Morfed held up his hand, and they stayed, glaring at us.  I listened for the coming of more of his followers down the water course, but I heard none.

Then Morfed spoke a word or two to his men, and came toward us, leaving them standing where they were, some twenty paces or less behind him, and as he came his pale face shewed no sort of feeling of any kind.  His strange bright eyes seemed to look past us, as if we were but stones at the path side.

“So it is the Saxon,” he said, staying close before us.  “Well, I have waited for you, if I did not look to see you here.  And this is Howel of Dyfed.  Surely a Briton knows that to break in on the rites of the Druid is death?  But Howel ever was rash.  And this is the outlaw.  It is a true saying that he who sees this place shall die, Evan.”

Then said Howel boldly:  “Briton I am, and therefore I know that the rites of the Druid are banned by Holy Church.  Wherefore does one of her priests come in this heathen robe to such a place as this on the eve of midsummer?”

“Seeing that none but the initiated may know what truth the ancient faith holds, it is not for you to say that this is heathenry, Prince,” Morfed answered more quietly than I expected.  “Ask yon Saxon if his Yule feast is less sacred to him now because it is not so long since that it was Woden’s.  Is tomorrow less Midsummer Day because it is the day of St. John?  Hold your peace thereon, and go hence while I suffer you.”

At that I glanced at the mouth of the valley whence we came, half looking to see it blocked by men, but it was not.  There was nothing to stay us three armed men in this place, with but three against us, and they well-nigh defenceless.  Morfed saw that glance and laughed.

“The Druid has other arms than those of steel,” he said, and he drew slowly from the wide cincture round his waist a little golden sickle and balanced it in his hand before me, flashing it to and fro.

Now I was sure that he was crazed in all truth, and I would speak him fair that I might learn what he would tell me.  Howel was silent, seeming to look curiously at the golden toy in the priest’s hand, as it shifted restlessly backward and forward.

“We have come hither to pry into no ancient rites, Morfed,” I said.  “Tell me what you know of Owen the prince, my foster father, and we will go hence.  I have seen that which tells me that he is near, but there are yet things that I must learn of how he came and where he lies.”

But Morfed seemed to heed me not at all as I spoke.  Only, he kept moving the little sickle which Howel watched, and its glancings drew my eyes to it in spite of myself, for overhead the sky was clearing somewhat and the sun was trying to break through, and the gold shone brightly.

“Midday,” muttered the priest, “nigh midday, and what is to be done against the morrow must be done, else will the tale of many a thousand years be marred, and by me.  Lo! the sun comes, and time passes swiftly.”