“What is that you dare to say?”

The voice was harsh, the words were spoken with a rough accent, unlike the gentler tones of Wendot and Griffeth.  The child uttered a little cry and shrank back away from the grip of the strong hand, and might have been in some danger of losing her balance and of falling over the balustrade, had not Wendot thrown a protecting arm round her, whilst pushing back with the other hand that of the rude interloper.

“Llewelyn! for shame!” he said in his own tongue.  “Art thou a man, and claimest the blood of princes, and yet canst stoop to frighten an inoffensive child?”

“She spoke of conquest ­ the conquest of our country,” cried Llewelyn fiercely, in the hated English tongue, scowling darkly at the little girl as he spoke.  “Thinkest thou that I will stand patiently by and hear such words?  What right hath she or any one besides to speak of that tyrant and usurper in such tones?”

“He is not a tyrant, he is not a usurper!” cried the little Lady Gertrude, recovering herself quickly, and, whilst still holding Wendot by the hand, turning fearlessly upon the dark-faced lad who had startled and terrified her at the first.  “I know of whom you are speaking ­ it is of our great and noble King Edward.  You do not know him ­ you cannot know how great and good he is.  I will not hear you speak against him.  I love him next best to my own father.  He is kind and good to everybody.  If you would all give your homage to him you would be happy and safe, and he would protect you, and ­”

But Llewelyn’s patience was exhausted; he would listen no more.  With a fierce gesture of hatred that made the child shrink back again he turned upon her, and it seemed for a moment almost as though he would have struck her, despite Wendot’s sturdy protecting arm, had not his own shoulder been suddenly grasped by an iron hand, and he himself confronted by the stern countenance of his father.

“What means this, boy?” asked Res Vychan severely.  “Art thou daring to raise thine arm against a child, a lady, and thy father’s guest?  For shame!  I blush for thee.  Ask pardon instantly of the lady and of her father.  I will have no such dealings in mine house.  Thou shouldst be well assured of that.”

The black-browed boy was crimson with rage and shame, but there was no yielding in the haughty face.  He confronted his father with flashing eyes, and as he did so he met the keen, grave glance of the stranger’s fixed upon him with a calm scrutiny which aroused his fiercest rage.

“I will not ask pardon,” he shouted.  “I will not degrade my tongue by uttering such words.  I will not ­”

The father’s hand descended heavily upon his son’s head, in a blow which would have stunned a lad less hardy and hard-headed.  Res Vychan was not one to be defied with impunity by his own sons, and he had had hard encounters of will before now with Llewelyn.

“Choose, boy,” he said with brief sternness.  “Either do my will and obey me, or thou wilt remain a close prisoner till thou hast come to thy senses.  My guests shall not be insulted by thy forward tongue.  Barbarous and wild as the English love to call us, they shall find that Res Vychan is not ignorant of those laws which govern the world in which they live and move.  Ask pardon of the lady, or to the dungeon thou goest.”

Llewelyn glanced up into his father’s face, and saw no yielding there.  Howel was making vehement signs to him which he and he alone could interpret.  His other brothers were eagerly gazing at him, and Griffeth even went so for as to murmur into his ear some words of entreaty.

It seemed as though the silence which followed Res Vychan’s words would never be broken, but at last the culprit spoke, and spoke in a low, sullen tone.

“I meant no harm.  I would not have hurt her.”

“Ask her pardon then, boy, and tell her so.”

“Nay, force him no more,” said the little lady, who was regarding this curious scene with lively interest, and who began to feel sorry for the dark wild boy who had frightened her by his vehemence before; “I was to blame myself.  I should not have spoken as I did.

“Father, tell them how my tongue is always running away with me.  Hast not thou told me a hundred times that it would get me into trouble one of these days?  It is right that he should love his country.  Do not think ill of him for that.”

“Ay, let the lad go now, good friend,” quoth Lord Montacute.  “No doubt this little witch of mine was at the bottom of the mischief.  Her tongue, as she truly says, is a restless and mischievous possession.  She has found a stanch protector at least, and will come to no harm amongst thy stalwart lads.  I could envy thee such a double brace of boys.  I would it had pleased Providence to send me a son.”

