CHAPTER XIII.  THE NEW LORD OF DYNEVOR.

“Vychan, Vychan, the hour has come!  That false traitor Sir Res has risen in revolt against England’s king.  Loyal men are called upon to put down the rebellion, and such as do so will be rewarded with the lands reft from the traitor.  Vychan, Vychan, lose not a moment; arm and take the men, and fly to Dynevor!  Now is the time to strike the blow!  And I will to Edward’s court, to plead with him for the lands and castle of Dynevor as my husband’s guerdon for his services.  O Vychan, Vychan, have not I always said that thou shouldest live to call thyself Lord of Dynevor again?”

Gertrude came flying to her husband with these words, looking scarce less young and certainly none less bright and happy than she had done four years back, when she and her husband had first stood within the walls of her ancestral home.  A beautiful, sturdy boy hung upon her hand, keeping pace gallantly even with her flying steps, and the joy of motherhood had given something of added lustre to the soft beauty of her dark eyes; otherwise she was scarce changed from the Gertrude of past days.  As for Vychan, he still retained the eagle glance, the almost boyish freshness of colouring, and the soldier-like bearing which distinguished his race, and the gold of his hair had not tarnished or faded, though he had developed from the youth to the man, and was a noble specimen of manhood in the zenith of its strength and beauty.

Rising hastily at his wife’s approach, he gazed at her with parted lips and glowing eyes, whilst she once more told him the news, brought by a special messenger from the Princess Joanna, brought thus, as both knew, with a special meaning which they well understood.  Four years of peaceful prosperity in England had in no whit weakened Vychan’s love for his own land or blunted the soldier-like instincts of his race.  There was something of the light of battle and of conquest in his eye as he gazed at his wife, and his voice rang out clear and trumpet-like as he gathered the sense of the message she brought.

“Take up arms against that false traitor-kinsman of mine? ay, verily, that I will.  False first to his kindred and his country, then false to the king who has trusted and rewarded him so nobly.  Res ap Meredith, methinks thine hour is come!  Thou didst plot and contrive to wrest from me the fair lands my father bequeathed me; but I trow the day has dawned when the false lord shall be cast forth, even as he has cast forth others, and when there shall be a lord of the old race ruling at Dynevor, albeit he rule beneath a new name.”

“Heaven grant it may be so!” cried Gertrude, the tears of excitement sparkling in her eyes; whilst little Griffeth, catching some of the sense of his father’s words, and understanding with the quick instinct of childhood that there was something unwonted going on, shook his little fist in the air, and cried: