"It is a many years since these eyes of mine have wept," he said. "It seems to me that to weep for the woes of another is a wondrous thing."
His eyes of a sudden opened widely in the moonlight, and he cried out and clutched at the man next him.
"Brothers! brothers!" he said; "what is this?"
And again he set his hand to his eyes as if shading them, as does a man at noontide.
"What ails you?" one of the men asked, wondering.
"I have no ailment--none. I see once more!" he cried. "Look you, yonder is the blessed moon, and there lies a broken tree; and see, there are fires on the hills of the Welshmen!"
Then with both hands wide before him he said:
"Now I see that I have set my hands on one who can be naught but a saint most holy, for therefrom I have my sight again. Who is this that has been slain?"
The men answered him, telling him. The blind man had heard, of course, of the poor young king, and had, indeed, been brought hither from wherever he lived that he might share in the largess of the wedding day.
Now the men would go their way with him again, wondering, but yet half doubting the truth of what the man said.