Then came my old nurse, and there were words enough for the time.  Her eyes were red with weeping, but it was all that my father could do to prevent her scolding me soundly then and there for the fright I had given her.  But she set a great bowl of bread and milk before me, and the men began to come in at that time, and they stood in a ring round me and watched me eat it as if they had never seen me before, while my father spoke aside of the flight to Owen on the high place.  But concerning his own story my father asked the stranger no more until he chose to open the matter himself.

After supper there was all the tale to be told, and when that was done the Welshman slept before the hall fire with the house-carles, but my father had me with him in the closed chamber beyond the high seat, for it seemed that he would not let me go beyond his sight again yet.

Now, that is how Owen came to me at first, and the first thing therefore that I owe to him is nothing less than life itself.  And from that time we have been, as I have said, together in all things.

On the next morning my father made his guest take him back over the ground we had crossed together, for no fresh snow had fallen, and the footprints were plain to be followed almost from the gate of the hall stockade.  So they came at last to the tree, and on it the head hung yet, but the body was clean gone.  All round the tree the snow was reddened and trampled by the fierce beasts who leapt to reach the head, and the marks of their clawing was on the trunk, where they had tried to climb it.  From the footmarks it seemed that there were eight or nine of them.  Three great ones had left the head and followed us presently as far as the brook, half a mile away.

After that the two men went on to the place where Owen had found me, and there my father, judging from the dress and loneliness of the Briton that he might be able to help him somewhat, said: 

“I do not know what your plans may be, but is there any reason why you should not bide here and help me tend the life you have kept for me?”

Then answered Owen:  “You know nought of me, Thane.  For all you ken, I may be but an outlaw who is fleeing from justice.”

“Do I know nought about you?  I think that last night and what I have seen today have told me much, and I have been held as a good judge of a man.  If so be that you were an outlaw, which I do not think, what you have done is enough to inlaw you again with any honest man—­even had you taken a life, for you have saved one.  Did I know you were an outlaw I would see to your pardon.  But maybe you are on a journey that may not be hindered?”

Now Owen was silent for a little, and there came a shadow over his face as he answered, slowly and with his eyes on the far sea: 

“No man’s man am I, and I am but drifting Westward again at random.  Yet I can say in all truth, that I am no wanderer for ill reason in any wise.  I will tell you, Thane, here and alone, that there are foes in my home for whose passing, in one way or another, I must needs wait.  Even now I was on my way to Bosham, where they tell me are Western monks with whom I might bide for a time, if not altogether.  I was lost in the forest last night.”