Robert Michael Ballantyne
The Hot Swamp
Chapter Thirty Four
Bladud’s Return and Trials
We need scarcely say that there was joy at the court of King Hudibras when Bladud returned home, cured of his terrible disease.
The first person whom the prince hurried off to visit, after seeing his father, and embracing his mother and sister, was the northern chief Gadarn. That jovial character was enjoying a siesta after the mid-day meal at the time, but willingly arose on the prince being announced.
“Glad to see you, Gadarn,” said Bladud, entering the room that had been apportioned to the chief, and sitting down on a bench for visitors, which, according to custom, stood against the inner wall of the apartment. “I hope your head is clear and your arm strong.”
“Both are as they should be,” answered Gadarn, returning the salutation.
“I thank you,” replied the prince, “my arm is indeed strong, but my head is not quite as clear as it might be.”
“Love got anything to do with it?” asked Gadarn, with a knowing look.
“Not the love of woman, if that is what you mean.”
“Truly that is what I do mean—though, of course, I admit that one’s horses and dogs have also a claim on our affections. What is it that troubles you, my son?”
The affectionate conclusion of this reply, and the chief’s manner, drew the prince towards him, so that he became confidential.
“The truth is, Gadarn, that I am very anxious to know what news you have of Cormac—for the fate of that poor boy hangs heavy on my mind. Indeed, I should have refused to quit the Swamp, in spite of the king’s commands and my mother’s entreaties, if you had not sent that message by the Hebrew.”
“Ah, Bladud, my young friend, that is an undutiful speech for a son to make about his parents,” said the chief, holding up a remonstrative forefinger. “If that is the way you treat your natural parents, how can I expect that—that—I mean—”
Here the chief was seized with a fit of sneezing, so violent, that it made the prince quite concerned about the safety of his nose.
“Ha!” exclaimed Gadarn, as a final wind up to the last sneeze, “the air of that Swamp seems to have been too strong for me. I’m growing old, you see. Well—what was I saying?—never mind. You were referring to that poor lad Cormac. Yes, I have news of him.”
“Good news, I hope?” said the prince, anxiously. “O yes—very good—excellent! That is to say—rather—somewhat indefinite news, for—for the person who saw him told me—in fact, it is difficult to explain, because people are often untrustworthy, and exaggerate reports, so that it is not easy to make out what is true and what is false, or whether both accounts may be true, or the whole thing false altogether. You see, Bladud, our poor brains,” continued the chief, in an argumentative tone, “are so—so—queerly mixed up that one cannot tell—tell—why, there was once a fellow in my army, whose manner of reporting any event, no matter how simple, was so incomprehensible that it was impossible to—to—but let me tell you an anecdote about him. His name was—”
“Forgive my interrupting you, chief, but I am so anxious to hear something about my lost friend that—”
“Ha! Bladud, I fear that you are a selfish man, for you have not yet asked about my lost daughter.”
“Indeed I am not by any means indifferent about her; but—but, you know, I have never seen her, and, to tell the plain truth, my anxiety about the boy drove her out of my mind for the moment. Have you found her?”
“Ay, that I have; as well and hearty as ever she was, though somewhat more beautiful and a trifle more mischievous. But I will introduce her to you to-morrow. There is to be a grand feast, is there not, at the palace?”
“Yes; something of the sort, I believe, in honour of my return,” answered the prince, a good deal annoyed by the turn the conversation had taken.
“Well, then, you shall see her then; for she has only just arrived, and is too tired to see any one,” continued Gadarn, with a suppressed yawn; “and you’ll be sure to fall in love with her; but you had better not, for her affections are already engaged. I give you fair warning, so be on your guard.”
The prince laughed, and assured his friend that there was no fear, as he had seen thousands of fair girls both in East and West, but his heart had never yet been touched by one of them.
At this the chief laughed loudly, and assured Bladud that his case had now reached a critical stage: for when young men made statements of that kind, they were always on the point of being conquered.
“But leave me now, Bladud,” he continued, with a yawn so vast that the regions around the uvula were clearly visible; “I’m frightfully sleepy, and you know you have shortened my nap this afternoon.”
The prince rose at once.
“At all events,” he said, “I am to understand, before I go, that Cormac has been seen?”
“O yes! Certainly; no doubt about that!”
“And is well?”
“Quite well.”
