Beniah did not reply to this question, but rose to make preparation for his journey. Then, as if suddenly recollecting something that had escaped him, he returned to his seat.
“My child,” he said, “I have that to tell you which will make you sad—unless I greatly misunderstand your nature. Gunrig, your enemy, is dying.”
That the Hebrew had not misunderstood Branwen’s nature was evident, from the genuine look of sorrow and sympathy which instantly overspread her countenance.
“Call him not my enemy!” she exclaimed. “An enemy cannot love! But, tell me about him. I had heard the report that he was recovering.”
“It was the report of a sanguine mother who will not believe that his end is so near; but she is mistaken. I saw him two days ago. The arrow-head is still rankling in his chest, and he knows himself to be dying.”
“Is he much changed in appearance?” asked Branwen.
“Indeed he is. His great strength is gone, and he submits to be treated as a child—yet he is by no means childish. The manliness of his strong nature is left, but the boastfulness has departed, and he looks death in the face like a true warrior; though I cannot help thinking that if choice had been given him he would have preferred to fall by the sword of Bladud, or some doughty foe who could have given him a more summary dismissal from this earthly scene.”
“Beniah, I will visit him,” said Branwen, suddenly brushing back her hair with both hands, and looking earnestly into the Hebrew’s face.
“That will be hard for you to do and still keep yourself concealed.”
“Nothing will be easier,” replied the girl, with some impatience; “you forget the old woman’s dress. I will accompany you as far as his dwelling. It is only an easy day’s journey on foot from here.”