owen laid claim, but he had done nothing to maintain this claim against Strongbow. Yet no sooner did he hear that a cousin, Griffith ap Rhys, had been welcomed there as its deliverer and prince, than in uncontrolled rage he gathered a troop of ruffians, and aided by the men afforded him by King Henry, he invaded Dyfed, and took an oath that he would massacre every man, woman, and child he came across till he had cut his way, and left a track of blood from the Usk to the Atlantic.

Thus a Welsh prince, with a mixed host of Welshmen and English, had come among the mountains that had cradled him to exterminate those of his own blood and tongue.

The horrors he committed, his remorseless savagery, sent men and women flying before him to the wastes and heaths of the Brecknock mountains, and they carried with them the infirm and feeble, knowing well that Owen would spare neither the gray head nor the infant.

Enraged at not finding more food for his sword, he marked his onward course with flame, destroying farms and homesteads.

An appointment was made for the host of Owen, another led by Robert Consul, and the disciplined foreigners under Gerald of Windsor, who had been reinforced from the sea—to converge and unite in one great army for the chastisement of South Wales.

It so happened, while thus marching, that Owen, with about a hundred men, detached himself from the main body to fall on and butcher a party of fugitives on their way to the fastnesses of the mountains. Returning with their plunder and their blades dripping with blood, Owen and his ruffians came near to where Gerald of Windsor was on his way.

Then up flamed the rage of the baron, and he resolved on using the opportunity to discharge a personal debt of honor. It was this Owen who had penetrated as a friend into Pembroke, and had carried off Gerald's wife, Nest.

At once he turned and fell on Owen and his murderous band, cut them to pieces, and slew the man against whom he bore so bitter a grudge.

Henry had returned from Normandy; he was triumphant. Peace had been declared, and his son William had been invested with the duchy. The King hastened to Westminster as soon as he had landed, expecting his sons, William and Richard, and his daughter, Matilda, to follow him in a day or two. As he was about to embark at Barfleur, there had come to him one Thomas Fitz-Stephen, the son of the man who had conveyed the Conqueror to England. At his petition, Henry accorded him the favor of convoying the princes and the princess across the Channel in his splendid new vessel, the White Ship.

The crew, greatly elated at this honor, after having received their passengers on board, begged Prince William that he would order drink to be supplied them, and this he imprudently granted. A revel ensued, which was kept up even after the King and his fleet had put to sea. Owing to this, Henry arrived in England without the White Ship remaining in sight and forming a portion of the fleet. He was not, however, in any concern, as the sea was calm and there was little wind, and he made his way at once to Windsor.

Almost immediately on his arrival, Nest appeared before him.

The King was in a bad humor. He was vexed at his children not having arrived. He was very angry because his porcupine was dead. The servant whose duty it was to attend to the natural rarities Henry collected, assured him that this death was due to the porcupine's licking himself like a cat, to keep himself clean, and he had accidentally swallowed one of his own quills, which had transfixed his heart.

"And, Sire," said the man; "when I saw him licking himself, I blessed Heaven, as I thought it to be a token of fair weather while your Majesty was crossing the sea."

"You should not have suffered him to lick himself," said the King angrily.

"Sire, I believed he was cleaning his spines, that he might present his best appearance to your Majesty."

"Take him away!" ordered Henry, addressing a man-at-arms, "and say he is to receive fifty stripes at the pillory for his negligence. Well, what are you here for, Nest? This is a cursed bad augury on my return to find my porcupine dead and you here with a complaint."

"Sire," said the Princess, "at one time my presence was not of ill-augury to you."

"Times have changed. I am driven mad with rebellion. First in Normandy, then in Wales. One has no peace. But I have beaten down all opposition in the duchy, and now I shall turn my attention to your country. What do you want? To threaten and scold, as once before?"

"No—only to entreat."

"Oh, you women! you plead, and if you do not get what you ask, then you menace. What one of all your threats and denunciations has come true? What single one?"

"Oh, my Sovereign," said Nest, "hearken to me but this once. Now there is an occasion such as may not present itself again of pacifying Wales and making my dear people honor you and submit to your scepter."

"What is that?"

"Owen ap Cadogan is dead. He entered his native land slaying and laying waste, so that every Cymric heart trembled before him—some with fear, others with resentment. And now—he is dead, Gerald my husband, who had some wrong to redress——"

Henry burst into derisive laughter.

"Gerald killed him; and now the Welsh people hail him as having delivered them from their worst foe."

"Then let them submit."

"But, Sire and King, their wrongs are intolerable. Oh, let there be some holding of the hand. Lay not on them more burdens; meddle not further with their concerns. I speak to you now, not for the princes, but for the people."

"It is well that you speak not for the princes. The worst of all, a rebellious dragon, is your brother Griffith. Him I shall not spare."

"I speak for the people. Sire, there is one truth they have taken to heart now by the fall of Owen. It is that given in Scripture: Put not your trust in princes! Those we have known have failed; and fail they all will, because they seek their own glory, and not the welfare of the people. Our Cymri know this now. Griffith of Gwynedd and Owen of Cardigan have taught them that. Therefore, they are ready to bow under the scepter of England, if that scepter, in place of being used to stir up one prince against another, be laid on all to keep them in tranquillity. What my people seek is peace, protection, justice. Sire, you are mistaken if you believe that the Welsh people rise against the overlordship of your Crown. They rise because they can obtain no peace, no justice from the Norman adventurers sent among them, and no protection against their best lands being taken from them and given to Flemings. Sire, trust the people. Be just and generous to them. Protect them from those who would eat them up. All they rise for, fight for—are the eternal principles of justice as between man and man. Your men snatch from them their lands; their homes they are expelled from; even their churches are taken from them."