Fain to be content with this in the meantime, Bladud hurried to the apartment of his sister.
“Hafrydda!” he exclaimed, “has Gadarn gone out of his mind?”
“I believe not,” she replied, sitting down beside her brother and taking his hand. “Why do you ask?”
“Because he talks—I say it with all respect—like an idiot.”
Hafrydda laughed; and her brother thereupon gave her a full account of the recent interview.
“Now, my sister, you were always straightforward and wise. Give me a clear answer. Has Cormac been found?”
“No, he has not been found; but—”
“Then,” interrupted Bladud, in a savage tone that was very foreign to his nature, “Gadarn is a liar!”
“Oh, brother! say not so.”
“How can I help it? He gave me to understand that Cormac has been found—at least, well, no, not exactly found, but seen and heard of. I’m no better than the rest of you,” continued Bladud, with a sarcastic laugh. “It seems as if there were something in the air just now which prevents us all from expressing ourselves plainly.”
“Well, then, brother,” said Hafrydda, with a smile, “if he told you that Cormac has been seen and heard of, and is well, surely that may relieve your mind till to-morrow, when I know that some one who knows all about the boy is to be at our festival. We begin it with games, as usual. Shall you be there?”
“I’d rather not,” replied the prince almost testily; “but, of course, it would be ungracious not to appear. This, however, I do know, that I shall take no part in the sports.”
“As you please, brother. We are only too glad to have you home again, to care much about that. But, now, I have something of importance to tell you about myself.”
Bladud was interested immediately; and for the moment forgot his own troubles as he gazed inquiringly into the fair countenance of the princess.
“I am going to wed, brother.”
“Indeed! You do not surprise me, though you alarm me—I know not why. Who is the man?—not Gunrig, I hope.”
“Alas! no. Poor Gunrig is dead.”
“Dead! Ah, poor man! I am glad we met at the Swamp.”
Bladud looked sad for a moment, but did not seem unduly oppressed by the news.
“The man who has asked me to wed is your friend Dromas.”
“What!” exclaimed the prince, in blazing surprise, not unmingled with delight. “The man has been here only a few hours! He must have been very prompt!”
“It does not take many hours to ask a girl to wed; and I like a prompt man,” returned the princess, looking pensively at the floor.
“But tell me, how came it all about? How did he manage it in so short a time?”
“Well, brother dear—but you’ll never tell any one, will you?”
“Never—never!”
“Well, you must know, when we first met, we—we—”
“Fell in love. Poor helpless things!”
“Just so, brother; we fell, somehow in—whatever it was; and he told me with his eyes—and—and—I told him with mine. Then he went off to find you; and came back, having found you—for which I was very grateful. Then he went to father and asked leave to speak to me. Then he went to mother. What they said I do not know; but he came straight to me, took my hand, fixed his piercing black eyes on me, and said, ‘Hafrydda, I love you.’”
“Was that all?” asked Bladud.
“Yes; that was all he said; but—but that was not the end of the interview! It would probably have lasted till now, if you had not interrupted us.”
“I’m so very sorry, sister, but of course I did not know that—”
They were interrupted at that moment by the servitor, to whom the reader has already been introduced. He entered with a brightly intelligent grin on his expressive face, but, on beholding Bladud, suddenly elongated his countenance into blank stupidity.
“The old woman waits outside, princess.”
“Oh, send her here at once.” (Then, when the servitor had left.) “This is the person I mentioned who knows about Cormac.”
Another moment and the little old woman in the grey shawl was ushered in. She started visibly on beholding Bladud.
“Come in, granny. I did not expect you till to-morrow.”
“I thought I was to see you alone,” said the old woman, testily, in her hard, metallic voice.
“That is true, granny, but I thought you might like to see my brother Bladud, who has just returned home safe and well.”
“No, I don’t want to see your brother. What do I care for people’s brothers? I want to see yourself, alone.”
“Let me congratulate you, at all events,” interposed the prince, kindly, “on your having recovered your hearing, grannie. This is not the first time we have met, Hafrydda, but I grieve to see that my old friend’s nerves are not so strong as they used to be. You tremble a good deal.”
“Yes, I tremble more than I like,” returned the old woman peevishly, “and, perhaps, when you come to my age, young man, and have got the palsy, you’ll tremble more than I do.”
“Nay, be not angry with me. I meant not to hurt your feelings; and since you wish to be alone with my sister, I will leave you.”
