dropping of the familiar "thee" and "thou";
and in his strange nature, where good and bad were for ever struggling
with each other, a fierce anger awoke. That she--Morva! a shepherdess!
a milkmaid! should dare to oppose the wishes of the man who had once
ruled her heart, and at whose beck and call she would have come as
obediently as Tudor--that she should now set her will in opposition to
his, and dare to ruffle the existence which had met with nothing but
favour and success, was unbearable.

"What dost mean by these words, lodes?[1] how have I ever shown that I
have forgotten thee? Dost expect me, who have my studies to employ me,
and my future to consider--dost expect me to come philandering here on
the cliffs after a shepherdess?"

"No," said Morva, trying to curb her hot Welsh temper, which rushed
through her veins, "no! I only ask you to free me from my promise. I
have sworn that I would keep it, but if you do not wish it, He will not
expect me to keep my vow. I see that plainly. It would be a sin--so
let me go, Will," and her voice changed to plaintive entreaty; "I will
be the same loving sister to you as ever--set me free!"

"Never," said Will, the old cruel obstinacy taking possession of him, a
vindictive anger rising within him against the man whom he suspected
had taken his place in the girl's heart. Gethin--the wild and roving
sailor! No! he should never have her.

"Thou canst break thy promises," he said, turning on his heel, "and
marry another man if thou wilt, but remember _I_ have never set thee
free. I have never agreed to give thee up;" and without another word
he passed round the broom bushes, leaving Morva alone gazing out over
the blue bay.

As he returned to the farm he was filled with indignation and anger.
The obstinacy which was so strong a trait in his character was the real
cause of his refusal to give Morva her freedom, for the old love for
her was fast giving place to his new-born passion for Gwenda Vaughan,
which had grown steadily ever since he had first met her.

[1] Girl.

CHAPTER XVI

ISDERI

Three miles above Llaniago, the river On, which had flowed peaceably
and calmly for some miles through fair meadows and under the spanning
arches of many a bridge, seemed to grow weary of its staid behaviour
and suddenly to return to the playful manners of its youth. In its
wild exuberance it was scarcely recognisable as the placid river which,
further in its course