XXVMedrawt sat beneath a gaunt hawthorn tree, holding a crust of bread and a pannikin of water in his hands, though he did not regard them. The morning sun beat onto his back, for the warm spell still held, and the clouds rose to great turreted heights in a blue sky. From time to time his eyes strayed to the bodies that lay here and there about him, on the fringes of the wood. He did not look at them for long, however. By now he knew well enough what a Jute was like, and one was much the same as another. They had fought well, these farmers and herdsmen, but the might of the Cymry had been too much for them.
One who lay nearest to Medrawt stared up at the morning sky, pleasantly, as though trying to weigh up what sort of day it was going to be. He seemed to have died thinking of the late b