When he was gone Branwen threw back the grey shawl and stood up with flashing, tearful eyes.
“Was it kind—was it wise, Hafrydda, to cause me to run so great a risk of being discovered?”
“Forgive me, dear Branwen, I did not mean to do it, but you arrived unexpectedly, and I let you come in without thinking. Besides, I knew you could easily deceive him. Nobody could guess it was you—not even your own mother.”
“There must be some truth in that,” returned the maiden, quickly changing her mood, and laughing, “for I deceived my own father yesterday. At the Swamp he found me out at once as Cormac, for I had to speak in my natural voice, and my full face was exposed; but the grey shawl and the metallic voice were too much for him. Dear, good, patient, old man, you have no notion what a fearful amount of abuse he took from me, without losing temper—and I gave him some awful home-thrusts too! I felt almost tempted to kiss him and beg his pardon. But now, Hafrydda, I am beginning to be afraid of what all this deceiving and playing the double-face will come to. And I’m ashamed of it too—I really am. What will Bladud think of me when he finds out? Won’t he despise and hate me?”
“Indeed he will not. I know his nature well,” returned the princess, kissing, and trying to reassure her friend, whose timid look and tearful eyes seemed to indicate that all her self-confidence and courage were vanishing. “He loves you already, and love is a preventive of hate as well as a sovereign remedy for it.”
“Ay, he is fond of Cormac, I know, but that is a very different thing from loving Branwen! However, to-morrow will tell. If he cares only for the boy and does not love the girl, I shall return with my father to the far north, and you will never see Branwen more.”
Chapter Thirty Five
The Plot Thickens
During the residence of Gadarn at the court of King Hudibras, that wily northern chief had led the king to understand that one of his lieutenants had at last discovered his daughter Branwen in the hands of a band of robbers, from whom he had rescued her, and that he expected her arrival daily.
“But what made the poor child run away?” asked the king at one of his interviews with his friend. “We were all very fond of her, and she of us, I have good reason to believe.”
“I have been told,” replied the chief, “that it was the fear of Gunrig.”
“Gunrig! Why, the man was to wed my daughter. She had no need to fear him.”
“That may be so, but I know—though it is not easy to remember how I came to know it—that Gunrig had been insolent enough to make up to her, after he was defeated by Bladud, and she was so afraid of him that she ran away, and thus fell into the hands of robbers.”
While the chief was speaking, Hudibras clenched his hands and glared fiercely.
“Dared he to think of another girl when he was engaged to my daughter!” he said between his teeth. “It is well that Gunrig is dead, for assuredly I would have killed him.”
“It is well indeed,” returned Gadarn, “for if your killing had not been sufficient, I would have made it more effectual. But he is out of the way now, so we may dismiss him.”
“True—and when may we expect Branwen back again, poor child?” asked the king.
“In a day or two at latest. From what was told me by the runner who was sent on in advance, it is possible that she may be here to-morrow, in time for the sports.”
The wily chief had settled it in his own mind that Branwen should arrive exactly at the time when there was to be a presentation of chiefs; which ceremony was to take place just before the commencement of the sports. This arrangement he had come to in concert with a little old woman in a grey shawl, who paid him a private visit daily.
“Do you know, Gadarn, who this youth Cormac is, whom Bladud raves so much about?”
The northern chief was seized at that moment with one of those violent fits of sneezing to which of late he had become unpleasantly subject.
“Oh! ye—ye—y–ha! yes;—excuse me, king, but since I went to that Hot Swamp, something seems to have gone wrong wi’—wi’—ha! my nose.”
“Something will go worse wrong with it, chief, if you go on like that. I thought the last one must have split it. Well, what know you about Cormac?”
“That he appears to be a very good fellow. I can say nothing more about him than that, except that your son seems to think he owes his life to his good nursing at a critical point in his illness.”
“I know that well enough,” returned the king, “for Bladud has impressed it on me at least a dozen times. He seems to be very grateful. Indeed so am I, and it would please me much if I had an opportunity of showing my gratitude to the lad. Think you that there is any chance of finding out where he has disappeared to?”
“Not the least chance in the world.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the king in surprise. “That is strange, for Bladud, who has just left me, says that he has the best of reasons for believing that we shall have certain news of him tomorrow. But go, Gadarn, and consult my doctor about this complaint of yours, which interrupts conversation so awkwardly. We can resume our talk at some other time.”
