Chapter II: Part 2

A strange hush pervaded his home as he once more entered its portals. He gained the nursery door, and, pausing, gently pushed it aside. In the waning light he beheld his wife half kneeling, half lying upon their little one's cot. Violet's face, illumined by the last rays of daylight, was pale and peaceful. It shone with a solemn light--unlike, oh! how unlike, his own playful pet! Her dark blue eyes were heavily closed, and her little hands meekly folded on her breast. The mother's voice stole on his ear--"Fare thee well, my darling! good-bye, my angel child! but only for a brief space I bid thee adieu. Thou art folded now in arms that can shelter thee more safely from the passing blast than those of thy poor mother. I shall go to thee, my Violet--but never, never more shalt thou return to me." These and many similar words were poured forth by the weeping mother as Bruno unobserved stood silently listening. His heart felt ready to burst; it seemed as if some chord within him gave way at that moment with a throb of pain.

For a long time unknown to himself Alcyone's soft influence had gradually undermined his harsh scepticism. At that moment a ray of heavenly light shot as it were from the upward pathway of his dead child into the dark recesses of his soul, and with tender humility he knelt by his wife's side and placed his hand on hers. Startled and amazed, she turned and met her husband's eye: it shone with a new and softened light; there was no need for him to explain to her what he felt. Over the death-bed of their fairest hope they for the first time experienced the ineffable yet chastened joy of sharing the same faith--of worshipping together the same unseen God.

At length Alcyone slowly rose from her knees, and casting a long, fond look on the lifeless form of her babe, she led her husband from the chamber. Together they ascended the narrow stair; together they opened the small, well-known door, and emerged, hand-in-hand, amid the now darkened twilight, upon the open roof.

"Bruno," murmured she, "the time for our separation has come; you have declared your belief in the immortality of the soul; your poor Alcyone, in the midst of her imperfections, has brought you one step nearer the gates of Paradise. I now return to my celestial home, but shall there await you, my beloved, in the sure and certain hope of a long eternity together unchequered by the sorrows that have assailed our path in this mortal world."

Thus saying, for the first time, the gentle Alcyone passionately strained her arms around her husband; the pressure relaxed, he tottered forward; he was--alone! A long trail of light shone for a moment athwart the evening sky; the peaceful Pleiades beamed forth in brightest beauty; he called aloud, but only silence reigned around; in uncontrollable emotion the strong man fell fainting to the ground.

How long he thus remained he never knew; but he woke at last to find the midnight moon shining upon him. He raised himself, confused and aching; he passed his hand across his brow--Was the past a reality? A tear rolled down his time-worn cheek which his keen eye had never shed, but it might be the cold dewdrop of the early morn. Beside him lay the coat and hat he had worn in returning from the Reichstag. It must be some long, strange dream that, coming on him exhausted and weary, had harassed his brain through the weird watches of the night.

As these thoughts coursed through his mind his eye fell on his left hand; upon it there sparkled a stone of extraordinary brilliancy, which recalled to him the gem on Alcyone's forehead. He strove to remove the jewel, but, though easily fitting to his finger, the magic circlet refused to be taken from its place.

The reality of the past then rushed upon the proud Baron's mind with the resistless force of inward conviction. Humbled and sorrowful, the great philosopher's wondrous attainments and mighty intellectual resources seemed for the moment to become as less than the dust beneath his feet. With the simple faith of a little child, he bent his knee alone before his Maker, and cried, in tones of repentant sadness, "Lord, I believe, help Thou mine unbelief."

ESGAIR: THE BRIDE OF LLYN IDWYL.

Among the mountains of Caernarvonshire none are more gloomy and precipitous than the dark sister Glydirs Fawr and Bach. Towering sublimely above the solitary waters of Llyn Idwyl, they rear their proud summits well nigh on a level with that of the loftier but less rugged Snowdon.

Where is the wayfarer who can forget a calm autumn sunset seen from those barren heights?

Valleys far and near shrouded in dim purpling mists; shadowy gigantic forms looming faintly in the deepening twilight; rose-tipped peaks floating amid a halo of glory in the evening sky; silver streamlets breaking here and there in white lines the dusky shades below; while afar, in the distance, the broad slumbering ocean bids a glittering farewell to the monarch of the day.

Such was the panorama spread before the young Llewelyn many years ago, when in toilsome search after strayed sheep he came suddenly upon the highest part of the mountain. To his wearied eyes, however, nature for the time had no charm. With hurried and anxious footsteps he leapt from rock to rock, dreading to find some of his wandering flock with broken limbs. For, as with many other Welsh mountains, the crest of the Glydir Fawr is entirely composed of huge boulders roughly hurled together; deep treacherous crevices being often entirely concealed from view by the luxuriant growth of ferns, heather, and bilberries, which yield most unsubstantial footing to the unwary.

Llewelyn's father, "Dafydd ap Gwynant," a well-known chieftain, had been slain in battle, and most of his possessions seized by his foes. The widowed Gwynneth, in terror for the safety of her only child, fled with him to the wild region now known as the pass of Nant Francon. There in solitude she reared her boy to habits of frugal simplicity. As years rolled on the widow prospered and her flocks increased. Yet still Llewelyn remained her only herd, and at eventide the steep sides of Llyn Ogwyn and Llyn Idwyl re-echoed with his loud carols and joyous shouts, as he summoned the cattle and sheep to their nightly fold.