"Ah, ha, Nest! I have the sanction of Heaven there. Did not your British Church resist Augustine? Does it not now oppose our See of Canterbury? And as Heaven blesses the right and punishes the wrong, so has it marvelously interposed to silence evil tongues. When my Bernard was resisted, fire fell from heaven and consumed those who opposed him, in the sight of all men. I believe a hundred men were suddenly and instantaneously burnt."

"You heard that from Bernard."

"It has been published throughout England. I have spoken of it myself to the successor of the Apostles, to Pope Callixtus, at Rheims, and he was mightily gratified, for, said he, I ever held that British Church to be tainted with heresy. And he reminded me that when the British bishops opposed Augustine, they were massacred at Bangor. Which was very satisfactory. So now with my Bernard——"

"Bernard!" exclaimed Nest, boldly interrupting the King, "Bernard is an arch liar! Sire! a priest named Pabo struck the bishop in the mouth, and knocked out one or two of his teeth."

"I noticed this and rallied him on his whistling talk. But he said nought of the blow."

"It was so. And he pretends that Pabo was smitten by lightning for having thus struck him. But, Sire, I have seen this priest since the alleged miracle; his hair is unsinged. He has a hearty appetite, and good teeth—not one struck out by lightning—wherewith to consume his food. The smell of fire has not passed upon him."

The King broke into a roar of laughter.

"That is Bernard! Bernard to the life! A rogue in business. He cheated my Queen, and now tries to cheat me with a lie, and sets up as the favored of Heaven. You are sure of it?"

"Quite sure; Bernard endeavored to huddle the man out of the way lest the lie should be found out."

"Famous!" The King had recovered his good-humor. "And to see the solemnity and conviction of the Holy Father when he heard the story." Again he exploded into laughter. "I must go tell the Queen. It is fun, it will put her in a passion."

"And, Sire! about my people—my poor Welsh people?"

"I will see to it. I will consider—what did I hear? You have brought your young child with you?"

"Yes, Sire, he is without."

"Let me see him—has he your beauty or Gerald's ugliness?"

"Your Majesty shall judge."

Nest went towards the door, but turned. "Oh, Sire, forget not my entreaty for my people."

"Away—fetch the boy. I will think on it."

Nest left the room.

In the ante-chamber all present were in obvious consternation, pale, and dejected.

She had left her little son with a servant, and she crossed the chamber.

Then the Chancellor, who was present, came to her, drew her into the embrasure of a window, and spoke to her in awestruck tones. At his words her cheek blanched.

"None dare inform him," said the Chancellor. "We have instructed the child. Suffer him to enter alone and tell the tale."

For a moment Nest could not speak; something rose in her throat. She signed to the boy to come to her. "Do you know what to say?"

"Yes, mother; that the White Ship——"

"Cast yourself at the King's feet, tell him all; and when you have said the last words, 'The princes, thy sons, be dead; thy daughter also, she likewise is dead'—then pause and say in a loud voice, 'Remember Wales!'"

The child was dismissed. He passed behind a curtain, then through the door into the royal presence.

All without stood hushed, trembling with emotion, hardly breathing, none looking on another.

Then, in the stillness, came a loud and piercing cry; a cry that cut to the hearts of such as heard it like a stiletto.

In another moment Henry staggered forth, blanched, and as one drunk, with hands extended and lifted before his face, and in a harsh voice, like a madman's shriek, he cried: "It has come. The judgment of God! I am a dry and a branchless tree, blasted in the midst of life—blasted in the hour of victory." Then he reeled to a table, threw himself on his knees, laid his head on his hands, and burst into tears.

None moved. None ventured near him. The Bishop of London was there—but he felt that no words of his were of avail now.

So they stood hardly breathing, watching the stricken man, who quivered in the agony of his bereavement.

Presently he lifted his face—so altered as to be hardly recognizable, livid as that of a corpse, and running down with tears. He turned towards Nest and said—"Go, woman, go—it shall be as thou hast desired. I am judged."

What had occurred needs but a few words of explanation.

When the White Ship started the captain assured Prince William that such was her speed that she would overtake the King's ship, and even pass it and leave behind the royal squadron. The signal was given, and the White Ship left the harbor, impelled to her utmost speed by fifty excited rowers; but she had not proceeded far before she was driven violently against a reef, which stove in two planks of her starboard bow. Prince William was put into the boat, and was already on his way towards the land when, hearing the cries of his sister from the sinking vessel, he ordered his rowers to put back and save her. He was obeyed; but on reaching the wreck such a rush was made by the frantic passengers to enter their boat that she was swamped, and the whole crowd was swallowed in the scarcely troubled sea. William and Richard, the two sons of Henry, and their sister Matilda, and three hundred others, chiefly persons of exalted rank, perished on this occasion.

Nest returned to Wales.

She had gained all that she desired. She went at once to Dynevor. There was her brother, Griffith, who had done much to restore the ruinous castle of his fathers, the kings of Dyfed.

"Griffith," said she, "I have done what I could. For thee, free pardon and reinstatement in thy principality—yet is it not to be a kingdom, only as a great chiefdom. The King undertakes to suffer no more English or Normans to enter our country and carve out for themselves baronies therein. Nor will he send into it any more Flemings. But such as are here shall remain, and Norman, Fleming, and Welshman alike shall be under his scepter, and be justly ruled, the English by their own laws, the Welsh by those of Rhodric Dda." She looked round and saw Pabo, "and for thee—return thou to Caio and thy Archpriesthood—and to thy wife. Let Bernard look to it. The King will not forget the story of thy being consumed with fire from Heaven for having knocked out one of the bishop's teeth. And now, Griffith, give me the armlet of Maxen Wledig. We have both deserved well of our country."

THE END.