"Morwen, say farewell you must to these walls—this roof. It will dishonor them to become the shelter of the renegade, after it has been the home of such as you and Pabo, and the Archpriests of our race and tribe for generations—aye, and after it has been consecrated by the body of this saint." He indicated the dead hermit.
"But again I say, I do not understand. What would you have me do?"
"Do this, Morwen." Howel dropped his voice and drew nearer to her. He laid hold of her wrist. "Set fire to the presbytery. The wind is from the east; it will cause the hall to blaze also."
She looked at him in dismay and doubt.
"To me, and away from this, thou must come, and that boy with thee. Thou wouldest not have Pabo taken from thee and given to some Saxon woman. So, suffer not this house that thou art deprived of to become the habitation of another—one false to his blood and to his duties."
"I cannot," she said, and looked about her at the walls, at every object against them, at the hearth, endeared to her by many ties. "I cannot—I cannot," and then: "Indeed I cannot with him here,"—and she indicated the corpse.
"It is with him here that the house must burn," said Howel.
"Burn the hermit—the man of God!"
"It would be his will, could he speak," said Howel. "He, throughout his life, gave his body to harsh treatment and treated it as the enemy of his soul. Now out of Heaven he looks down and bids you—he as a saint in light—do this thing. He withholds not his cast-off tabernacle, if thereby he may profit some."
"Nay, let him be honorably buried, and then, if thou desirest it, let the house blaze."