In these remote times wolves and other wild beasts still lurked among the Welsh hills. Nor did they limit their ravages to the destruction of animals alone, but when rendered desperate by hunger visited human habitations in search of their prey. Witness the touching history of Gelert the faithful hound, whose tomb is still to be seen in the little valley over which a dog's fidelity has shed undying renown. Hence the necessity for carefully collecting the herds at nightfall within some place of security.

Llewelyn at length discovered his missing lambs on the steep northern sides of the Glydir, and herding them hurriedly together, crossed the shoulder of the mountain and descended towards Llyn Idwyl by the rugged pathway which leads past the narrow gorge now known as "the Devil's Kitchen." It was rapidly growing dark as he reached the plain, and he was hastening homewards, when by the waning light he perceived the surface of that gloomy lake to be strangely agitated. As he gazed, the head of a lovely maiden rose above the ripples, and seemed to his excited imagination to regard him with a tender wistful look. He rushed to the water's brink, and was about to cast off his coat and swim to the aid of the fair unknown, when, soft and clear as an evening bell, these words rang through the still air:--

"Three times lost, and three times won,
Canst thou win me, Dafydd's son?
Tender must thou be to me,
Tender should I be to thee.

To my mate in bridal hour
I can bring a princely dower;
But my wooing must be soon,
Ere has waned September's moon."

Enraptured by these silvery notes, Llewelyn strained every nerve to listen, and as the nymph falteringly uttered the last words he felt a magic thrill run through his frame. He became possessed with a sudden desire to behold the entire form of the beautiful being whose head alone smiled on him across the watery waste; but as he approached nearer the sweet face disappeared, the surface of the loch became glassy and still. The pale rays of the rising moon illumined only the wide level mirror of Llyn Idwyl, and amazed and bewildered the youth turned to his home.

After folding the sheep he entered the cottage. His mother had prepared a fragrant supper; but through Llewelyn's veins there ran a secret fire, and he turned restlessly from the food he was wont to relish in his calmer hours.

Gwynneth was a mother in ten thousand. Though she had wandered far to obtain the oakleaves over which she had slowly smoked the pink trout; though her hands had been stung when she robbed the wild bees of their honey for her boy; though when faint and tired from her long ramble she had risen with fresh energy to mix and bake for her son the scones he loved; yet when she saw his disquietude and lack of appetite, no murmur, no query crossed her lips. Patiently she herself partook of the humble fare, and strove to cheer her moody child, while her own heart ached with vague doubts and fears.

Hardly, however, had she cleared away the last traces of the half-consumed meal when Llewelyn extended himself full length on the deerskins at her feet, laid his hot head on her soothing lap, and by the flickering light of the fire (fed at intervals with cones from the pine forest) related to her his strange adventure.

As Gwynneth listened to his words the iron entered into her soul. Every mother can sympathize with the pang she then experienced. The child she had borne through labour, sorrow, and pain; the infant she alone nourished and brought to manly strength; the all upon which every hope, every thought of the future is centred--the widow's only son--the idol of her heart--his love is passing from her. She is no longer to him the first, the dearest. Dreams of a nearer and dearer one are wakening in his young bosom. The mother is now his confidant; but well does she know that ere long the newly-beloved will be his only thought; that into her ear alone will be poured all the aspirations of his life. That henceforth and for evermore the mother must resign her son's heart to the keeping of another. Gwynneth in that hour felt the cold hand of fate clutch her past happiness. Her pulse stood still. But she was a noble woman. She knew the law of life was resistless. Come from a race of kings, with proud resolve she nerved her wounded spirit, and casting all meaner thoughts of self aside, threw herself with ardour into the interests of her son.

While Llewelyn described the events of the evening, the mists cleared from the past and his mother dimly remembered an ancient tradition heard in days gone by. The half-forgotten legend ran thus:--A prince of royal Welsh blood fell in love with and wedded a water Nixie. No sooner, however, were his espousals accomplished than he, with his palace and all his treasures, became enchanted and covered by the waters of Llyn Idwyl, which then, at Venedotia's dread command, rose to its present height. The water god, through the marriage-tie of his beautiful child, had gained a subtle power over her human lover, and despite her entreaties worked this cruel spell to secure to her the unchanging faith of a mortal. While Gwynneth told this strange story, an old prophecy concerning this very prince, which she had often heard in her youth, suddenly flashed across her mind. Surprised it should so long have escaped her memory, she thus recited it to her listening son--

"When Rhuddlan's child with man shall mate
A light shall break on Rhuddlan's fate;
When thrice three wedded years pass by
Llyn Idwyl's waters shall run dry;
But if that wedded peace be riven,
By blows at random three times given,
Esgair must seek her father's cave,
Nor quit again the gloomy wave;
No slow revolving years shall wake
The spell-bound slumberers of the lake."

"My son," exclaimed Gwynneth, "all is now clear to me. The fair daughter of King Rhuddlan has seen and chosen you to be the deliverer of herself and her family, who once owned the greater part of Wales; but who fell under Venedotia's spell so long ago that their existence is forgotten by the oldest inhabitant. I am proud that my child should aid in restoring our ancient line of kings. But Llewelyn," murmured she, placing her hand fondly on his brown wavy locks, "you must pray for strength, and enter on this strange adventure with the aid of heavenly courage." Long into the night sat that gentle mother holding counsel with her son, and even when they sought their rude couches but scant sleep sealed their eyelids.

Next day Llewelyn fulfilled his various duties with feverish impatience, he yearned for the evening hour, and as the moon's rays fell over the lone heights of the Glydir he stood once more by Llyn Idwyl's brink, and in a low clear voice uttered these words:--

"By the Glydir's rugged side,
By thy father's captive pride,
By the strains of mortal love
Stealing o'er thee from above,
By thine own enchanted lake,
Esgair, fairest! hear and wake!"

