"Ye'll swear to it, lads," he whispered hoarsely, and drew a long dagger from beneath his pillow. For answer there came the rattle of loosened steel, and as he again bared his breast they drew closer in a half circle, laying their blades flat above his heart, his own dagger adding to the ring of steel.
And then they swore by things unknown to modern men to wipe out the shame that had lain so long upon their house, and that before their father died.
As their voices ceased the wind outside seemed to take up the burden of their bloody oath as if possessed, for it shrieked and wailed down the great chimney like some living thing in pain. And then, in a little lull following on the sobbing cry, there came a curious straining push that shook the closed oak door.
They stood transfixed, for a moment daunted, with their swords half in and half out their scabbards, till with a warning gesture to his cousins, Black Tad stole softly across the floor and, lifting the heavy bar cautiously, opened the door.
He paused an instant on the lintel, motionless and rigid to the point of his sword, his eyes fixed on the white face of a girl who was cowered back against the further wall. For a fraction of time he hesitated, but the awful anguish of the face and the mute, desperate appeal of the whole pose settled him. With a rough clatter he sprang into the dim passage, rattling his sword and stamping his feet, at the same time giving vent with his lips to the yelp of a hound in pain, and following it with rough curses and vituperation. Then, without another glance at the girl, he re-entered the hall and slammed to the door, grumbling at Rhys for not keeping his dogs tied up.
By one o'clock the great hall was still. The men were lying scattered about the house, for the most part sleeping as heavily as many jorums of rum made possible.
But the firelight flickering in the hall caught ever an answering gleam from the old Wolf's eyes as he lay there gray, shaggy, and watchful. From time to time his bony fingers plucked restlessly at his beard, and now and again his lips stretched back over yellow teeth in an evil smile as he gloated over the details of his coming vengeance.
And out in a chill upper hall Gwenith, the fair daughter of a black house, sat in a deep embrasure, her arms clinging to the heavy oak bars desperately. The wind moaned and sighed about her while her white terrified lips echoed the agony of her heart. And the burden of her whispered cry was ever, "Davy!—Davy!" and then: "For the Christ's sake! Davy!—Davy!—Davy!"
So the night drew on with the men and dogs sleeping torpidly; with the old Wolf chuckling grimly as the shadows closed about him, and with the child in the cold above sobbing out pitiful prayers for her lover, for only yesterday she had plighted her troth to Davy Gethin, the Cadwallader's youngest son.
These two had met in the early days when she wandered free over the rolling hills, a wild young kilted sprite, fearful of nothing save her father and his grim sons. And Davy had wooed her ardently, though in secret from the first. It had been charming enough in the past despite the fear that ever made her say him nay. Then yesterday he had won her from her tears and fears, won her by his brave and tender front, and she had placed her little hands on his breast and sworn to follow him despite all else when once her father had passed away. And now, twelve short hours after her fingers had touched him, her fear had caught her by the throat, for they would kill him surely, her prince, the only joy she had ever known.