“He calls himself Curan, lord.”
“Calls himself. Well, it is likely that he knows his own name best. Is he Welsh, therefore?”
“So I think, lord.”
“You might have been certain by this time, surely. I like Welshmen about the place, and I was giving you credit for finding me a good one. Whence comes he?”
Now it was on Berthun’s tongue to say that he thought that Curan came from the marshland, yet clinging to his own thoughts of what he was. He did not at all believe that he came from that refuge of thralls. But he must seem certain unless he was to be laughed at again.
So he said, “He comes from the marsh-country.”
“Does he speak Welsh?”
“I have heard him do so to the market people, if he happened to meet a Briton there.”
“Why, then, of course he is Welsh: and here have I found out in two minutes what you have taken I do not know how long to think about. Go to, Berthun; you grow slow of mind with good living.”
The king chuckled, and Berthun bowed humbly; but now the steward was determined to say no more than he was obliged in answer to more questions. Also he began to hope that Alsi would ask nothing about the clothes this man of his wore, else he would be well laughed at for spending his money on a stranger.