Scarcely had he finished, when a long train of light shot across the loch, and, glittering with a thousand watery diamonds, Esgair half arose and stretched forth towards him her lovely arms. A smile of hope irradiated her pure countenance, and as Llewelyn knelt awestruck upon the beach, she slowly chanted these lines:--

"Through Llewelyn's devotion deliverance draws near;
'Twixt sunset and sunrise to-morrow be here,
Though strife be around thee yet suffer no fear
If Rhuddlan's poor daughter to thee seemeth dear;
Forget not that o'er her the sign must be crossed,
Or she and her kindred for ever are lost!"

With a parting wave of her hand Esgair slowly disappeared, and nought was visible save the reflection of the moon, which, dancing and sparkling across the dark agitated bosom of Llyn Idwyl, ended in a pathway of light at Llewelyn's feet. It was an omen of hope for the morrow, and with joyful steps he returned to his home. Here, however he was somewhat harassed by fears as to the poor accommodation they could offer to the bride.

"Dear mother," he urged, "she is a high-born princess; her hair, neck, and arms sparkle with priceless jewels. She may scorn our lowly hut, and reproach me for bringing her to so humble a home."

"Nay, my son," replied Gwynneth; "the heart of a true maiden seeketh ever something more precious than gold or riches; the love of a faithful partner is doubtless what Esgair yearns to find. It is, moreover, borne in upon me that the daughter of Rhuddlan will not come dowerless to the son of Dafydd. Be she poor, however, or be she rich, we will give her the best we have; and I tell you she will hold it dearer than life."

Heaven that night shed its own peace over the widow and her son, and their last evening alone together was long remembered by each as a time of holy calm. By day-break next morning they were already astir. Many preparations had still to be made. Llewelyn went across the hills to petition Saint Tudno to pronounce his bridal benediction. The holy father was now making his yearly pilgrimage through Wales, visiting and cheering his feeble scattered flock, who clung fast together and revered with a passionate tenderness their few and faithful teachers.

It was at an ancient farm upon the slopes of Carnedd Llewelyn that Llewelyn and his mother had, only a few days agone, knelt and received the good priest's blessing, and Gwynneth doubted not that he would consent to partake for one night of their rude hospitality, for the purpose of uniting her son and the rescued Esgair in the bands of holy wedlock.

Ere the sun had passed its meridian, Gwynneth's hopes were realized. The venerable father, guided by Llewelyn, safely reached her door, and after partaking with them of their frugal noontide meal retired to rest a while, and to resume the devotions broken in upon by his unforeseen expedition. It weighed much on his mind that no church was near wherein the espousals might be celebrated, but he was fully conscious of the difficulties of Llewelyn's position. He shrewdly suspected that until holy rites had been performed the wild spirits would do their utmost to reclaim and recapture the newly-rescued bride. Ere seeking his chamber therefore, the good father carefully sprinkled holy water around the dwelling, and fervently besought Heaven's blessing on the approaching union.

Some time before the hour of sunset Llewelyn and his mother started for the banks of Llyn Idwyl. They followed the rocky course of that little stream, which still breaks in foam from the eastern side of the loch, and babbling and brawling flows past the very stones where Gwynneth's little cottage once stood. The evening was wild and threatening, and the sky had strangely changed since Saint Tudno alighted at their dwelling. Thunder reverberating through the mountains awakened hoarse echoes on every side. Wild clouds in fantastic shapes scudded across the lowering heavens, and fitful gleams from the sinking sun threw dark shadows across their pathway. Ever and anon drenching showers brushed by in short sharp gusts, half blinding them, and causing inexplicable terror to the ponies; one of which Gwynneth rode and the other Llewelyn led for his bride. More than once, as they pursued their way, Gwynneth imagined that white arms and hooded figures waved defiance before her; but surprise and doubt held her mute, or perhaps ere she could speak the rain dashed on her face and she perceived that her fancy had conjured menacing forms from the eddying spindrift around. Llewelyn also was haunted by outbursts of mocking laughter, but when, amazed, he turned to his mother, the wild turbulence of the little streamlet taught him he had mistaken its noisy vehemence for sounds of demoniacal mirth.

At last they reached Llyn Idwyl's side. The sky once more grew calm and clear. The sun had long since disappeared behind the dark mountain, and the stars faintly twinkling overhead had already lit their feeble lamps. The lake itself, however, presented a wild scene. Furious gusts of wind agitated the surface. Sheets of spray bearing the semblance of hideous figures were dashed hither and thither. A rushing noise as of a thousand waterfalls drowned every other sound, and Llewelyn in vain tried to make his voice audible amid the din of the elements. Again and again he endeavoured to shout Esgair's name, but the mad roaring of the winds and waves was all that could be heard.

"To your knees, my son, and pray for help," whispered Gwynneth in his ear, and in despair Llewelyn sank on the ground and fervently invoked the aid of Heaven. As if in answer to his prayer, at this instant the moon tipped the frowning mountain; her bright rays irradiated the wild scene beneath and diminished in some measure the confusion and uproar. Then, white and dripping as a storm-tost waterlily, the lovely figure of Rhuddlan's daughter slowly emerged from the lake until her feet were visible. She advanced along the moon-lit path, which alone remained serene and calm. On either side horrid arms were stretched as if to grasp her shrinking form, and rude blasts of spray burst in torrents over her defenceless head.