Gadarn obediently went, holding his sides as if in agony, and sneezing in a manner that caused the roof-tree of the palace to vibrate.
Returning to his own room he found the little old woman in grey awaiting him.
“You’ve been laughing again, father,” she said. “I see by the purpleness of your face. You’ll burst yourself at last if you go on so.”
“Oh! you little old hag—oh! Cormac—oh! Branwen, I hope you won’t be the death of me,” cried the chief, flinging his huge limbs on a couch and giving way to unrestrained laughter, till the tears ran down his cheeks. “If they did not all look so grave when speaking about you, it wouldn’t be so hard to bear. It’s the gravity that kills me. But come, Branwen,” he added, as he suddenly checked himself and took her hand, “what makes you look so anxious, my child?”
“Because I feel frightened, and ashamed, and miserable,” she answered, with no symptom of her sire’s hilarity. “I doubt if I should have followed Bladud—but if I had not he would have died—and I don’t like to think of all the deceptions I have been practising—though I couldn’t very well help it—could I? Then I fear that Bladud will forget Cormac when he learns to despise Branwen—”
“Despise Branwen!” shouted Gadarn, fiercely, as his hand involuntarily grasped the hilt of his sword. “If he did, I would cleave him from his skull to his waist—”
“Quiet you, my sweet father,” said Branwen, with a little smile, “you know that two can play at that game, and that you have a skull and a waist as well as Bladud—though your waist is a good deal thicker than his. I’m not so sure about the skull!”
“I accept your reproof, child, for boastfulness is hateful in a warrior. But get up, my love. What would happen if some one came into the room and found a little old hag sitting on my knee with her arm around my neck?”
“Ah, true, father. I did not think of that. I’m rather given to not thinking of some things. Perhaps that inquisitive servitor may be—no, he’s not there this time,” said Branwen, reclosing the door and sitting down on a stool beside the chief. “Now come, father, and learn your lesson.”
Gadarn folded his hands and looked at his child with an air of meek humility.
“Well?”
“Well, first of all, you must tell the king tomorrow, at the right time, that I have just come back, and am very tired and shall not appear till you take me to him while the other people are being presented. Then you will lead me forward and announce me with a loud voice, so that no one shall fail to hear that I am Branwen, your daughter, you understand? Now, mind you speak well out.”
“I understand—with a shout, something like my battle-cry!”
“Not exactly so loud as that, but so as Bladud shall be sure to hear you; and he will probably be near to his father at the time.”
“Just so. What next?”
“Oh, that’s all you will have to do. Just retire among the other courtiers then, and leave the rest to me.”
“That’s a very short lesson, my little one; would you not like to be introduced to Bladud too? He does not know you, you know.”
“Certainly not; that would ruin all—you dear old goose. Just do exactly what I tell you, and you will be sure to go right.”
“How like your dear mother you are, my little one, in your modest requirements!”
Having finished the lesson, the little old woman retired to a remote part of the palace which, through Hafrydda’s influence, had been assigned to her, and the great northern chief, unbuckling his sword-belt, called lustily for his mid-day meal.
Customs at that date, you see, were more free-and-easy than they are now, and less ceremonious. The visitors at the palace of King Hudibras were expected only to appear at the royal board at the evening meal after all the business or pleasure of each day was over. At all other times they were supposed to do as they pleased and shout for food as they happened to require it.
It is perhaps unnecessary to comment on the exceeding convenience of this custom, leaving, as it did, every one to follow the bent of inclination, from earliest morn till dewy eve, with the prospect of an enjoyable reunion after dark—during which, of course, the adventures of each were narrated, exaggerated, underrated, or commented on, as the case might be, and the social enjoyments were enhanced by warlike and sentimental song as well as by more or less—usually more than less—thrilling story.
Chapter Thirty Six
The Dénouement
It was a sunny, frosty, glorious forenoon when King Hudibras awoke to the consciousness of the important day that was before him, and the importunate vacuum that was within him.
Springing out of bed with a right royal disregard of appearances he summoned his servitor-in-waiting and ordered breakfast.
In the breakfast-room he met the queen, Hafrydda, Bladud, and Dromas—the latter being now considered one of the family—and these five proceeded to discuss and arrange the proceedings of the day during the progress of the meal.
