However, by and by Howel said to Nona suddenly, in a low voice: 

“Look yonder at the Norseman.  He must be talking heathenry to yon priest, for the good man seems well-nigh wild.  What can we do?”

Truly, the face of Morfed was black as thunder, while that of the Norseman was shining with delight in some long-winded story he was telling.  The white-robed servants were clearing the tables at this moment, and the prince’s bard, a fine old harper with golden collar and chain, was tuning his little gilded harp as if the time for song had come.

“Make him sing,” said Nona.  “I bade him here tonight that he might do so.  He has some wondrous tale to tell us.”

Howel beckoned to the harper, and signed to him, and the old man rose at once and went to Thorgils.  It was not the first time that he had sung here, it was plain.  Then I noted that the priest was scowling fiercely at myself, and I wondered idly why.  I supposed, so far as I troubled to think thereof that he was one of those who hated the very name of Saxon.

Now Thorgils took the harp without demur, smiling at the bard in thanks, and so came forward into the space round which the tables were set, while a silence fell on the company.

“If my song goeth not smoothly in the British tongue, Prince, forgive me.  I can but do my best.  Truly, I have even now asked my neighbour, Father Morfed, if it is fairly rendered, but I have not had his answer yet.”

He ran his hand over the already tuned strings, and lifted his voice and began.  It was not the first time that he had handled a British harp, by any means, but if he played well he sang better.  I do not think that one need want to hear a finer voice than his; and though he had seen fit to doubt his powers, his Welsh was as good as mine, and maybe, by reason of constant use, far more easy.

And next moment I knew that he was going to sing nothing more or less than of King Ina’s Yule feast, and what happened thereat.  He had promised to tell the princess the story, and this was her doing, of course.  I could not stop him, and there I must sit and listen to as highly coloured a tale as a poet could make of it.  Once he saw that I was growing red, and he grinned gently at me across the harp, and worked up the struggle still more terribly.  And all the while Morfed the priest glowered at me, until at length he rose and left the room.

I was glad enough when Thorgils ended that song, but Nona must ask him for yet another, and that pleased him, of course, and he began once more.  This time he sang, to my great confusion, of the drinking of the bowl, and of my vow, and I wished that I was anywhere but in Pembroke, or that I could reach the three-legged stool on which he was perched from under him.  I never knew a man easy while the gleemen sang his deeds, save Ina, who was used to it, and never listened; and I knew not where to look, though maybe more than half the folk present did not understand that I was the hero of the song.  Nevertheless, I had to put up with it, till he ended with a verse or two of praise of our host and of the princess who loved the songs of the bard, and so took his applause with a happy smile and went and sat down, while Nona bade her maidens bear a golden cup and wine to him.