Llewelyn knelt in silent prayer till she neared the water brink, when, springing to her side, he drew her tenderly on shore, signing at the same time on her brow the holy symbol of the cross; while wild shrieks and groans resounded across the lake. He lifted Esgair, trembling and exhausted, on the pony, where his strong arm was needed to support her. The moon suddenly disappeared behind a cloud; the rain burst forth with redoubled vehemence, while such peals of thunder broke around and above them that the startled ponies could hardly be restrained from dashing madly away. Llewelyn, well-nigh desperate, in vain strove to recognize the homeward path. Black darkness encompassed them and hid every well-known landmark from view.

Just as he was at his wits' end, suddenly gleamed afar a small bright cross, shedding divine lustre through the gloom. At the same instant there fell on their ears the faint chime of distant bells--a strange unaccustomed sound in those wild regions. They paused not, however, to question the cause of the welcome phenomena; but with gladness turned in the direction of the cross, which moved before them as they advanced; Llewelyn still supporting Esgair, and murmuring words of encouragement into her ear. More than once he received rough buffets from invisible foes, and wicked threats were whispered by the hoarse blasts; but he kept his eyes fixed steadfastly on the sacred symbol which guided them in the path of safety, and ere long the unnatural tempest spent itself. The fiery cross grew dim, and finally disappeared, and the rest of their homeward route was accomplished by the returning light of the moon.

Nearer and nearer rang the joyful bells, as if crashing forth a paean of welcome to the belated wanderers; and what was their astonishment on coming within sight of the place where their humble dwelling lately stood amid unbroken solitudes, to observe innumerable twinkling lights borne to and fro, while, by the light of the moon, the tall battlements of some huge building rose over the site once covered by their happy little home.

Confused and perplexed, Gwynneth thought to chide her son for bringing them the wrong way. But now Esgair, with new life, sprang to the ground, and, turning towards Gwynneth, said with exceeding grace,

"This was my father's home. He bestows it willingly upon us--it is yours. But, oh! take me to your heart, and give me a mother's love."

Gwynneth hastened to alight, and clasping her new daughter to her bosom, hesitated no longer to enter the massive portals thrown wide open before them. As they stepped beneath the archway, solemn strains of music became audible. A long line of priests and choristers moved across the lofty hall within; bands of fair maidens robed in white approached Esgair, and tenderly saluting her placed her in their midst. Last of all the holy Father Tudno drew near and motioned Gwynneth and Llewelyn to his side.

Deeply agitated by a thousand conflicting emotions, Gwynneth, Esgair, and Llewelyn now beheld before them as they advanced a small chapel brilliantly lighted for high festival. With slow and reverend step Saint Tudno withdrew within the altar space, and united in holy wedlock the strangely-mated pair before him. Long and lowly did they bend before the sacred shrine, and when at length they retired down the aisles, the clear high voices of the singers rang out in joyful strains, while far overhead the jubilant bells told with their iron tongues the glad news that the first bar of fate had been undone--the condition fulfilled that ran thus in the old legend:

"When Rhuddlan's child with man shall mate
A light shall break on Rhuddlan's fate."

Time fails me to tell of the splendours of that night of rejoicing, or the magnificent appointments of the castle. But it is impossible to pass by in silence the exceeding beauty of the bride, or the manly serious grace of her bridegroom. Esgair's waving nut-brown tresses fell over her shoulders, bound here and there by priceless diamonds. Her violet eyes, her dazzling complexion, her long robe of silver sheen, displaying every motion of her graceful figure, her wondrous charm of manner,--all enchanted the beholder. She looked and moved the daughter of a hundred kings.

Llewelyn's countenance, even in that deep hour of joy, wore the chastened expression of one who has struggled and suffered. In the midst of his new-found wealth he was fain to remember, with a feeling akin to pain, that this proud castle and all its appurtenances was the heritage of his wife and her father. But as Esgair turned her soft eyes upon him, the toils of the past and the uncertainty of the future were alike forgotten, and love beamed effulgent on his soul.

Night and stillness fell over that great castle. Only alone in an upper chamber--the widowed wife--the lonely mother--wrestled in silent prayer for her children until the day broke over the east and opened to the world once more the golden gates of the sun.

On the morrow all was new and strange to Gwynneth and Llewelyn; but Esgair guided them from room to room of the splendid palace, and related to them endless tales told her by her father, of what had happened within its walls, ere the spell of enchantment consigned him and his to the dark waters of oblivion.

To Gwynneth the long corridors and stately chambers with their quaint hangings of tapestry recalled her early home. Llewelyn (who though of princely race, had been reared in poverty) felt a certain restraint amid all this new-found grandeur, and bore with ill-concealed impatience the ministrations of the countless servants, whose presence fettered his free action and oppressed his simple nature.

Soon, however, the varied interests of his new position became all-engrossing. Surrounded by retainers skilled in every kind of sport, possessed of the fleetest steeds and truest falcons in the country, blessed with the tenderest of wives and mothers, he seldom had time to revert even in thought to the fewer and less luxurious pleasures of his youth. He and Esgair became passionately fond of hawking, and many happy days were thus spent, when, splendidly mounted and attended by a numerous train, they would scour the country around and return wearied yet joyous at eventide to relate to Gwynneth the adventures of the day.

It was during one of these hunting excursions that Esgair, roused by the excitement of the chase, urged her palfrey to its utmost speed, and distancing all her companions, came suddenly to a small level plateau amid the mountains. Here a little streamlet had its birth, gushing forth from the rock itself in cold purity. The hawk was already stooping over its quarry, and Esgair finding herself alone, called repeatedly to the bird in great fear lest it should fail in its object. While she was thus employed, Llewelyn came rapidly in sight, and riding up to her, playfully struck her on the shoulder with his gauntlet, crying gaily, "Methought, fair lady, you were running away from us all; but you have deftly won the race to-day, and yours must be the heron's plume."

