“But, my child, I go on horseback; and I am to be supplied with only one horse.”
“Well, my father, that is no difficulty; for I will ride and you shall walk. You will bring the horse here instead of starting straight from the palace. Then we will set off together, and I will gallop on in advance. When you reach Gunrig’s house in the evening, you will find the horse fed and rested, and ready for you to go on.”
“But how will you return, child?”
“By using my legs, man! As an old witch I can travel anywhere at night in perfect safety.”
According to this arrangement—to which the Hebrew was fain to agree—the pair started off a little after daybreak the following morning. Branwen galloped, as she had said, in advance, leaving her protector to make his slower way through the forest.
The sun was high when the domestics of Gunrig’s establishment were thrown into a state of great surprise and no little alarm at sight of a little old woman in grey bestriding a goodly horse and galloping towards the house. Dashing into the courtyard at full speed, and scattering the onlookers right and left, she pulled up with some difficulty, just in time to prevent the steed going through the parchment window of the kitchen.
“Help me down!” she cried, looking full in the face of a lumpish lad, who stood gazing at her with open eyes and mouth. “Don’t you see I am old and my joints are stiff? Be quick!”
There was a commanding tone in her shrill voice that brooked no delay. The lumpish lad shut his mouth, reduced his eyes, and, going shyly forward, held out his hand. The old woman seized it, and, almost before he had time to wink, stood beside him.
“Where is Gunrig’s room?” she demanded.
All the observers pointed to a door at the end of a passage.