All went well with the party that conducted Branwen to King Hudibras’ town until they reached the hut of Beniah the Hebrew, when the lad suggested to the leader of the escort that they should put up there, as it was too late to think of intruding on the king that night.
As the lieutenant had been told to pay particular regard to the wishes of his charge, he at once agreed. Indeed, during the journey, Cormac (as we may here continue to call the girl) had expressed his wishes with such a quiet, matter-of-course air of authority that the officer in charge had come to the conclusion that the youth must be the son of some person of importance—perhaps even of King Hudibras himself. He therefore accorded him implicit obedience and deference.
“The hut is too small for all of us,” said Cormac; “the greater number of your men must sleep outside; but that does not matter on so fine a night.”
“True, it matters nothing,” replied the officer. “We will all of us sup and sleep round the campfires.”
“Nay, you and your lieutenant will sup with me. Afterwards you can join the men. By-the-by, there is an old woman here, who takes charge—or ought to take charge—of the Hebrew’s dwelling during his absence.”
“I have not seen her,” said the officer.
“True—but she will no doubt make her appearance soon. Let her come and go as she pleases without hindrance. It is not safe to thwart her, for her temper is none of the sweetest, and she is apt to scratch.”
Supper was soon over, for the party had travelled all day, and were weary. When it was finished Cormac again cautioned the officers not to interfere with the old woman, for she was dangerous.
“I will have a care,” said the officer, laughing, as he and his subaltern rose, bade their charge good-night, and took their leave.
The instant they were gone Branwen pushed the plank-bridge across the chasm, and disappeared in the secret cave.
Half an hour later the two officers were seated with some of the men at the camp-fire nearest the hut, making preparations for going to rest, when they were startled by the creaking of the hut door. To their intense surprise it opened wide enough to let a little old woman step out. She was much bent, wore an old grey shawl over her head, and leaned on a staff. For some moments she looked from side to side as if in search of something.
“See! the old woman!” murmured the officer in a low whisper.
“True, but we did not see her enter the hut,” replied the sub with a solemn look.
In those days witchcraft was implicitly believed in, so, when they saw the old creature hobble towards them, they experienced feelings of alarm that had never yet affected their manly bosoms in danger or in war. Their faces paled a little, but their courage stood the test, for they sat still till she came close enough to let her piercing dark eyes be seen peering at them like those of a basilisk from out the folds of the shawl that enveloped her.
“Y–you are the—the old woman, I suppose?” said the officer in a deferential tone.
“Yes, I am the old woman, young man, and you will be an old woman too when you reach my time of life,” she replied, in a deep metallic voice.
“I hope not,” returned the officer, sincerely.
“At all events you’ll be a dead man before long if you don’t attend to what I say,” continued the woman. “Your young master in the hut there told me to tell you that he is tired and wants a good long rest, so you are not to disturb him in the morning till he calls you. D’you hear?”
“I hear, and will obey.”
“Eh? What? Speak out. I’m deaf.”
“I hear, and will attend to your wishes.”
“Humph! it will be worse for you if you don’t,” muttered the old hag, as she turned away, hobbled into the woods, and slowly disappeared.
It need scarcely be said that the lieutenant and his sub did not sleep much that night. They discussed the subject of witches, their powers and propensities, and the bad luck likely to attend those who actually had the misfortune to see them, until the hair on their heads betrayed a tendency to rise, and the grey dawn began to appear. Then they lay down and indulged in some fitful slumber. But the discomforts of the night were as nothing to the anxieties of the morning, for the lazy Cormac seemed to have gone in for an extent of slumber that was out of all reason, considering his circumstances. The ordinary breakfast hour arrived, but there was no intimation of his having awoke. Hours passed, but there was no call from the hut, and the officer, with ever-increasing anxiety, bade his men to kick up a row—or words to that effect. No command they ever received was more easy of fulfilment. They laughed and talked; they cut down trees and cleaned their breakfast utensils with overwhelming demonstration; they shouted, they even sang and roared in chorus, but without effect. Noon arrived and passed, still Cormac slept on. It was worse than perplexing—it was becoming desperate!
The officer commanding the party was a brave man; so was the sub. Their native courage overcame their superstitious fears.
“I’ll be battle-axed!” exclaimed the first, using a very objectionable old British oath, “if I don’t rouse him, though all the witches in Albion should withstand me.”
“And I’ll back you up,” said the sub with a frown that spoke volumes—perhaps, considering the times, we should have written—rolls of papyrus.
Accordingly the two went towards the hut, with pluck and misgiving contending for the mastery.
“Perchance the witch may have returned while we slept,” said the sub in a low voice.
