"It is well. We trust thee, Howel."
Then they heard a distant murmur, a hum as of a rising wind, the rustle of trees, the beating of waves. It drew nearer, it waxed louder, it broke out into cries of joy and shouts of exultation as at the bringing in of harvest, and the crowned sheaf—the tori pen y wrach.
The elders of Caio listened and wondered.
Then through the door sprang a young man, and stood where a falling sunbeam from the one round window rested on him.
He had flowing golden hair that reached his shoulders in curls. He was tall, lithe, graceful, and beautiful.
In a moment they all knew him, as those had recognized him on the way and had accompanied him to the churchtown.
The old, the gray-headed, strong iron men, and those who were feeble at once encircled him. They threw themselves at his feet, they clasped his knees, those who could kissed his hands, others the hem of his garment.
"Griffith, our Prince! Our heart and soul, our King!"