ombat with one of your friends."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the king, in great surprise, "that is a strange
request, but I may not deny you. Which of my warriors may it be?"

"It is none of your warriors, sir," answered Bladud, "but one of your
guests who has, I am told, challenged whoever will to fight him for the
hand of your fair daughter. I am here now to accept that challenge and
to fight with Gunrig if he will."

"Assuredly, young man, your ambition or presumption seems equal to your
prowess," returned the king with an offended look; "know ye not that
this challenge was delivered to chiefs of this country, not to unknown
strangers, and although I admit that your tongue seems well accustomed
to our language, it has a foreign smack about it which does not belong
to those who are home-bred."

"I am a chief," answered Bladud, proudly, "and this is my native land."

"What is your name, then, and where come ye from?" demanded the king.

"That I may not answer just now, but I am here, in your power, if what I
say be not found true, you may do what you will with me. Meanwhile I
ask permission to accept the challenge."

At this point Gunrig, unable to restrain himself longer, sprang forward.

"Grant him permission, king," he cried. "If I were not ready to abide
by my word I were not worth my salt. Nay, indeed, whether you grant him
permission or not I will fight him, for he has twice beaten me this day,
and now insults me, therefore there is a deadly feud between us."

"You were always a hot-head, Gunrig," replied the king, with a grim
smile. "But have your way. Only it does not follow that if you lose
the day I will give my child to the conqueror."

"Be that as you choose," said Gunrig, "I am now ready."

As he spoke the fiery chief grasped his shield, leaped down into the
arena and drew his sword.

Bladud was not slow to follow. In those days action usually followed
close on the heels of purpose, and as the laws of chivalry had not yet
been formulated there was no braying of trumpets or tedious ceremonial
to delay the combat.

"Oh! I do hope he will conquer," whispered the Princess Hafrydda to her
dark-eyed companion, "and save me from that horrid man."

"I hope so too," returned Branwen, in a subdued voice, "but--"

She stopped abruptly, and a blush deepened the rich colour of her cheek,
which she sought to conceal by drawing her shawl still closer over it.
This was needless, for the clash of swords a