TWO PEBBLES
Tidings of the blow to be struck, reaching the hearts of many
families--six only at first, but with prospect of more afterwards--had
spread through the tribal region. Those who had drawn the unmarked
sticks hurried to their homes, not tarrying to learn who were all the
unfortunates; and, although relieved for the present were in fear lest
they should be unfortunate at a subsequent drawing.
All knew that Pabo was in concealment, and that his place of concealment
was known to none, not even to his wife or to Howel. They had not a clue
as to where he was. Some supposed that he had fled to the mountains of
Brecknock, others to Cardigan; some, again, that he had attached himself
to Griffith ap Rhys, who was traversing South Wales, stirring up
disaffection and preparing for a general rising of the Welsh against
their oppressors.
Yet hardly half a dozen men desired that he should be taken, and thus
free themselves from death. The great and heroic virtue of the Celt lies
in his devotion to his chief, for whom he is ready at once to lay down
his life.
The hideous prospect that lay before the unfortunate people of Caio was
one of illimited decimation. Would Rogier weary of his barbarous work?
Would it avail to send a deputation to the bishop? It was doubtful
whether the latter was not as hard of heart as his lay brother.
Gwen, the wife of Howel, was as one stunned. She leaned with both hands
against the wall of her house, her head drooping between them, with dry,
glazed eyes, and for long speechless.
Morwen was now in Howel's house. She had returned to it.
She was pale, and quivering with emotion under the weight of great
horror, unable to speak.
Her eyes were fixed on the despairing woman, from whose lips issued a
low moan, and whose bosom heaved with long-drawn, laborious breaths.
Morwen was well aware what sacrifices the tribe was making and would
have to make for her husband's safety, and this gave inexpressible pain
to her.
The moans of the poor woman cut her to the heart. At length, unable to
endure it longer, she went to her, put her arms round her, and drew her
to herself. Then, all at once, with a cry, the wife of Howel shook
herself free, and found words--
"Monday! It is on Monday that he must die, and that is our thirtieth
wedding-day? For all these years we have been together, as one soul, and
it will tear the heart out of my body--and to be hung on the
gallows--the shame, the loss--and Howel so clever, so shrewd! Where has
been his wit that he could not get free? He always had a cunning above
other men. And on our wedding-day!" She ran to a coffer and opened it,
and drew forth a knitted garment, such as we should nowadays call a
jersey.
"See, see!" cried the wretched woman. "I have been fashioning this; a
thought of him is knitted into every loop I have made, and I have kissed
it--kissed it a thousand times because it was for him. He feels the cold
in the long winters, and I made this for him that he might be warm, and
wherever he was remember me, and bear my kisses and my finger-work about
him. And he must die, and shiver, and be cold in the grave! Nay, shiver
and be cold hanging on the gallows, and the cold winds sway him. He
shall wear my knitted garment. They will let me pass to him, and I will
draw it over him."
Then in at the door came the old man, who had been left when his son was
taken. He was supporting that son's wife, and at the same time was
carrying her child, which she was incapable of sustaining. She was
frantic with grief.
"I have brought one sorrowful woman to another," said the old man. "This
is Sheena. She must not see it. They are taking my son now to ----. Keep
her here, she is mad. She will run there, and if she sees, she will die.
For the child's sake, pity her, make her live--calm her."
She had been allowed an hour with her husband in their house, and then
the soldiers had led him away, bound his hands behind his back, and had
conducted him towards the church.
She had followed with the child, crying, plucking at her hair with the
one free hand, thrusting from her the old man who would hold her back,
striving to reach, to retain her husband, her eyes blinded with terror
and tears, her limbs giving way under her.
The five men confined within the court-house heard her piercing cries,
her entreaties to be allowed once more to kiss her husband, her screams
as she was repulsed by the guards. They shuddered and put their hands to
their ears; but one, the foxfaced man, whose name was Madoc, burst into
a torrent of curses and of blasphemy till Morgan the Sacristan went to
him in reproof, and then the wretched man turned on him with
imprecations.
"Come now, man," said the smith, "why shouldst thou take on so
frantically? We leave wives that we love and that love us; but thy old
cat, good faith! I should esteem it a welcome release to be freed from
her tongue and nails."
On nearing the gallows, where stood Rogier, that captain ordered the
removal of Sheena; and when she saw a ladder set up against the
crosspiece that sustained the bell, her cries ceased, she reeled, and
would have let the child drop had not her father-in-law caught it from
her.
"One kiss--one last kiss! I have forgot something to say--let him bless
his child!" she entreated.
