"It is even this," answered Rogier, and again he laughed. "Dost see? I have been courting a pretty wench. But it is bad wooing when I cannot speak a word of Welsh and she as little of French. Now, Sir Priest, be my go-between, and say sweet and tender words to her from me, and bring me back her replies of the same savor."
"I cannot! I will not!" exclaimed the chaplain indignantly.
"I ask of thee nothing dishonest," said Rogier; "far otherwise. I have a fancy to make the pretty Morwen my wife—and Baroness Caio. Tell her that—all in good sooth and my purpose honorable, the Church shall be called to bless us."
"She is another man's wife!"
"Nay, nay, a priest's leman—that is all. And if that stick in thy throat, be conscience-smoothed. By this time Pabo is no more. I know my brother's temper. He is a man who never forgives; and the loss of a pair of teeth is not that he will pass over."
"But he does not hold that this man you have sent him is Pabo."
"Pshaw! he knows better. Whether he be Pabo, or whether he be not, Bernard will never suffer him to live a week after he has him between his two palms. Therefore, seeing Morwen is a widow, and free, now, all is plain, my intent is good. If I marry her—who has been the wife of the chieftain of the tribe, I enter upon all his rights so far as they are secular; those that be ecclesiastical I leave to thee."
"Not so," said Cadell sharply. "She is no heiress. She is not of the blood."
"Oh! she shall be so esteemed. Scripture is with me—man and wife be no more twain but one flesh, so that she enters into all his rights, and I take them over along with her. It will smooth the transfer. The people will like it, or will gulp down what is forced on them, and pretend to be content."
"This is preposterous—the heir to the tribal rights is Goronwy, the cousin of Pabo."