Suddenly, above the hubbub, was heard the voice of the King, in accents of menace and wrath, singularly distinct and clear; it was followed by a moment’s silence—a moment’s silence followed by the clatter of arms, a yell, and a howl, and the indescribable shock of men.
And suddenly again was heard a voice that seemed that of the King, but no longer distinct and clear!—was it laugh?—was it groan?
All was hushed; the monk was on his knees in prayer; the knight’s sword was bare in his hand. All was hushed—and the spears stood still in the air; when there was again a cry, as multitudinous, but less savage than before. And the Welch came down the pass, and down the crags.
The knight placed his back to a rock. “They have orders to murther us,” he murmured; “but woe to the first who come within reach of my sword!”
Down swarmed the Welchmen, nearer and nearer; and in the midst of them three chiefs—the Fatal Three. And the old chief bore in his hand a pole or spear, and on the top of that spear, trickling gore step by step, was the trunkless head of Gryffyth the King.
“This,” said the old chief, as he drew near, “this is our answer to Harold the Earl. We will go with ye.”
“Food! food!” cried the multitude.
And the three chiefs (one on either side the trunkless head that the third bore aloft) whispered, “We are avenged!”