The Hot Swamp

by R. M. Ballantyne

“The very thing,” she said, recovering from petrification, “and I’ll do it!”

The preliminary step to doing it seemed to be a general turn over of the Hebrew’s shawls, all of which, though many were beautiful, she rejected one after another until she found an old and considerably worn grey one. This she shook out and examined with approving nods, as if it were the finest fabric that ever had issued from the looms of Cashmere. Tying her luxuriant hair into a tight knot behind, and smoothing it down on each side of her face, and well back so as not to be obtrusive, she flung the old shawl over her head, induced a series of wrinkles to corrugate her fair brow; drew in her lips so as to conceal her teeth, and, by the same action, to give an aquiline turn to her nose; bowed her back, and, in short, converted herself into a little old woman!

At court, Branwen had been celebrated for her powers of mimicry, and had been a source of great amusement to her companions in the use—sometimes the abuse—of these powers; but this was the first occasion on which she had thought of personating an old woman.

Having thus metamorphosed herself, she looked eagerly round as if in search of a mirror. It need scarcely be said that glass had not been heard of by the natives of the Tin Islands or of Albion at that time, nevertheless, mirrors were not unknown. Espying in a corner, a great bronze shield, that might once have flashed terror at the siege of Troy—who knows—she set it up against the wall. It was oval in shape, and presented her face with such a wide expanse of cheeks, that she laughed lightly and turned it the other way. This arrangement gave her visage such lengthened astonishment of expression, that she laughed again, but was not ill pleased at her appearance on the whole.

To make the illusion perfect, she sought and found an article of dress, of which the Albionic name has been forgotten, but which is known to modern women as a petticoat. It was reddish brown in colour, and, so far, in keeping with the grey old shawl.

While she was busy tying on this garment, and otherwise completing her costume, almost quite forgetful in her amusement of the danger which had driven her to that strange place, she heard voices in the outer cave, and among them one which turned her cheeks pale, and banished every thought of fun out of her heart. It was the voice of Gunrig!

That doughty warrior—after having partially regained the equanimity which he had sat down on the fallen tree to recover—arose, and returned to his apartment in the palace for the double purpose of feeding and meditation. Being a robust man, he did not feel much the worse for the events of the morning, and attacked a rib of roast beef with gusto. Hearing, with great surprise, that his late antagonist was no other than Bladud, the long-lost son of the king, he comforted himself with another rib of roast beef, and with the reflection that a prince, not less than a man-at-arms, is bound to fight a duel when required to do so. Having finished his meal, he quaffed a huge goblet of spring water, and went out to walk up and down with his hands behind his back.

Doubtless, had he lived in modern days, he would have solaced himself with a glass of bitter and a pipe, but strong drink had not been discovered in those islands at the time, and smoking had not been invented. Yet it is generally believed, though we have no authentic record of the fact, that our ancestors got on pretty well without these comforts. We refrain, however, from dogmatising on the point, but it is our duty to state that Gunrig, at all events, got on swimmingly without them. It is also our duty to be just to opponents, and to admit that a pipe might possibly have soothed his wrath.

Of course, on hearing of Branwen’s flight, the indignant king summoned his hunters at once, and, putting the enraged Gunrig himself at the head of them, sent him fuming into the woods in search of the runaway. They did not strike the trail at once, because of, as already explained, the innumerable footprints in the neighbourhood of the town.

“We can’t be long of finding them now,” remarked the chief to the principal huntsman, as they passed the entrance to Beniah’s retreat.