“Nay, father, say not so,” cried little Lady Gertrude coaxingly.  “I would not have a brother for all the world.  Thou wouldst love him so well, if thou hadst him, that thou wouldst have none to spare for thy maid.  I have seen how it ever is.  I love to have all thy heart for mine own.”

The father smiled, but Res Vychan’s face was still severe, and he had not loosed his clasp upon Llewelyn’s arm.

“Say that thou art sorry ere I let thee go,” he said, in low but very stern tones; and after a moment’s hesitation, Llewelyn spoke in audible tones.

“I am sorry,” he said slowly; “I am sorry.”

And then as his father’s clasp upon his arm relaxed he darted away like an arrow from the bow, and plunged with Howel through a dark and gloomy doorway which led up a winding turret stair to a narrow circular chamber, which the brothers shared together.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” he panted fiercely; “ay, that indeed I am.  Sorry that I did not wring her neck as the fowler wrings the neck of the bird his shaft hath brought down; sorry I did not cast her headlong down the steep precipice, that there might be one less of the hated race contaminating the air of our pure Wales with their poisonous breath.  Sorry! ay, that I am!  I would my hand had done a deed which should have set proud Edward’s forces in battle array against us.  I would that this tampering with traitors were at an end, and that we warriors of South Wales might stand shoulder to shoulder, firmly banded against the foreign foe.  I would plunge a dagger in the false heart of yon proud Englishman as he lies sleeping in his bed tonight, if by doing so I could set light to the smouldering flame of national hatred.

“What sayest thou?  Can we do nought to bring upon us an open war, which is a thousand times better than this treacherous, hollow peace?  Our father and mother are half won over to the cause of slavery.  They ­”

Llewelyn paused, choking back the fierce tide of passion which went far to unman him.  He had not forgotten the humiliation placed upon him so recently, when his father had compelled him to sue for pardon to an English maiden.  His heart was burning, his soul was stirred to its depths.  He had to stop short lest his passion should carry him away.

Howel seemed to understand him without the medium of words.  The links which bound the twin brothers together were very subtle and very strong.  If Llewelyn were the more violent and headstrong, Howel was more than his equal in diplomacy.  He shared every feeling of his brother’s heart, but he was less outspoken and less rash.

“I know what thou wouldst do,” he said thoughtfully:  “thou wouldst force upon our father a step which shall make a rupture with the English inevitable.  Thou wouldst do a thing which should bring upon us the wrath of the mighty Edward, and force both ourselves and our neighbours to take arms against him.  Is not that so?”

“Ay, truly; and could such a thing be, gladly would I lay down my life in the cause of liberty and freedom.”

Howel was pondering deeply.

“Perchance it might be done,” he said.

Llewelyn eagerly raised his head.

“Thinkest thou so?  How?”

“I know not yet, but we shall have time for thought.  Knowest thou that the maid will remain here beneath our mother’s charge for a while, whilst our father goes forward as far as the Abbey of Strata Florida with yon stranger, to guide him on his way?  The maid will remain here until her father’s return.”

“How knowest thou that?”

“I had it from Wenwynwyn’s lips.  He heard the discussion in the hall, and it seems that this Lord Montacute would be glad to be free of the care of the child for a while.  Our mother delights in the charge of a little maid, and thus it will be as I have said.”

A strange fire gleamed in Llewelyn’s eyes.  The brothers looked at each other a good while in silence.

“And thou thinkest ­” said Llewelyn at last.

Howel was some time in replying, and his answer was a little indeterminate, although sufficiently significant.

“Why, the maid will be left here; but when her father returns to claim her, perchance she will not be found.  If that were so, thinkest thou not that nought but open war would lie before us?”

Llewelyn’s eyes glowed.  He said not a word, and the darkness gathered round the boys in the narrow chamber.  They thought not of descending or of asking for food, even after their day’s hunting in the hills.  They were hardy, and seasoned to abstemious ways, and had no room for thoughts of such a kind.  Silence was settling down upon the castle, and they had no intention of leaving their room again that night.  Dark thoughts were their companions as they undressed and made ready for bed; and hardly were they settled there before the door opened, and the old bard Wenwynwyn entered.