The rest of the merry party now came up, but while with eager excitement they watched the protracted struggles of the two birds, Llewelyn turned his own and his wife's palfrey aside, and under pretence of arranging her dress whispered to Esgair, "Nay, dearest, wherein have I vexed thee? I was only watchful for thy dear sake, fearing when out of my sight lest evil should befall thee."

To his great surprise tears dimmed her eyes, and the colour mantled higher in her flushed cheek as she murmured in low tones, "You have struck the first blow."

Amazed and incredulous, it was some time before Llewelyn could recall to mind the weird prophecy his mother had repeated to him. As they leant sadly over their panting horses by the little spring, a white arm emerged from the mossy bank and waved beckoning towards Esgair, while, like a faint sigh of the breeze, fell these chill numbers on their ears--

"One blow hath fallen on Esgair's fate,
And grieved Llewelyn's gentle mate."

Thoroughly startled he rushed forward, but the fancied apparition was only a little shower of spray which, caught by the eddying wind, dashed itself over him, wetting his gay clothes and soaking him to the skin. Were the words he had heard but the offspring of his own imagination?

Now with loud cries the victory of the falcon was proclaimed, and the gallant esquire, riding up to his mistress, courteously presented her with the heron's plume, and craved permission to fasten it in her hat. Esgair accepted the gift with her wonted grace, but it was with saddened hearts that she and Llewelyn turned homewards. The dispiriting influence soon communicated itself to their followers, and in melancholy guise the merry party of the morning silently re-entered the castle walls.

Ere they retired to rest, however, Esgair and Llewelyn sought the little chapel where their marriage vows had been interchanged, and as they knelt together in prayer an ineffable calm soothed their troubled spirits, and on seeking their chamber a deep joy cradled them to rest.

Their life now passed away in uneventful happiness, until, as the time drew near the birth of Christ, Esgair had a son, whose advent was hailed with universal rejoicing. Llewelyn with trembling joy welcomed his little child, and drew many hopeful auguries for the future from his first seeing the light in the glorious holy tide of Christmas. Esgair suffered considerably in health, causing her husband great anxiety, and it was some time before she could resume her wonted place in the castle. But she seemed strangely anxious to have her child baptized at the earliest possible moment. They were obliged, however, to wait some little time for the holy Father Tudno, who, again travelling that way on his stated rounds, promised by a certain day to receive the babe into the arms of the Church.

Meanwhile the nurses were forbidden to stray without the precincts of the castle, and specially warned against approaching either of the lakes which lay within such easy distance--Llyn Ogwyn and Llyn Idwyl. It was rumoured that strange forms were to be sometimes seen wandering round the castle. Esgair herself, whose gentle ways had endeared her to all around, began to be regarded with suspicion, as, when hardly strong enough to leave her chamber, she insisted on taking solitary walks, was long absent, and frequently returned with traces of tears on her cheek. At such times she would redouble her cautions to the nurses, and sit for hours watching uneasily over her babe. They told wild tales, moreover, of seeing their mistress in the dead of night leaning over the little one's cradle and with clasped hands and streaming eyes seeming to wrestle in prayer with some invisible power. She would then clasp the infant in her arms, sign a cross over its forehead and replace it slumbering and unconscious in its cot.

But the slow weeks moved on, St. Valentine's day at last arrived, and with it the good Father to perform the promised rite. Every preparation made, and the little chapel adorned with the pale flowers of early spring time--the drooping snowdrop, and the Christmas rose, nestling in rich green moss from the glen--Gwynneth proudly bore her little grandson to the font, and the holy service began.

The wind and rain without, hitherto hardly noticed, now dashed with such force against the casements as to endanger their frail fastenings, while above the chant of the choristers could be distinctly heard the wild howling of the tempest. The little child itself moved restlessly from side to side, and seemed to feel an adverse influence threatening its fate. All eyes, however, were turned on the lady of the castle, who, with mortal terror depicted on her countenance, eagerly scanned the high windows and shuddered visibly as the storm increased. But now the reverend Father took the babe in his arms and ascended the steps of the font. Louder and louder roared the fierce winds without, and as one mighty gust shook the chapel to its very foundations, Esgair uttered a faint moan. Llewelyn impatiently turned for the first time towards her, and, angrily touching her shoulder to recall her attention to the service, muttered some hasty rebuke about disturbing the people around by her ill-timed fears. Father Tudno at this moment formally demanded the child's name, and Llewelyn gave him, as had already been agreed upon, the name of "Rhiwallon." As the holy Father, repeating over the infant the tender words of his faith, was about to sign on its brow the sacred symbol of the cross, a terrific blast shattered the casements into a thousand pieces, all the lights throughout the chapel were instantly extinguished, while a deluging shower fell on the group round the font. Eldritch laughter rang through the air, a piercing shriek was heard, and phantom forms tried to wrench the little babe from the good priest's arms. Undismayed and calm however, Saint Tudno gathered the helpless lamb of the fold still closer in his sheltering clasp, and ere the strife of the rough elements well-nigh reached him, the little Rhiwallon was already a member of the eternal Church. But in Llewelyn's awe-struck ear sounded these dread words--

"Blare wildly ye breezes a blast of delight,
A blow hath been struck by Llewelyn this night."

