“I cannot—cannot believe it is you,” she exclaimed aloud—and then, whispering in Branwen’s ear, “oh! you wicked creature, to make such a hypocrite of me. But come,” she added aloud, “come to my room. I must have you all to myself alone.”
For one moment, as they passed, Branwen raised her eyes, and, as they met those of the prince, a deep blush overspread her face. Another moment and the two friends had left the hall together.
We need not weary the reader by describing the games and festivities that followed. Such matters have probably been much the same, in all important respects, since the beginning of time. There was a vast amount of enthusiasm and willingness to be contented with little on the part of the people, and an incredible desire to talk and delay matters, and waste time, on the part of judges, umpires, and starters, but there was nothing particularly noteworthy, except that Bladud consented to run one race with his friend Dromas, and was signally beaten by him, to the secret satisfaction of Hafrydda, and the open amusement of the king.
But Branwen did not appear at the games, nor did she appear again during the remainder of that day, and poor Bladud was obliged to restrain his anxiety, for he felt constrained to remain beside his father, and, somehow, he failed in his various attempts to have a few words of conversation with his mother.
At last, like all sublunary things, the games came to an end, and the prince hastened to his sister’s room.
“May I come in?” he asked, knocking.
“Yes, brother.”
There was a peculiar tone in her voice, and a curious expression in her eyes, that the prince did not fail to note.
“Hafrydda,” he exclaimed, eagerly, “there is no Cormac?”
“True, brother, there is no Cormac—there never was. Branwen and Cormac are one!”