“Yes, better even than you imagine, my big one,” replied Cormac.
“What! is there something beyond my ken simmering in thy noddle, thou pert squirrel?”
“Perchance there is, father dear.”
A sound at the root of Gadarn’s nose betrayed suppressed laughter, as he turned away.
Quarter of an hour later a band of foot-soldiers defiled out of the camp, with Cormac in their midst, mounted on a small pony, and Gadarn, calling another of his lieutenants, told him to let it be known throughout the camp, that if any officer or man should allow his tongue to wag with reference to the lad who had just left the camp, his tongue would be silenced for all future time, and an oak limb be decorated with an acorn that never grew on it.
“You know, and they know, that I’m a man of my word—away!” said the chief, returning to the privacy of his booth.
While these events were happening at the camp, Bladud and Beniah were discussing many subjects—religion among others, for they were both philosophical as well as seriously-minded. But neither their philosophy nor their religion were profound enough at that time to remove anxiety about the youth who had just left them.
“I wish that I were clear of the whole business,” remarked the Hebrew uneasily, almost petulantly.
“Why, do you fear that any evil can happen to the boy?” asked Bladud anxiously.
“Oh! I fear not for him. It is not that. He will be among friends at the camp—but—but I know not how Gadarn may take it.”