Now with flying footsteps came a page bearing a torch. The wild force of the tempest seemed to have spent itself, and comparative peace reigned without the castle. Within, the lights were once more kindled, but their rays fell upon a cold inanimate form. Poor Esgair had fallen forwards, her head lay on the hard stone floor, her hands were still raised as if in supplication to some invisible power, while dark red blood slowly oozed forth from beneath her luxuriant tresses. With a cry of terror Llewelyn raised her in his arms. He found that in falling she had struck against the stone step of the font, and a somewhat deep wound was made under her thick soft hair. He bore her tenderly to her chamber. Through the livelong night with keen anguish he and his mother (suffering no meaner hand to tend her) ministered to her wants. At times she cried uneasily for her babe, nor could they soothe or appease her until the little Rhiwallon was brought and laid beside his suffering mother in the great state bed, with its dark gorgeous hangings and curious antique carving. Llewelyn, heart-sore and grievously conscience-stricken, bent over the half-slumbering pair. They seemed to his excited imagination like the flower and the bud rudely torn from the parent stem and fading before his very eyes. He listened anxiously over their lips to assure himself of their actual breathing. Esgair, half-awakened, moved restlessly until feeling her babe again cradled in her arms, she murmured low words of endearment over him, and sank once more into troubled slumber. Many days she struggled between life and death; and as Llewelyn kept the weary watches by her side, he mournfully remembered that it was his own thoughtless temper which had brought all this upon his faithful wife, and recklessly dissolved one more link that bound her life to his. She explained to him that her fears had been roused lest the powerful Venedotia should gain possession of their boy ere he was christened, and hence the strange precautions she had taken and her extreme terror in the chapel. She was unable, moreover, to warn those around her, as her first word of elucidation would have sealed the death-warrant of her babe; so powerful was the spell still exercised by the fierce enchanter over Rhuddlan's ill-fated race.

April breezes brought sounds of spring into the land ere Esgair, pale and wan--like one who has passed through the valley of the dark shadow--was once more borne down the castle stair and carried abroad to be invigorated by the reviving vernal air. She had taken a strong dislike to the "Castle of the Lakes," as their present home was called. Nor can this be wondered at, considering the baneful influence that had threatened not only her own but her infant's life. She entreated Llewelyn to build another dwelling by the sea-shore, where strength and health might more rapidly return to her, and where she hoped to be in a measure free from the fell designs of Venedotia.

With eager zest her repentant husband followed the bent of Esgair's mind, and, after many pleasant excursions to the neighbouring shores in search of a site, they at length resolved to raise the walls of their new castle in the centre of the rich plain which then lay between the proud headlands of Penmaenmaur and Penmaenbach.

Esgair took intense interest in the progress of the builders, who were now set to work with the utmost diligence. Throughout the long summer, she, Gwynneth, Llewelyn, and the babe with his nurses, dwelt in a little shieling on the steep sides of Penmaenmaur. Daily descending to the broad fertile meadows amid which was to be their future home, they cheered and encouraged the labourers at their work. Ere the mellow September time came round, the walls of the new castle had already risen to a considerable height.

It was now two years since the bridal day of Esgair and Llewelyn. Never had mortal man been blessed with a gentler, sweeter help-mate. High and low worshipped their kind mistress; and the most unruly of their half-savage retainers would fly to anticipate her slightest desire.

The little Rhiwallon was a lovely babe; healthy and well tended ever since his birth, his firm limbs and rosy cheeks were full of promise. His dark eye already beamed with intelligence, and his broad brow bore the impress of future intellectual power. What long hours that fond mother passed alone with her babe! At eventide she ascended the wooden steps of the shieling, and sending the women to make merry with their friends without, hungrily watched over her child. Gwynneth and Llewelyn perhaps sitting silent below, heard sounds as of a cushat dove cooing over its young. Sometimes the tones became more audible, and words could be distinguished--the mother crooning to her little one as if he could understand.

"Thou art delivered, my baby, from the evil fate that menaces thy poor mother. Thy pure forehead bears on it the sign of the holy cross. Over thee the angel of darkness hath now no power save through that mother's will. How could they think, my child, that to save herself a parent would yield up her darling. Nay, nay; when they tempted me to delay thy baptismal hour, they fathomed not the undying love Rhiwallon's mother bears her beautiful boy--her treasure!"

Such and other dreamy wailing words overheard in the gloaming by Gwynneth and her son, revealed to them the unselfish part Esgair had played in the events of the past. Pangs of remorse again oppressed Llewelyn as he recalled his harsh rebuke in the chapel. He now surmised that could the Evil Powers only gain possession of Rhiwallon, Rhuddlan and his race, including Esgair herself, would be delivered from all future trouble, and freed for ever from the mystic enchantments of Venedotia. But while Gwynneth and Llewelyn trembled at the danger to which the infant had been exposed, they prized more tenderly than ever his fragile mother, whose conduct had throughout been above praise; and kneeling down, they offered sincere prayer that through the exceeding faith and purity of Esgair's life she might, with heavenly aid, prevent the sacrifice of her child, and yet live to accomplish the deliverance of her race.

It was a lovely September afternoon, the sun streamed down on the rich purple heather, where Esgair, playing with her boy, sat beside a small rivulet close to the walls of the rising castle. The workmen, resting for their afternoon meal, were refreshed with milk provided for them by the kind command of their lady. Gwynneth, busily engaged in some labour of love, had remained up at the little shieling, while the solitary nurse who accompanied Esgair was seated with her work at some distance from the mother and her child.