“You will join in the sports, of course, son Dromas,” said the king, “and show us how the Olympic victors carry themselves. Ha! I should not wonder if a few of our lads will give you some trouble to beat them.”
“You may be right, father,” returned the young man, modestly, “for one of your lads has already beaten me at most things.”
“You mean Bladud?” returned the king.
“Dromas is only so far right,” interposed the prince. “It is true that where mere brute force is required I usually have the advantage, but where grace and speed come into play I am lost.”
Of course Dromas would not admit this, and of course Hafrydda’s fair cheeks were crimsoned when the youth, accidentally looking up, caught the princess accidentally gazing at him; and, still more of course, the king, who was sharp as a needle in such matters, observed their confusion and went into a loud laugh, which he declared was only the result of merry thoughts that were simmering in his brain.
The reception was to be held in the large hall of the palace. No ladies were to be presented, for it must be remembered that these were barbarous times, and woman had not yet attained to her true position! Indeed, there was to be no ceremony whatever—no throne, no crown, no gold-sticks in waiting or other sticks of any kind. It was to be a sort of free-and-easy conversazione in the presence of the royal family, where, just before the sports began, any one who was moved by that ambition might hold personal intercourse with the king, and converse with him either on the affairs of State, or on private matters, or subjects of a more light and social kind—such as the weather.
At the appointed hour—which was indicated by that rough and ready but most natural of sun-dials, the shadow of a tree falling on a certain spot—the royal family adjourned to the large hall, and the unceremonious ceremony began.
First of all, on the doors being thrown open a crowd of nobles—or warriors—entered, and while one of them went to the king, and began an earnest entreaty that war might be declared without delay against a certain chief who was particularly obnoxious to him, another sauntered up to the princess and began a mild flirtation in the primitive manner, which was characteristic of the sons of Mars in that day—to the unutterable jealousy of Dromas, who instantly marked him down as a fit subject for overwhelming defeat at the approaching games. At the same time the family doctor paid his respects to the queen and began to entertain her with graphic accounts of recent cases—for doctors had no objection to talking “shop” in those days.
We have said that no ladies were admitted to places of public importance, such as grand-stands or large halls, but we have also pointed out that the ladies of the royal family and their female friends formed an exception to the rule. It was, as it were, the dawn of women’s freedom—the insertion of the small end of that wedge which Christianity and civilisation were destined to drive home—sometimes too far home!
Gradually the hall began to fill, and the hum of conversation became loud, when there was a slight bustle at the door which caused a modification though not a cessation of the noise.
It was caused by the entrance of Gadarn leading Branwen by the hand. The girl was now dressed in the costume that befitted her age and sex, and it is best described by the word simplicity. Her rich auburn hair fell in short natural curls on her neck—the luxuriant volume of it having, as the reader is aware, been sacrificed some time before. She wore no ornament of any kind save, on one side of her beautiful head, a small bunch of wild-flowers that had survived the frost.
At the time of their entrance, Bladud was stooping to talk with Hafrydda and did not observe them, but when he heard Gadarn’s sonorous voice he turned with interest to listen.
“King Hudibras,” said the northern chief, in a tone that produced instant silence, “I have found the lost one—my daughter Branwen.”
As they moved through the crowd of tall warriors Bladud could not at first catch sight of the girl.
“Ha! Hafrydda,” he said, with a pleasant smile, “your young friend and companion found at last. I congratulate you. I’m so glad that—”
He stopped, the colour fled from his cheeks, his chest heaved. He almost gasped for breath. Could he believe his eyes, for there stood a girl with the features, the hair, the eyes of Cormac, but infinitely more beautiful!
For some time the poor prince stood utterly bereft of speech. Fortunately no one observed him, as all were too much taken up with what was going on. The king clasped the girl’s hands and kissed her on both cheeks. Then the queen followed, and asked her how she could have been so cruel as to remain so long away. And Branwen said a few words in reply.
It seemed as if an electric shock passed through Bladud, for the voice also was the voice of Cormac!
At this point the prince turned to look at his sister. She was gazing earnestly into his face.
“Hafrydda—is—is that really Branwen?”
“Yes, brother, that is Branwen. I must go to her.”
As she spoke, she started off at a run and threw her arms round her friend’s neck.
