“Have I heard of the devil, lording!”
“Were he to ride here, should you know his face?”
“Sir, I have seen no man these three hours. Yet, in truth, I did but now smell a savour as of hell; and there was a raven here, a black villain of a bird that croaked ‘Abracadabra to the letter.’”
Uther smiled.
“Are you from Caerleon?” he said.
“No, sire, it is Uther the King who comes from the City of Legions.”
“Uther, say you? Put back that hood.”
“My lord, lo! I bow myself; I have kept the tryst.”
The cowl fell back, the cloak was unwrapped, the beard twitched from the smooth, strong chin. The bent figure, feeble and meagre, straightened and dilated to a stature and bulk beyond mere common mould. A man with hair black as a raven’s wing, and great glistening eyes, stood with his moon-face turned up to Uther Pendragon. A smile played upon his lips. He was clad in a cloak of sombre purple, wreathed about with strange devices, and a leopard’s skin covered his shoulders; his black hair was bound with a fillet of gold, and there were gold bracelets upon his wrists. It was Merlin who stood before Uther under the arch of the great trees.