Llewelyn had gone forth at break of day to hunt the deer, and as yet there was no sign of his return. A halo of sylvan peace enshrouded the fair scene and the actors therein. Amid autumnal silence the distant sea lay smooth as glass. Like a dim blue mist slumbered the far outline of the low-lying islands without. On either side rose the frowning sentinels of the vale between--the giant Penmaenmaur and the scarcely smaller Penmaenbach; while behind the smiling plain rose heathery slopes, undulating in successive lines towards the gloomy Tal-y-van.

Stretched on soft furs Esgair played with her beautiful laughter-loving babe. Sometimes she tossed him crowing aloft, and caught him tenderly again to her heart, then, changing from grave to gay, would whisper softly in his little ear strange old tales and legends. (It was afterwards asserted that when Rhiwallon grew to be a man many of his wondrous gifts came from his unconscious remembrance of that mother lore.) After much time thus spent in dallying with her infant, at length Esgair raised him in her arms and descended with him to the brink of the murmuring streamlet, being thus lost sight of by the nurse, who, still within easy hail, did not move from her all-engrossing handicraft.

The peaceful afternoon wore onwards, and soon Llewelyn, hot and fatigued, and with a somewhat clouded brow (for the day's sport had been unsuccessful), came striding down the narrow path, and, accosting the nurse, inquired for her mistress and child. The maid pointed out the course of the rivulet, and Llewelyn springing forward soon cleared the short space between, and gained the little eminence where the furs, still scattered in rich profusion, bore witness to the late presence of Esgair and the babe. Looking impatiently around in quest of them, to his horror and surprise Llewelyn perceived his son in the arms of a strange old man with a long hoary beard and white flowing garments. The little boy seemed pleased and happy; he was cooing to his mother, while she, seated on a rock in the midst of the purling brook, and within a stone's-throw of where Llewelyn stood, watched Rhiwallon's every movement with keen delight. Llewelyn paused not to observe the majestic stature and noble countenance of the unknown (who was, in fact, the ancient Rhuddlan, the babe's grandfather), nor remembered till afterwards, when it was too late, Esgair's look of entranced happiness. So absorbed was she that she did not hear her husband's exclamation of anger, did not see his rapid steps down the hillock, knew and felt nothing till he roughly smote her on the shoulder and sharply asked what she meant by allowing their child (during his absence) to become the plaything of any old vagrant about the place, letting him also run the risk of every passing infection of illness. He would have added more bitter words of reproach, but as he spoke the old man suddenly disappeared. The baby gave a loud cry and fell splashing into the water. His mother at once caught and drew him out, and, with streaming eyes laid him on Llewelyn's breast, while around, above, below, with a sound of many rushing waters, could be distinguished these hoarsely-muttered words:--

"The final undoing of Fate hath begun,
And Esgair's frail portion of happiness done;
Arise and return to us, child of the lake,
Nor nursling nor husband thy slumbers shall wake."

Quick as light Esgair turned a strange look of terror on her husband. "The waters, the cruel waters!" she cried; "haste to the hills ere it be too late--hasten, or they will overwhelm you!" No thought of her own fate unnerved the heroic woman. Waving wildly to the workmen, she bade them escape for their lives, and indeed the nurse had already seen from above, and turned to warn them of an impending tempest. Lurid clouds veiled the sun, wild winds sighed around, strange shapes arose in the bed of the little river, madly leaping to and fro, while, stranger than all, and striking consternation to the bravest heart, with low growls as of far thunder, arose a huge black wall of water in the distant sea, and seemed ever approaching nearer. Sea gulls and cormorants wheeled in the air above, uttering dissonant cries. Affrighted and amazed, the terrified workmen left tools, clothes, and implements behind and fled in desperate haste towards the mountains.

At this moment Esgair, turning, perceived that Llewelyn, paralyzed with terror and remorse, could move neither hand nor foot to save himself or the child. Endued for the time being with superhuman strength, she snatched the babe from his arms, and crying "Follow me," swept rapidly across the uneven ground, sometimes stumbling and nearly falling, but never stopping to take breath until, on the slopes of Moel Llys, she reached the trembling crowd, who from this vantage-ground watched the wild work of destruction below. Breathless and exhausted she flung herself down on the soft turf and soothed the bitterly crying and frightened infant.

Esgair's hurried flight awoke Llewelyn from the stupor of despair. He followed and aided her as best he could, and now stood by her side. In silent awe that little assembly beheld the appalling inroad of the waters. Like a dark pall, the slow moving mass spread itself over the fertile lands below; ere long it reached the castle; the unfinished walls disappeared, and soon a wide watery waste covered the whilome scene of busy labour and the rich fields around. At length the remorseless waves dashed unavailingly beneath the rising ground where stood the trembling fugitives. Loud thanksgivings for their safety arose from these simple pious men, and they gratefully acknowledged the hand of Providence in their wonderful escape from a watery grave.

But now low sobs of anguish were heard, a mother--like Rachel of old--weeping over her child, and refusing to be comforted. The gentle Esgair, wan and weary, lay prostrate upon the ground. Painfully she drew her labouring breath and strained Rhiwallon to her poor aching heart. Her eyes were mournfully fixed on Llewelyn, as if to take a last farewell. His grief could find no utterance. With gloomy foreboding he recalled the words of the ancient legend, and a cold thrill ran through him as he remembered that his fatal impatience had not only tempted Esgair's fate, but according to the old prophecy had riveted still more firmly the spell that bound her hapless kinsmen; for was it not written--

But if that wedded peace be riven,
By blows at random three times given,
Esgair must seek her father's cave,
Nor quit again the gloomy wave,
No slow revolving years shall wake
The spell-bound slumberers of the lake.