Rogier hesitated and consented, on the condition that she should then be
at once removed. Thereupon the desolate woman staggered to the foot of
the gallows, threw her arms round her husband's neck; and the man who
acted as executioner relaxed the rope that bound his wrists, that he
might bring his hands before him and lay them on his infant's head. Then
the death-doomed man raised his eyes to heaven and said, "The
benediction and the strength of God and the help of our fathers David
and Cynwyl be with thee, my son, and when thou art a man revenge thy
father and thy wronged country."
At once the cord was drawn again, and his hands rebound. The old man
took his daughter-in-law in one arm whilst bearing the babe in the
other, and seeing that consciousness was deserting Sheena, hurried her
to the house of Howel. There, after a moment of dazed looking about her,
she sank senseless on the floor.
Morwen flew to her assistance, and Howel's wife somewhat rallied from
her stupefaction.
At that same moment in burst Angarad, the wife of foxfaced Madoc.
"Where is she?" she shouted, her eyes glaring, her hair bristling with
rage. "She is here--she--the wife of our chief. Are we all to be dragged
to the gallows because of him? Is every woman to become a widow? He call
himself a priest! Why, his Master gave His life for His sheep, and
he--ours--fleeth and hideth his head, whilst those whom he should guard
are being torn by the wolves."
"Silence, woman!" exclaimed the old man wrathfully. "I joy that my son
has given up his life to save his chief."
"But I am not content to surrender my Madoc," yelled the beldame. "Let
us have the hated Saxon or the worst Norman to rule over us, rather than
one who skulks and dares not show his face. My Madoc will be hung
to-morrow, as they have hung Sheena's man now. I have seen it. They
pulled him up."
"Be silent," shouted the old man, and tried to shut her mouth.
"I will not be silent. I saw it all. They drew him up, and then a man
sprang from the ladder upon his shoulders and stamped."
A cry of agony from the wife of Howel, who flung out her hands, as
before, against the wall, and stayed herself there. Sheena heard
nothing--she was but returning to consciousness.
"Why do you not bring him back?" asked the hag, facing Morwen with fists
clenched, fangs exposed, and eyes glaring. "Why do you keep him hidden,
that we all may be widows--and you be happy with your man? What shall I
do without my Madoc? Who will support me? Am I young enough to maintain
myself? Is the whole tribe to be dragged down, that you and your husband
may live at ease and be merry?"
"Woman," said Morwen, trembling, "I do not know where he is concealed."
"Then find him, and let him come forward to save us all. Shame, I say,
shame on him!--the false shepherd--the hireling--who fleeth and careth
not for the sheep!"
The rattle of arms was heard, and at the sound Morwen slipped out of the
room into the inner apartment that she might not be seen.
Immediately two men-at-arms entered, leading Howel between them.
"He is granted one hour," said the man who could speak a few words of
Welsh. "On Monday he dies."
"Clear the room!" said the old man; and to the soldier: "Remove this
frantic woman." He indicated Angarad; and he himself, with their
assistance, drew her--swearing, struggling, spluttering with rage--from
the house. Sheena remained where she had been laid--as yet barely
conscious. Howel's wife dropped into her husband's arms, moaning, still
powerless to weep.
In the inner chamber, dimly lighted by a small window covered with
bladder in place of glass, on a bed sat Morwen, with her hands clasped
between her knees, looking despairingly before her. Every word of the
cruel woman had cut her heart as the stab of an envenomed poignard.
Did Pabo know what was being done at Caio? No--assuredly not. She who
had read his thoughts and knew his heart was well aware that he would
readily die himself rather than that any of his people should suffer. He
knew nothing. They, with a rare exception only, would meet their fate,
the men give their necks to the halter, the women submit to be made
widows rather than that their master and chief should fall into the
hands of his enemies. Brave, true, faithful hearts! But was it right
that they should be called on to endure such sacrifices? She shuddered.
What, would she have him taken and die an ignominious death? Him whom
she loved better than any one--with a one, soul-filling love? Could she
endure such a sacrifice as that? Then she heard the step of Howel coming
to the door.
He entered and was with her alone.
"Morwen," said he, in a low voice, "I shall be able shortly to do no
more for my dear chief. Should you ever see him again, tell him from us
all--all but perhaps one who is beside himself with fear--that we die
willingly. But with him I can no more communicate. That must be done by
you. It is expedient that he should fly farther; search will be made
everywhere for him. Where he is, that I know not, though I may have my
suspicion. Do this--at nightfall mount the valley of the Annell till you
come to the stone of Cynwyl."
"The stone of Cynwyl," repeated Morwen mechanically.
"Take a pebble out of the brook and place it upon the rock. That will be
a sign that he is not safe, and must fly to other quarters."
"What other tokens be there?"
"Two pebbles was to be the sign that all was safe and he was to return.
That is not the case at this present time. Remember, then--One pebble."
"And two calls him hither?"
"Two pebbles. But remember, One only."
"Two pebbles," said Morwen, but so that none heard it: it was said to
her own heart.