For the third time I heard it, and now it was plainly like the half-stifled cry of some one in pain among the trees to the right of me, and not far distant either.  So I rode toward the place whence the cry seemed to come, and as I went I called.  At that the voice rose more often, with some sound of entreaty in its tone, and it seemed to be trying to form words.  I hastened then, crossing more wolf tracks on the way, and then I struck the trail of many men and a few horses; but these were not Eric’s, for the hoof marks were rather those of ponies than of his tall steeds.  I followed that track, for it seemed to lead toward the weary voice that I heard, and so I came to a circle of great oaks with a clear space of many paces wide between them, and there I found what I was seeking.  It was piteous enough.

A man was tied to the greatest of the trees, with knees to chin, and bound ankles, while round his knees his hands were clasped and fastened so that a stout stake was thrust through, under his knees and over his elbows, trussing him helplessly.  The cords that bound him to the tree were round his body in such wise that he could by no means fall on his side and so work himself free from the stake, and round his mouth was a ragged cloth tied, but not closely enough to prevent him from calling out as I heard him.  I think that he must have gnawed it from closer binding than I saw now.  Across the snow behind him the paws of some daring wolf had left marks as if the beast had sniffed at his very back not so long since, and surely but for the chance of my coming that way nought but his bones had been left in that place by the pack before morning came again.

It was a strange cry that this man gave when he saw me, for in no way could I take it for a cry of joy for rescue.  I could rather think that he had raised the same when the wolf came near him.  And when I dismounted and led my horse after me toward him he seemed to try to shrink from me, as if I also meant him harm.  I thought that the poor soul had surely gone distracted with the fear of the forest beasts on him, so that he no longer knew friend from foe, and I wondered how long he had been bound here in this lonely place.  I had seen no house or trace of men between here and Tenby.

I hitched the bridle rein over a low bough, and leaving my horse went toward him to set him loose, wondering who had left him here.  And as I drew my seax and went to cut the lashings he writhed afresh and cried piteously for mercy in what sounded like bad Saxon from behind the cloth across his face, as though he deemed that I came to slay him.  I did not notice the strangeness of his using my own tongue here in the heart of a Welsh land at the time, but thought he took me for one of those who had bound him.

“Fear not,” I said, speaking in Welsh to comfort him.

And if anything, that seemed to terrify him yet more.

“Mercy, good Thane—­mercy!” he mumbled from his half-stifled lips.