“Hast heard the news?” she asked, with a gladsome smile.
“Not I,” replied Branwen, in a rather sharp tone.
“Whatever it is, it seems to have made you happy.”
“Truly it has. But let us go in with the bandages first. The news is too good to be told in a hurry.”
The sound of their voices as they entered aroused Gunrig completely, and he rose up as they approached.
“My father sent us,” said the princess in some confusion, “to see that you are well cared for. Your wounds, I hope, are not dangerous?”
“Dangerous, no; and they will not prevent me from speedily avenging myself on the young upstart who has appeared so suddenly to claim you for a bride. Stay, you need not go so quickly, or toss your head in pride. I will stand by my word, and let him keep who wins. But I have a word to say to you, Branwen. Come along with me.”
Wooers among the ancient Albionites were not, it would seem, celebrated for politeness—some of them, at least! The chief seized the shrinking girl by the wrist as he spoke, and led her out of the house and into a neighbouring thicket, where he bade her sit down on a fallen tree.
“Now,” he said, sitting down beside her, and putting his arm round her waist, despite her objections, “this young turkey-cock has fairly won Hafrydda, and he is welcome to her for all that I care—that is, if he lives to claim her hand after our next meeting, for, since I’ve seen your pretty face, Branwen, I would rather wed you than the fairest lass that ever owned to Norland blood. What say you to take the princess’s place and become my wife?”
“Oh! no, no,” exclaimed Branwen, in great distress, trying to disengage his arm, “you love Hafrydda, and it is impossible that you can love us both! Let me go.”