“Or she may have re-entered the hut invisibly—as she did at first,” replied the other.
The door was found to be on the latch. The lieutenant opened it a little and peeped in.
“Ho! Cormac!” he shouted; “hi! ho! hooroo hooh!” but he shouted in vain.
Becoming accustomed to the dim light, he perceived that there was no one within to answer to the call, so he suddenly sprang in, followed by the sub and a few of the more daring spirits among the men.
A hasty search revealed the fact that the lad was not to be seen. A more minute and thorough inspection showed clearly that no one was there. They did not, of course, discover the cave, for the plank had been removed, but they gazed solemnly into the depths of the dark chasm and wondered if poor Cormac had committed suicide there, or if the witch had murdered him and thrown him in. Having neither rope nor ladder, and the chasm appearing to be bottomless, they had no means of settling the question.
But now a point of far greater moment pressed on their consideration. What was to be said to King Hudibras about the disappearance of the lad? Would he believe them? It was not likely. And, on the other hand, what would Gadarn say? Would he believe them? He might, indeed, for he knew them to be faithful, but that would not mitigate his wrath, and when he was roused by neglected duty they knew too well that their lives would hang on a thread. What was to be done? To go forward or backward seemed to involve death! One only resource was left, namely, for the whole band to go off on its own account and take to the woods as independent robbers—or hunters—or both combined.
In an unenviable frame of mind the lieutenant and his sub sat down to the discussion of these knotty points and their mid-day meal.
Meanwhile the witch, who had been the occasion of all this distress, having got out of sight in the woods, assumed a very upright gait and stepped out with a degree of bounding elasticity that would have done credit to a girl of nineteen.
The sun was just rising in a flood of glorious light when she entered the suburbs of King Hudibras’ town—having previously resumed her stoop and hobbling gait.
The king was lazy. He was still a-bed snoring. But the household was up and at breakfast, when the witch—passing the guards who looked upon her as too contemptible to question—knocked at the palace door. It was the back-door, for even at that time palaces had such convenient apertures, for purposes, no doubt, of undignified retreat. A menial answered the knock—after wearisome delay.
“Is the Princess Hafrydda within?”
“She is,” answered the menial, with a supercilious look, “but she is at breakfast, and does not see poor people at such an hour.”
“Would she see rich people if they were to call at such an hour?” demanded the witch, sharply.
“Per—perhaps she would,” replied the menial with some hesitation.
“Then I’ll wait here till she has finished breakfast. Is the king up?”
“N–no. He still slumbers.”
“Hah! Like him! He was always lazy in the mornings. Go fetch me a stool.”
The manner of the old woman with her magnificent dark eyes and deep metallic voice, and her evident knowledge of the king’s habits, were too much for the menial—a chord of superstition had been touched; it vibrated, and he was quelled. Humbly but quickly he fetched a stool.
“Won’t you step in?” he said.
“No, I’ll stop out!” she replied, and sat herself doggedly down, with the air of one who had resolved never more to go away.
Meanwhile, in the breakfast room of the palace, which was on the ground floor—indeed, all the rooms of the palace were on the ground floor, for there was no upper one—the queen and her fair daughter Hafrydda were entertaining a stranger who had arrived the day before.
He was an exceedingly handsome man of about six-and-twenty; moderately tall and strong, but with an air of graceful activity in all his movements that gave people, somehow, the belief that whatever he chose to attempt he could do. Both his olive complexion and his tongue betokened him a foreigner, for although the language he spoke was Albionic, it was what we now style broken—very much broken indeed. With a small head, short curly black hair, a very young beard, and small pointed moustache, fine intellectual features, and an expression of imperturbable good-humour, he presented an appearance which might have claimed the regard of any woman. At all events the queen had formed a very high opinion of him—and she was a woman of much experience, having seen many men in her day. Hafrydda, though, of course, not so experienced, fully equalled her mother, if she did not excel her, in her estimate of the young stranger.
As we should be unintelligible if we gave the youth’s words in the broken dialect, we must render his speech in fair English.
“I cannot tell how deeply I am grieved to hear this dreadful news of my dear friend,” he said, with a look of profound sorrow that went home to the mother’s heart.
“And did you really come to this land for the sole purpose of seeing my dear boy?” asked the queen.
“I did. You cannot imagine how much we loved each other. We were thrown together daily—almost hourly. We studied together; we competed when I was preparing for the Olympic games; we travelled in Egypt and hunted together. Indeed, if it had not been for my dear old mother, we should have travelled to this land in the same ship.”
“Your mother did not wish you to leave her, I suppose?”
