Bless the thorntree, maidens and boys, and bless the spring of the year!"
David watched them indulgently, for the days of the Druids were far off. When their dance was over, they rushed in a body to his feet, begging his blessing, and crying out compliments, sincere though extravagant, upon his sanctity and his fame.
"Dewi Sant! Dewi Sant! Father of the Saints of Britain! May he live amongst us for ever!"
"As God wills," said he, as he turned to leave them. "Beautiful the May tree—more beautiful the groves of Paradise. There is a hard task, my brothers, for Ismael."
His companions remembered well what he had spoken of Ismael in two months less than a year from that hour.[ [13]
One February day in the year Six Hundred and One, many folk, rich and poor, flocked to the walls of Ty Ddewi, David's monastic enclosure. A rumour had gone abroad that the saint had had heavenly premonition that his end was near at hand. So, weeping and lamenting, these men and women came from the regions around, crying upon their bishop to take their sadness from them. Within Ty Ddewi there was a wonderful silence and peace; and in the streets of Mynyw were heard the flutterings of invisible wings.
"Look you, this mourning must cease, now!" said blessed David.
"Well, well, true is what ye have heard. Merry tidings have reached me! In a little while from now, on the first day of March, I must go hence to the place where is life without end, rest without labour, and joy without sorrow—where is health and no pain, youth and no old age, peace and no contention, music and no discord. I charge you pray always, in all your undertakings, spiritual and bodily; and be good, little people, for the best usage is goodness."
His last words on earth were just as simple:
"Take me with Thee!"