"Silence, woman!" exclaimed the old man wrathfully. "I joy that my son has given up his life to save his chief."
"But I am not content to surrender my Madoc," yelled the beldame. "Let us have the hated Saxon or the worst Norman to rule over us, rather than one who skulks and dares not show his face. My Madoc will be hung to-morrow, as they have hung Sheena's man now. I have seen it. They pulled him up."
"Be silent," shouted the old man, and tried to shut her mouth.
"I will not be silent. I saw it all. They drew him up, and then a man sprang from the ladder upon his shoulders and stamped."
A cry of agony from the wife of Howel, who flung out her hands, as before, against the wall, and stayed herself there. Sheena heard nothing--she was but returning to consciousness.
"Why do you not bring him back?" asked the hag, facing Morwen with fists clenched, fangs exposed, and eyes glaring. "Why do you keep him hidden, that we all may be widows--and you be happy with your man? What shall I do without my Madoc? Who will support me? Am I young enough to maintain myself? Is the whole tribe to be dragged down, that you and your husband may live at ease and be merry?"
"Woman," said Morwen, trembling, "I do not know where he is concealed."
"Then find him, and let him come forward to save us all. Shame, I say, shame on him!--the false shepherd--the hireling--who fleeth and careth not for the sheep!"
The rattle of arms was heard, and at the sound Morwen slipped out of the room into the inner apartment that she might not be seen.
Immediately two men-at-arms entered, leading Howel between them.
"He is granted one hour," said the man who could speak a few words of Welsh. "On Monday he dies."
"Clear the room!" said the old man; and to the soldier: "Remove this frantic woman." He indicated Angarad; and he himself, with their assistance, drew her--swearing, struggling, spluttering with rage--from the house. Sheena remained where she had been laid--as yet barely conscious. Howel's wife dropped into her husband's arms, moaning, still powerless to weep.
In the inner chamber, dimly lighted by a small window covered with bladder in place of glass, on a bed sat Morwen, with her hands clasped between her knees, looking despairingly before her. Every word of the cruel woman had cut her heart as the stab of an envenomed poignard.