“Nay, it was I who would not leave her. Her unselfish nature would have induced her to make any sacrifice to please me. It was only when she died that my heart turned with unusual longing to my old companion Bladud, and I made up my mind to quit home and traverse the great sea in search of him.”
A grateful look shot from Hafrydda’s blue eyes, but it was lost on the youth, who sat gazing at the floor as if engrossed with his great disappointment.
“I cannot understand,” he continued, in an almost reproachful tone, “how you could ever make up your minds to banish him, no matter how deadly the disease that had smitten him.”
The princess’s fair face flushed deeply, and she shook back her golden curls—her eyes flashing as she replied—
“We did not ‘make up our minds to banish him.’ The warriors and people would have compelled us to do it whether we liked or not, for they have heard, alas! of the terrible nature of the disease. But the dear boy, knowing this, went off in the night unknown to us, and without even saying farewell. We have sent out parties to search for him several times, but without success.”
The youth was evidently affected by this burst of feeling.
“Ah,” he returned, with a look of admiration at the princess, “that was like him—like his noble, self-denying nature. But I will find him out, you may depend on it, for I shall search the land in all directions till I discover his retreat. If King Hudibras will grant me a few men to help me—well. If not, I will do it by myself.”
“Thank you, good Dromas, for your purpose and your sympathy,” said the queen. “The king will be only too glad to help you—but here he comes to speak for himself.”
The curtain door was tossed aside at the moment, and Hudibras strode into the room with a beaming smile and a rolling gait that told of redundant health, and showed that the cares of state sat lightly on him.
“Welcome, good Dromas, to our board. I was too sleepy to see much of you after your arrival last night. Mine eyes blinked like those of an owl. Kiss me, wife and daughter,” he added, giving the ladies a salute that resounded through the room. “Have they told you yet about our poor son Bladud?”
The visitor had not time to reply, when a domestic appeared and said there was an old woman at the door who would not go away.
“Give her some cakes and send her off!” cried the king with a frown.
“But she will not go till she has had converse with the princess.”
“I will go to her,” said Hafrydda, rising.
“Ay, go, my girl, and if thy sweet tongue fails to prevail, stuff her mouth with meat and drink till she is too stout to walk. Come, my queen, what have we this morning for breakfast? The very talking of meat makes me hungry.”
At this juncture several dogs burst into the room and gambolled with their royal master, as with one who is a familiar friend.
When the princess reached the outer door she found the woman standing, and evidently in a rage.
“Is this the way King Hudibras teaches his varlets to behave to poor people who are better than themselves?”
“Forgive them, granny,” said the princess, who was inclined to laugh, but strove to keep her gravity, “they are but stupid rogues at worst.”
“Nay, but they are sly rogues at best!” retorted the old woman. “The first that came, took me for a witch, and was moderately civil, but the second took away my stool and threatened to set the dogs at me.”
“If this be so, I will have him cow-hided; but tell me—what would you with me? Can I help you? Is it food that you want, or rest?”
“Truly it is both food and rest that I want, at the proper times, but what I want with you now, is to take me to your own room, and let me talk to you.”
“That is a curious desire,” returned Hafrydda, smiling, “but I will not deny you. Come this way. Have you anything secret to tell me?” she asked, when they were alone.
“Ay, that have I,” answered the woman in her natural voice, throwing off her shawl and standing erect.
The princess remained speechless, for her friend Branwen stood before her.
“Before I utter a word of explanation,” she said, “let me say that your brother is found, and safe, and well—or nearly so. This is the main thing, but I will not tell you anything more unless you give me your solemn promise not to tell a word of it all to any one till I give you leave. Do you promise?”
Hafrydda was so taken aback that she could do nothing for some time but gaze in the girl’s face. Then she laughed in an imbecile sort of way. Then she burst into tears of joy, threw her arms round her friend’s neck, hugged her tight, and promised anything—everything—that she chose to demand.
When, an hour later, the Princess Hafrydda returned to the breakfast room, she informed the king and queen that the old woman was not a beggar; that she had kept her listening to a long story about lost men and women and robbers; that she was a thorough deceiver; that some of the servants believed her to be a witch, and that she had sent her away.
“With an invitation to come back again, I’ll be bound,” cried the king, interrupting. “It’s always your way, my girl,—any one can impose on you.”
“Well, father, she did impose on me, and I did ask her to come back again.”
“I knew it,” returned the king, with a loud laugh, “and she’ll come, for certain.”
“She will, you may be quite sure of that,” rejoined the princess with a gleeful laugh, as she left the room.
About the same time, the little old woman left the palace and returned to the hut of the Hebrew.
Here, as she expected, she found that her escort had flown, and, a brief inspection of their footprints showed that, instead of proceeding towards the town, they had returned the way they came.
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