By this time the tempest had gradually died away. A faint melody of unearthly beauty fell on their ears--as they listened wondering and entranced, they heard these thrilling words:

Three times lost, and three times won,
Thou hast wedded Dafydd's son:
Brow that holy sign hath crossed
Ne'er can be by witchcraft lost.
By thy faith and suffering power
Thou hast won the conquering hour;
Though the spell on thee must break,
Rhuddlan's race from sleep shall wake;
Thou and thine shall dwell in light,
Saved by glory infinite.
Rise, the evil spell is broken,
Peace be thine, and this the token.

As the voice ceased the sun broke through the clouds, and from his western declivity threw a long radiance across the calming ocean. Within this glittering pathway stood an angel of exceeding beauty, and of grave and majestic countenance. With his left hand he beckoned to Esgair. With his right he pointed to the golden rays behind him, within which myriad shapes of brightest loveliness seemed to move. The light fell on Esgair's head as she arose with new strength from the earth. Already a solemn stillness hushed the grief of her pale features and a new expression beamed from her pure face.

"Heaven guard and guide thee, my babe," she said, and placing him tenderly in his nurse's arms, turned to Llewellyn imploring him to wish her farewell. He approached and wildly cast his arms around her--the strong passions of earth still raged uncontrolled in his unchastened bosom--but she slowly disengaged herself from his despairing caress and hopefully trod the brief steps that divided her from the heavenly visitant. The angel took her by the hand--once more with overflowing tenderness she waved adieu to her husband, and ere the awestruck Llewelyn could move from where he stood, the red sun disappeared with a sudden dip behind the distant island. With him also, alas! were gone the last faint traces of that pathway of light, wherein had moved, but a moment before, those bright blessed forms, connecting earth with the upper world.

Breaking from his trancelike despair, Llewelyn madly rushed to the water's brink and again and again strove to end his miserable existence by flinging himself into the gloomy sea. But his people restrained him, and the nurse brought the little Rhiwallon to his side. The unhappy father turned to look on his child, then with renewed agony, as he remembered how he had for ever deprived that tender nursling of a mother's care, he groaned aloud and smote his hands wildly together. But now, through the quiet evening air--calm and serene--like dew on the parched and weary herb, was borne this soothing message from invisible realms:

Farewell to the home of my brief mortal years,
Farewell to the valley of sunshine and tears.
Now over our castle on Arvon's pale shore
The waters of Meinai shall surge evermore.
Llyn Idwyl! sleep calmly--thou desolate lake.
Dark Glydirs! no Esgair your echoes shall wake.
But mourn not, Llewelyn, the fate of thy love,
She smiles still upon thee from regions above.
Arise and walk onward, nor idly repine,
A mission that angels might sigh for is thine,
To guide and to shelter through life's opening days
Rhiwallon, whose future all Cymri shall praise.
The Spirit Divine hath inclined to my voice,
And parents and kindred around me rejoice.
My fate is accomplished--the spell overcome,
And Paradise opens to Rhuddlan a home.

The sudden shadow that had followed sunset now gave way to gorgeous colouring. From the closed western portals of the day emerged rich waving lines of gold and roseate hue, and spread far overhead. Behind the distant islands where the sun had disappeared glowed an atmosphere of living amber. For a brief moment the gates of Paradise were indeed "standing ajar" to receive the now immortal Esgair and her long lost kindred.

Awhile the watchers on the shore continued on their knees hoping once more to see that heavenly visitant or hear again the soul-stirring voice that had fallen from unseen lips. At last one by one they arose, and gazing seawards by the waning light beheld the broad band of waters still covering the fertile plains, the green meadows, and the unfinished castle. Little rippling waves broke at their feet and marked the boundary line, where to this day, the waves surge and swell between the mighty Penmaens upon the Cambrian Coast.

At this moment Gwynneth arrived breathless in their midst and joined her lamentations to those of the little babe, who, missing his mother, bewailed her loss in heart-rending tones.

The workmen now turned to seek a night's lodging where they could, for their temporary dwellings had shared the fate of the more lordly castle. Llewelyn, still carrying his child, motioned to his mother to draw somewhat aside, and as they slowly remounted the hill, frequently pausing to cast wistful glances around, and to strain their eyes in vain toward the fading west, he related to her the various occurrences of that fatal day and repeated the farewell words of his lost wife. "Hear me, mother," exclaimed he, as they gained the door of the shieling; "by the remembrance of my Esgair's pure and holy life, I devote myself henceforth to the fulfilment of her behest, and while life and strength remain I promise so to cherish and bring up our child (aided by heavenly power) that he shall renew the memory of his sainted mother, and become the benefactor of mankind."

Clasping the babe closer in his arms he turned to enter at the lowly door, but with a cry of joy the infant stretched out its little arms, and lo! soft and pure in the western sky gleamed through the dusk the gentle Evening Star. Then Llewelyn knew in his heart that his vow had been heard, and that an angel spirit shone approval of his humble resolution.

With mournful resignation, aided by his mother and cheered by the ministrations of the good Father Tudno, Llewelyn passed the remainder of his days in the careful up-bringing of his son. They never returned to the Castle of the Lakes. For at daybreak on the morning which succeeded Esgair's translation, a messenger arrived footsore and weary bringing strange tidings of devastation. As the last stroke of midnight clanged from the castle clock the whole mighty fabric disappeared, and with it the numerous servants, the fleet steeds, and the fabulous wealth which Esgair's bridal night had brought to Llewelyn.