Now I was sure that he was crazed in all truth, and I would speak him fair that I might learn what he would tell me. Howel was silent, seeming to look curiously at the golden toy in the priest's hand, as it shifted restlessly backward and forward.
"We have come hither to pry into no ancient rites, Morfed," I said. "Tell me what you know of Owen the prince, my foster father, and we will go hence. I have seen that which tells me that he is near, but there are yet things that I must learn of how he came and where he lies."
But Morfed seemed to heed me not at all as I spoke. Only, he kept moving the little sickle which Howel watched, and its glancings drew my eyes to it in spite of myself, for overhead the sky was clearing somewhat and the sun was trying to break through, and the gold shone brightly.
"Midday," muttered the priest, "nigh midday, and what is to be done against the morrow must be done, else will the tale of many a thousand years be marred, and by me. Lo! the sun comes, and time passes swiftly."
The sun did indeed shine out now as some cloud passed, and I saw that its rays came slanting through the gap in the cliffs across the pool, passing the menhir without lighting on it, but falling now on the flat rock that was behind it, though not fully yet. Half thereof was still in the shadow thrown by the hills.
Morfed glanced at that shadow, and his face changed, for I think that he knew the time for some midday rite which we might not see was near, and at that he seemed to make some resolve. He did not turn from us, but he lifted his voice in a strange chant, and said somewhat in Welsh that I could not understand, and as they heard it his two followers placed themselves on either side of the flat rock three paces behind him, and stood motionless. Then Morfed lifted his arm and began to sing softly, swinging the sickle in time to the song, with his eyes on us.
I thought that maybe he would sing to us the end of Owen, as would Thorgils, but the tongue in which the words were spoken was not the Welsh that I knew. I think now that it was the tongue of the men who reared the menhir, and that which was the mother of the tongue of Howel and Gerent alike. It was an uncanny song, and I waxed uneasy as it went on, and the flashing sickle waved more quickly before my eyes.
Soon the murmur of the song seemed to get into my brain, as it were, and the sparkle of the gold in the sunlight wove itself into strange circles of light before my eyes, widening and narrowing in mystic curves that dazzled me, until at last I would look no longer, and with an effort I turned my head and glanced at Howel to ask if this foolishness should not be ended.
But he shook his head.
"Let him be," he said in a whisper. "It is ill to anger a crazed man. Surely he will tell what we need soon."