Aldyth rose coldly. “Slay me if thou wilt—not insult me. I have said, ‘Let us die!’”
With these words, and vouchsafing no look on her lord, she moved away towards the largest tower or cell, in which the single and rude chamber it contained had been set apart for her.
Gryffyth’s eye followed her, softening gradually as her form receded, till lost to his sight. And then that peculiar household love, which in uncultivated breasts often survives trust and esteem, rushed back on his rough heart, and weakened it, as woman only can weaken the strong to whom Death is a thought of scorn.
He signed to his bard, who, during the conference between wife and lord, had retired to a distance, and said, with a writhing attempt to smile:
“Was there truth, thinkest thou, in the legend, that Guenever was false to King Arthur?”
“No,” answered the bard, divining his lord’s thought, for Guenever survived not the King, and they were buried side by side in the Vale of Avallon.”
“Thou art wise in the lore of the heart, and love hath been thy study from youth to grey hairs. Is it love, is it hate, that prefers death for the loved one, to the thought of her life as another’s?” A look of the tenderest compassion passed over the bard’s wan face, but vanished in reverence, as he bowed his head and answered:
“O King, who shall say what note the wind calls from the harp, what impulse love wakes in the soul—now soft and now stern? But,” he added, raising his form, and, with a dread calm on his brow, “but the love of a king brooks no thought of dishonour; and she who hath laid her head on his breast should sleep in his grave.”
“Thou wilt outlive me,” said Gryffyth, abruptly. “This carn be my tomb!”
“And if so,” said the bard, “thou shalt sleep not alone. In this carn what thou lovest best shall be buried by thy side; the bard shall raise his song over thy grave, and the bosses of shields shall be placed at intervals, as rises and falls the sound of song. Over the grave of two shall a new mound arise, and we will bid the mound speak to others in the fair days to come. But distant yet be the hour when the mighty shall be laid low! and the tongue of thy bard may yet chant the rush of the lion from the toils and the spears. Hope still!”