CHAPTER XXIV
THE PYLGAIN OF DYFED
Like an explosion of fire-damp in a coal-mine—sudden, far-reaching, deadly—so was the convulsion in South Wales.
All was quiet to-day. On the morrow the whole land from the Bay of Cardigan to Morganwg, was in flames. The rising had been prepared for with the utmost caution.
The last to anticipate it were the soldiery under Rogier, who were quartered in Caio. Notwithstanding imperative orders from the bishop at Llawhaden to return to him, they had remained where they were, and had continued to conduct themselves in the same lawless manner as before. They scoffed at the tameness with which their insolence was endured.
"They are Cynwyl conies—des lapins!" they said. "Say 'Whist!' and nothing more is seen of them than their white tails as they scuttle to their burrows."
For centuries this had been an oasis of peace, unlapped by the waves of war. The very faculty of resistance was taken out of these men, who could handle a plow or brandish a shepherd's crook, but were frightened at the chime of a bowstring and the flash of a pike.
Yet, secretly, arms were being brought into the valley, and were distributed from farm to farm and from cot to cot; and the men whose wives and daughters had been dishonored, whose savings had been carried off, who had themselves been beaten and insulted, whose relatives had been hung as felons, were gripping the swords and handling the lances—eager for the signal that should set them free to fall on their tormentors. And that signal came at last.
On Christmas Eve, from the top of Pen-y-ddinas shot up a tongue of flame. At once from every mountain-side answered flashes of fire. There was light before every house, however small. The great basin of Caio was like a reversed dome of heaven studded with stars.
"What is the meaning of this?" asked Rogier, issuing from the habitation he had appropriated to himself, and looking round in amazement.