CHAPTER FOUR
S
o Gwyndoc
sat waiting by the side of the old druid stone. And a lark rose from the heather, almost at his feet, and soared up and up until his keen eyes lost it in the blue morning sky. And as he stared after it the bird’s mellow song cascaded down around his ears, like a stream of jewels that had suddenly been let flow from an upturned treasure-bag. The young Celt’s blood raced in him and he whistled back in happiness, as loud and as high as he could, trying to answer the lark.
A sudden wayward breeze started up from beyond the wood at his back and caught his long flaxen hair, whipping it about his face and bringing the red blood to his upturned cheeks. And he felt that he wanted to dance and sing and perhaps swing his new sword round his head, so that all the tribesmen