This old man was almost like a father to these boys, and Llewelyn and Howel were particularly attached to him and he to them.  He shared to the full their ardent love for their country and their untempered hatred of the English race.  He saw, as they did, nothing but ill in the temporizing attitude now to be found amongst the smaller Welsh chieftains with regard to the claims made by the English monarch; and much of the fierce hostility to be found in the boys had been the result of the lessons instilled into their mind by the wild-eyed, passionate old bard, one of the last of a doomed race.

“Wenwynwyn, is it thou?”

“Ay, boys, it is I. You did well to abstain from sitting at meat with the stranger tonight.  The meat went nigh to choke me that was swallowed in his presence.”

“How long stays he, contaminating our pure air?”

“He himself is off by sunrise tomorrow, and Res Vychan goes with him.  He leaves behind the little maid in the care of thy mother.”

A strange smile crossed the face of the old man, invisible in the darkness.

“Strange for the parent bird to leave the dove in the nest of the hawk ­ the eyry of the eagle.”

“Ha!” quoth Llewelyn quickly, “that thought hath likewise come to thee, good Wenwynwyn.”

The old man made no direct response, but went on speaking in low even tones.

“The maid has dwelt in the household of the great king.  She has played with his children, been the companion of the young princesses.  She is beloved of them and of the monarch and his wife.  Let them but hear that she is lost in the fastness of Dynevor, and the royal Edward will march in person to her rescue.  All the country will rise in arms to defend itself.  The north will join with the south, and Wales will shake off the hated foreign yoke banded as one man against the foreign foe.”

The boys listened spellbound.  They had often talked together of some step which might kindle the conflagration, but had never yet seen the occasion.  Hot-headed, rash, reckless as were the youths; wild, tameless, and fearless as was the ancient bard; they had still been unable to hit upon any device which might set a light to the train.  Discontent and resentment were rife all over the country, but it was the fashion rather to temporize with the invader than to defy him.  There was a strong party gathering in the country whose policy was that of paying homage to Edward and retaining their lands under his protection and countenance, as being more truly patriotic and farsighted than continuing the old struggle for supremacy among themselves.  This was a policy utterly incomprehensible both to the boys and the old man, and stirred the blood of the lads to boiling pitch.

“What can we do?” asked Llewelyn hoarsely.

“I will tell you,” whispered the old man, approaching close to the bed whereon the brothers lay wide-eyed and broad awake.  “This very night I leave the castle by the postern door, and in the moonlight I make my way to the commot of Llanymddyvri, where dwells that bold patriot Maelgon ap Caradoc.  To him I tell all, and he will risk everything in the cause.  It will be very simply done.  You boys must feign a while ­ must feign friendship for the maid thus left behind.  Your brothers have won her heart already; you must not be behind them.  The dove must have no fear of the young eaglets.  She has a high courage of her own; she loves adventure and frolic; she will long to stretch her wings, and wander amid the mountain heights, under the stanch protection of her comrades of Dynevor.

“Then listen, boys.  The day will come when the thing is to be done.  In some of the wild fastnesses of the upper Towy will be lurking the bold bands of Maelgon ap Caradoc.  Thither you must lead the unsuspicious maid, first by some device getting rid of your brothers, who might try to thwart the scheme.  These bold fellows will carry off the maid to the safe keeping of Maelgon, and once let her be his prisoner, there is no fear of her escaping from his hands.  Edward himself and all his forces at his back will scarce wrest away the prize, and the whole country will be united and in arms ere it suffer the tyrant to march through our fair vales.”

Whilst within this upper turret chamber this plot was being concocted against the innocent child by two passionate, hot-headed boys and one of the ancient race of bards, the little maiden was herself sleeping soundly and peacefully within a small inner closet, close to the room where Gladys, the lady of the castle, reposed; and with the earliest streak of dawn, when the child opened her eyes upon the strange bare walls of the Welsh stronghold, the first thing that met her eyes was the sweet and gentle face of the chatelaine bending tenderly over her.

