Raoul Latimer was a youth with a decided eye to the main chance.  He knew that Arthyn was her father’s heiress, and that she would succeed at his death to some of the richest lands in Wales.  Possibly her father might be deprived of these lands in his lifetime, as he was a turbulent chieftain, by no means submissive to Edward’s rule.  If that were the case, and if his daughter had wedded a loyal Englishman of unquestionable fidelity, there would be an excellent chance for that husband of succeeding to the broad lands of Einon ap Cadwalader before many years had passed.  Therefore young Raoul paid open court to the proud Welsh maiden, and was somewhat discomfited at the small progress he had made.

But he was a hot-headed youth, and had no intention of being thrown into the shade by any beggarly Welshmen, be they sons of Dynevor or no, so that when the party were forced by the character of the ground to dismount from their horses and take to their own feet, he pressed up to Arthyn and said banteringly: 

“Sweet lady, why burden yourself with the entertainment of these wild, uncivilized loons?  Surely those who can but speak the language of beasts deserve the treatment of beasts.  It is not for you to be thus —­”

But the sentence was never finished.  Perhaps the flash from Arthyn’s eye warned him he had gone too far in thus designating the youths, who were, after all, her countrymen; but there was a better reason still for this sudden pause, for Llewelyn’s strong right hand had flown out straight from the shoulder, and Raoul had received on the mouth a stinging blow which had brought the red blood upon his lips and the crimson tide of fury into his cheeks.

With an inarticulate cry of rage he drew his dagger and sprang upon the young Welshman.  Swords were drawn in those days only too readily, and in this case there had been provocation enough on both sides to warrant bloodshed.  The youths were locked at once in fierce conflict, striking madly at each other with their shining blades, before those who stood by well knew what had occurred.

It was only too common at such times that there should be collision between the sons of England and Wales; and the suffering and the penalty almost invariably fell upon the latter.  This fact was well known to the children of the king, and possibly prompted the young Alphonso to his next act.

Drawing the small sword he always carried at his side, he threw himself between the combatants, and striking up their blades he cried in tones of such authority as only those can assume who feel the right is theirs: 

“Put up your weapons, gentlemen; I command you in the king’s name.

“Raoul, this is your doing, I warrant.  Shame on you for thus falling upon my father’s guest in his absence, and he a stranger and an alien!  Shame on you, I say!”

But scarce had these words been uttered before a shrill cry broke from several of the girls, who were watching the strange scene with tremulous excitement.  For young Llewelyn, maddened and blinded by the heat of his passion, and not knowing either who Alphonso was or by what right he interposed betwixt him and his foe, turned furiously upon him, and before any one could interpose, a deep red gash in the boy’s wrist showed what the Welsh lad’s blade had done.