“I won’t, I won’t,” he promised, but I thought his protest a little feverish.
While we went downstairs I gave him the best imitation I could of the stranger’s cry on the ledge-path, and asked him if he believed it was Welsh.
“No,” he said, with the gravity of conviction, “no, that’s certainly not Welsh.”
Bless his simple heart! I believe he knows no more Cumraeg than I.
We moved along the galley-passage, and nighed the third left-hand entrance.
Now, just as we were about to enter, while we heard the voices of festivity inside, he turned to me suddenly.
“I’m sending the boy to your village beyond the hills to-morrow morning—whatever-its-name-is—for your things. You’re to be one of us, of course.”
“My dear Crofts, I hate to intrude.”
“No intrusion. And there are other equal strangers among us. Will you stay on for a couple of days?”
“I’d be delighted.”