Then Morfed lifted his arm and began to sing softly, swinging the sickle in time to the song, with his eyes on us.
I thought that maybe he would sing to us the end of Owen, as would Thorgils, but the tongue in which the words were spoken was not the Welsh that I knew.

I think now that it was the tongue of the men who reared the menhir, and that which was the mother of the tongue of Howel and Gerent alike.

It was an uncanny song, and I waxed uneasy as it went on, and the flashing sickle waved more quickly before my eyes.
Soon the murmur of the song seemed to get into my brain, as it were, and the sparkle of the gold in the sunlight wove itself into strange circles of light before my eyes, widening and narrowing in mystic curves that dazzled me, until at last I would look no longer, and with an effort I turned my head and glanced at Howel to ask if this foolishness should not be ended.
But he shook his head.
"Let him be," he said in a whisper.

"It is ill to anger a crazed man.

Surely he will tell what we need soon." But beside him Evan seemed to be shrinking as in terror.