Although the present lady of Dynevor was the sister of the bold and fierce Llewelyn, Prince of North Wales, who gave more trouble to the King of England than did anybody else, she was herself of a gentle and thoughtful disposition, more inclined to advocate peace than war, and more far-seeing, temperate, and well-informed than most persons of her time, and especially than the women, who for the most part had but very vague ideas as to what was going on in the country.

She had had many thoughts herself during the still hours of this summer night, and when she bent over the sleeping child and wakened her by a kiss, she felt a strange tenderness towards her, which seemed to be reciprocated by the little one, who suddenly flung her arms about her neck and kissed her passionately.

“Is my father gone?” she asked, recollection coming back.

“Not gone, but going soon,” answered the Lady of Dynevor, smiling; “that is why I have come to waken thee early, little Gertrude, that thou mayest receive his farewell kiss and see him ride away.  Thou wilt not be grieved to be left with us for a while, little one?  Thou wilt not pine in his absence?”

“Not if I have you to take care of me,” answered the child confidingly ­ “you and Wendot and Griffeth.  I am weary of always travelling on rough roads.  I will gladly stay here a while with you.”

There was the bustle of preparation going on in the hall when the lady descended with the child hanging on to her hand.  Gertrude broke away and ran to her father, who was sitting at the board, with Wendot standing beside him listening eagerly to his talk.  The boy’s handsome face was alight, and he seemed full of eager interest in what was being said.  Lord Montacute frequently raised his head and gave the lad a look of keen scrutiny.  Even whilst caressing his little daughter his interest seemed to be centred in Wendot, and when at parting the lad held his stirrup for him, and gently restrained little Gertrude, who was in danger of being trampled on by the pawing charger, Lord Montacute looked for a moment very intently at the pair, and then let his glance wander for a moment over the grand fortress of Dynevor and the beautiful valley it commanded.

Then he turned once more to Wendot with a kindly though penetrating smile.

“In the absence of your father, Wendot, you are the master and guardian of this castle, its occupants and its treasures.  I render my little daughter into your safe keeping.  Of your hands I shall ask her back when I return in a week’s time.”

Wendot flushed with pleasure and gratification.  What boy does not like the thought of being looked upon as his father’s substitute?  He raised his head with a gesture of pride, and clasped the little soft hand of Gertrude more closely in his.

“I will take the trust, Lord Montacute,” he said.  “I will hold myself responsible for the safety of Lady Gertrude.  At my hands demand her when you return.  If she is not safe and well, take my life as the forfeit.”

Lord Montacute smiled slightly at the manly words and bearing of the lad, but he did not like him the less for either.  As for little Gertrude, she gazed up into the bold bright face of Wendot, and clasping his hand in hers, she said: 

“Am I to belong to you now?  I think I shall like that, you are so brave and so kind to me.”

The father gave the pair another of his keen looks, and rode off in the bright morning sunshine, promising not to be very long away.

“I shan’t fret, now that I have you and the Lady of Dynevor,” said the child confidingly to Wendot.  “I’ve often been left for a long time at the palace with the ladies Eleanor and Joanna, and with Alphonso and Britton, but I shall like this much better.  There is no governess here, and we can do as we like.  I want to know everything you do, and go everywhere with you.”

Wendot promised to show the little lady everything she wanted, and led her in to breakfast, which was a very important meal in those days.  All the four brothers were gathered at the board, and the child looked rather shyly at the dark-browed twins, whom she hardly knew one from the other, and whom she regarded with a certain amount of awe.  But there was nothing hostile in the manner of any of the party.  Llewelyn was silent, but when he did speak it was in very different tones from those of last night; and Howel was almost brilliant in his sallies, and evoked many a peal of laughter from the lighthearted little maiden.  Partings with her father were of too common occurrence to cause her much distress, and she was too well used to strange places to feel lost in these new surroundings, and she had her own nurse and attendant left with her.

Full of natural curiosity, the child was eager to see everything of interest near her temporary home, and the brothers were her very devoted servants, taking her everywhere she wished to go, helping her over every difficult place, and teaching her to have such confidence in them, and such trust in their guidance, that she soon ceased to feel fear however wild was the ascent or descent, however lonely the region in which she found herself.

