Now that was a question on which I had no thought ready, seeing that I had never held any man of much rank to ransom before, and I hesitated.  At last I remembered what some great Mercian thane had to pay to Owen some years ago, and I named that sum, which was good enough for me and Erpwald and Thorgils to share between us.

Thereon his face flushed red, and he scowled fiercely at me.

“What!—­Is that the value of a prince of Morganwg?  It is ill to insult a captive.”

“Nay, Prince, there is no insult—­”

“By St. Petroc, but there is, though!  What will the men of Morganwg—­what will the Dyfed men say when they hear that the Saxon holds one of the line of Arthur at the value of a hundred cows?  Ay, that is how I shall be known henceforth!—­Mordred of the cows, forsooth.”

He was working himself up into a rage now, and even Jago from the corner of the tent where he sat, dejectedly enough, began to smile.  I had spoken of fair coined silver, and I had some trouble myself in keeping a grave face when this Welsh prince counted the cost of cattle therein.

“Will you double the sum, Prince?” I asked in all good faith.

“I will pay the ransom that is fitting for a prince of Morganwg to pay when his foes have the advantage of him.  The honour of the Cymro is concerned.”

“Ask him his value,” said Jago in Saxon, knowing that Mordred did not understand that tongue at all.  “Never was so good a chance of selling a man at his own price.”

Then I could not help a smile, and Mordred waxed furious.  He turned on Jago with his fist clenched.

“Silence, you miserable—­”

“Prince, Prince,” I cried.  “He did but bid me ask you what was fitting.”

“Well, then, do it,” he cried, stamping impatiently, and glaring at Jago yet.

It was plain that if he did not understand the Saxon he saw that there was some jest.

“It is a hard matter for me to set a price on you, Prince,” I said gravely.  “I have never held one of your rank to ransom before, so that you will forgive seeming discourtesy if I have unwittingly done what was not fitting in the matter.  What would the men of your land think worthy of you?”

“Once,” he said slowly, “it was the ill luck of my—­of some forebear of mine to have to be ransomed.  They paid so much for him.”

He named a sum in good Welsh gold that it had never come into my mind to dream of.  It was riches for all three of us.  And I dared not say that it was too much and somewhat like foolishness, for it was his own valuation.  So I held my peace.

“Not enough?” he asked, not angrily, but as if it would be an honour to hear that I set him higher.  “What more shall I add?”

“No more, Prince.  I see that I have yet things to learn.”

Truly, I had always heard that the tale of the golden tribute to Rome from Britain had tempted my forebears here first of all, and now I believed it.  I suppose these Welsh princes had hoards which had been carried from out of the way of us Saxons and Angles long ago.