“I cannot—cannot believe it is you,” she exclaimed aloud—and then, whispering in Branwen’s ear, “oh! you wicked creature, to make such a hypocrite of me. But come,” she added aloud, “come to my room. I must have you all to myself alone.”
For one moment, as they passed, Branwen raised her eyes, and, as they met those of the prince, a deep blush overspread her face. Another moment and the two friends had left the hall together.
We need not weary the reader by describing the games and festivities that followed. Such matters have probably been much the same, in all important respects, since the beginning of time. There was a vast amount of enthusiasm and willingness to be contented with little on the part of the people, and an incredible desire to talk and delay matters, and waste time, on the part of judges, umpires, and starters, but there was nothing particularly noteworthy, except that Bladud consented to run one race with his friend Dromas, and was signally beaten by him, to the secret satisfaction of Hafrydda, and the open amusement of the king.
But Branwen did not appear at the games, nor did she appear again during the remainder of that day, and poor Bladud was obliged to restrain his anxiety, for he felt constrained to remain beside his father, and, somehow, he failed in his various attempts to have a few words of conversation with his mother.
At last, like all sublunary things, the games came to an end, and the prince hastened to his sister’s room.
“May I come in?” he asked, knocking.
“Yes, brother.”
There was a peculiar tone in her voice, and a curious expression in her eyes, that the prince did not fail to note.
“Hafrydda,” he exclaimed, eagerly, “there is no Cormac?”
“True, brother, there is no Cormac—there never was. Branwen and Cormac are one!”
“And you knew it—and she knew it, all along. Oh, why did you agree to deceive me?”
“Nay, brother, I did not mean to deceive you—at least not at first. Neither did Branwen. I knew nothing about it till she came home, after being with you at the Swamp, and told me that she was impelled by sheer pity to follow you, intending to nurse you; thinking at first that we had let you go to die alone. Then she was caught in the woods by robbers, and she only escaped from them by putting on a boy’s dress and running away. They gave chase, however, caught her up, and, had it not been for you, would have recaptured her. The rest you know. But now, brother, I am jealous for my dear friend. She has expressed fear that, in her great pity for you, she may be thought to have acted an unwomanly part, and that you will perhaps despise her.”
“Unwomanly! despise!” exclaimed Bladud in amazement. “Hafrydda, do you regard me as a monster of ingratitude?”
“Nay, brother, that do I not. I think that you could never despise one who has felt such genuine pity for you as to risk and endure so much.”
“Hafrydda, do you think there is no stronger feeling than pity for me in the heart of Branwen?” asked Bladud in a subdued, earnest voice.
“That you must find out for yourself, brother,” answered the princess. “Yet after all, if you are only fond of Cormac, what matters the feeling that may be in the heart of Branwen? Are you in love with her already, Bladud, after so short an acquaintance?”
“In love with her!” exclaimed the prince. “There is no Cormac. There is but one woman in the wide world now—”
“That is not complimentary to your mother and myself, I fear,” interrupted his sister.
“But,” continued the prince, paying no regard to the interruption, “is there any chance—any hope—of—of—something stronger than pity being in her heart?”
“I say again, ask that of herself, Bladud; but now I think of it,” added the princess, leaping up in haste, “I am almost too late to keep an appointment with Dromas!”
She went out hurriedly, and the prince, full of new-born hopes mingled with depressing anxieties, went away into the neighbouring woods to meditate—for, in the haste of her departure, Hafrydda had neglected to tell him where Branwen was to be found, and he shrank from mentioning her name to any one else.
But accident—as we call it—sometimes brings about what the most laboured design fails to accomplish.
Owing to a feeling of anxiety which she could not shake off, Branwen had gone out that evening to cool her fevered brow in the woods, just a few minutes before the prince entered them. It was a strange coincidence; but are not all coincidences strange?
Seating herself on a fallen tree she cast up her eyes towards the sky where a solitary star, like a beacon of hope, was beginning to twinkle. She had not been there more than a few minutes when a rustle in the neighbouring thicket startled her. Almost before she had time to look round the prince stood before her. She trembled, for now she felt that the decisive hour had come—whether for good or evil.
Seating himself beside her, the prince took one of her hands in his and looked steadily into her downcast face.
“Corm— Bran—” he began, and stopped.
She looked up.
“Branwen,” he said, in a low, calm voice, “will it pain you very much to know that I am glad—inexpressibly glad—that there is no youth Cormac in all the wide world?”
