What can we do ?" Truly, the face of Morfed was black as thunder, while that of the Norseman was shining with delight in some long-winded story he was telling.

The white-robed servants were clearing the tables at this moment, and the prince's bard, a fine old harper with golden collar and chain, was tuning his little gilded harp as if the time for song had come.
"Make him sing," said Nona.

"I bade him here tonight that he might do so.

He has some wondrous tale to tell us." Howel beckoned to the harper, and signed to him, and the old man rose at once and went to Thorgils.

It was not the first time that he had sung here, it was plain.