Although Wendot continued her favourite, and Griffeth stood next, owing to his likeness to his eldest brother, the twins soon won her favour also.  They were in some respects more interesting, as they were less easily understood, wilder and stranger in their ways, and always full of stories of adventure and warfare, which fascinated her imagination even when she knew that they spoke of the strife between England and Wales.  She had a high spirit and a love of adventure, which association with these stalwart boys rapidly developed.

One thing about Llewelyn and Howel gratified her childlike vanity, and gave her considerable pleasure.  They would praise her agility and courage, and urge her on to make trial of her strength and nerve, when the more careful Wendot would beg her to be careful and not risk herself by too great recklessness.  A few days spent in this pure, free air seemed to infuse new life into her frame, and the colour in her cheeks and the light in her eyes deepened day by day, to the motherly satisfaction of the Lady of Dynevor and the pride of Wendot, who regarded the child as his especial charge.

But in his father’s absence many duties fell upon Wendot, and there came a bright evening when he and Griffeth were occupied about the castle, and only Llewelyn and Howel had leisure to wander with the little guest to her favourite spot to see the red sun set.

Llewelyn was full of talk that evening, and spoke with a rude eloquence and fire that always riveted the attention of the child.  He told of the wild, lonely beauty of a certain mountain peak which he pointed out up the valley, of the weird charm of the road thither, and above all of the eagle’s nest which was to be found there, and the young eaglets being now reared therein, which he and Howel meant to capture and keep as their own, and which they purposed to visit the very next day to see if they were fit yet to leave the nest.

Gertrude sat entranced as the boy talked, and when she heard of the eagle’s nest she gave a little cry of delight.

“O Llewelyn, take me with you.  Let me see the eagle’s nest and the little eaglets.”

But the boy shook his head doubtfully.

“You could not get as far.  It is a long way, and a very rough walk.”

The child shook back her curling hair defiantly.

“I could do it!  I know I could.  I could go half the way on my palfrey, and walk the rest.  You would help me.  You know how well I can climb.  Oh, do take me ­ do take me!  I should so love to see an eagle’s nest.”

But still Llewelyn shook his head.

“Wendot would not let you go; he would say it was too dangerous.”

Again came the little defiant toss.

“I am not Wendot’s slave; I can do as I choose.”

“If he finds out he will stop you.”

“But we need not tell him, need we?”

“I thought you always told him everything.”

The child stamped her little foot.

“I tell him things generally, but I can keep a secret.  If he would stop us from going, we will not tell him, nor Griffeth either.  We will get up very early and go by ourselves.  We could do that, could we not, and come back with the young eaglets in our hands?  O let us go! let us do it soon, and take me with you, kind Llewelyn!  Indeed I shall not be in your way.  I will be very good.  And you know you have taught me to climb so well.  I know I can go where you can go.  You said so yourself once.”

Llewelyn turned his head away to conceal a smile half of triumph, half of contempt.  A strange flash was in his eyes as he looked up the valley towards the crag upon which he had told the child the eyry of the eagles hung.  She thought he was hesitating still, and laid a soft little hand upon his arm.

“Please say that I may go.”

He turned quickly and looked at her.  For a moment she shrank back from the strange glow in his eyes; but her spirit rose again, and she said rather haughtily:  “You need not be angry with me.  If you don’t wish me to come I will stay at home with Wendot.  I do not choose to ask favours of anybody if they will not give them readily.”

“I should like to take you if it would be safe,” answered Llewelyn, speaking as if ashamed of his petulance or reluctance.

“Howel, could she climb to the crag where we can look down upon the eyry if we helped her up the worst places?”

“I think she could.”

The child’s face flushed; she clasped her hands together and listened eagerly whilst the brothers discussed the plan which in the end was agreed to ­ a very early start secretly from the castle before the day dawned, the chief point to be observed beforehand being absolute secrecy, so that the projected expedition should not reach the ears either of Wendot, his mother, or Griffeth.  It was to be carried out entirely by the twins themselves, with Gertrude as their companion.