"'Tis me, Hugh—Mari Vone. Hast one word of fforwel for me?"
"No," he said; "lean forward that I may see thy face, lass." Already his words came broken and disjointed. "Death is always a revealer, and I see everything plainly now. Mari, no fforwel to thee."
Another long silence, while the face bleached visibly, and the dark eyelashes drooped on the waxen cheek. The lips moved, and stooping over him, Mari caught the words:
"Torn sails, broken mast!" and something about "in port at last!"
Breathlessly they waited for the end, when suddenly the eyes opened wide, and in clear though low tones, Hugh Morgan's voice was heard once more.
"Mari," he said.
"I am here; close to thee, Hugh anwl."
"Come soon," and with these words his spirit took its flight.
In a few days all that was mortal of Hugh Morgan was laid to rest in the little churchyard on the hill. Gwladys had completely succumbed to her sorrow, and she lay unconscious in the delirium of fever, while her husband's funeral left the house, thus escaping all the heart-searching accessories of a Welsh burial—the muffled tread of the crowd who assemble, the peculiar mournful monotone of the prayers, and above all, the wailing, sorrowful tones of the funeral hymn. In her absence, Ivor and Mari followed as chief mourners, and never in the memory of Mwntseison had there been so large a gathering.
All that remained of poor Gwen was buried in the same little churchyard on the brow of the hill, where the sea winds swept over her grave and Hugh's alike. The seagulls flew over them both, and the harebells nodded over them, and no stranger passing by would have guessed the tragedy that connected the two graves.