e in thine hour of
pomp and of conquest, if now thou savest from doom and from death the
last lives over which thou art lord."

It was during this solemn appeal that the knight, marking the sign
announced to him, and drawing close to Gryffyth, pressed the ring into
the King's hand, and whispered:

"Obey by this pledge. Thou knowest Harold is true, and thy head is sold
by thine own people."

The King cast a haggard eye at the speaker, and then at the ring, over
which his hand closed with a convulsive spasm. And at that dread instant
the man prevailed over the King; and far away from people and monk, from
adjuration and duty, fled his heart on the wings of the storm--fled to
the cold wife he distrusted: and the pledge that should assure him of
life, seemed as a love-token insulting his fall:--Amidst all the roar of
roused passions, loudest of all was the hiss of the jealous fiend.

As the monk ceased, the thrill of the audience was perceptible, and a
deep silence was followed by a general murmur, as if to constrain the
King.

Then the pride of the despot chief rose up to second the wrath of the
suspecting man. The red spot flushed the dark cheek, and he tossed the
neglected hair from his brow.

He made one stride towards the monk, and said, in a voice loud, and deep,
and slow, rolling far up the hill:

"Monk, thou hast said; and now hear the reply of the son of Llewellyn,
the true heir of Roderic the Great, who from the heights of Eryri saw all
the lands of the Cymrian sleeping under the dragon of Uther. King was I
born, and king will I die. I will not ride by the side of the Saxon to
the feet of Edward, the son of the spoiler. I will not, to purchase base
life, surrender the claim, vain before men and the hour, but solemn
before God and posterity--the claim of my line and my people. All
Britain is ours--all the island of Pines. And the children of Hengist
are traitors and rebels--not the heirs of Ambrosius and Uther. Say to
Harold the Saxon, Ye have left us but the tomb of the Druid and the hills
of the eagle; but freedom and royalty are ours, in life and in death--not
for you to demand them, not for us to betray. Nor fear ye, O my chiefs,
few, but unmatched in glory and truth; fear not ye to perish by the
hunger thus denounced as our doom, on these heights that command the
fruits of our own fields! No, die we may, but not mute and revengeless.
Go back, whispering warrior; go back, false son of Cymry--