"Here it is then, child, and well worth waiting for;" and, with
outstretched arm marking the cadence of its rhythm, he read aloud from
a book of old poems. "There's poetry for you, girl! There's a
description of Nature! Where will you find such real poetry amongst
modern bards? No, no! the bards are dead, Valmai!"
"Well, I don't know much about it, uncle; but isn't it a modern bard
who writes: "'Come and see the misty mountains
In their grey and purple sheen,
When they blush to see the sunrise
Like a maiden of thirteen!'"
That seems very pretty, whatever."
"Very pretty," growled the man's voice, "very pretty; of course it
is--very pretty! That's just it; but that's all, Valmai. Pwff! you
have put me out with your 'blushing maiden' and your 'purple sheen.'
Let us shut up Taliesin and come to 'Drych y Pryf Oesoedd.' Now, you
begin at the fifth chapter."
There was a little sigh, which Cardo heard distinctly, and then the
sweet voice began and continued to read until the sun sank low in the
west.
"It's getting too dark, uncle. Will I go and see if the cakes are
done?"
"No, no!" said the old man, "Gwen will look after the cakes; you light
the candle, and come on with the book."
How Cardo longed to spring in through the lattice window, to fling the
old books away, and to draw the reader out into the gold and purple
sunset--out over the breezy cliffs, and down to the golden sands; but
the strong bonds of circumstances held him back.
The candle was lighted, and now he could see into the room. Old Essec
Powell sat beside the table with one leg thrown over the other, hands
clasped, and chin in the air, lost in the deep interest of the book
which his niece was reading.
"He looks good for two hours longer," thought Cardo, as he saw the old
man's far-away look.
There was a little tone of weariness in her voice as, seating herself
at the table by the open window, Valmai drew the candle nearer and
continued to read.
Outside in the dusky twilight Cardo was gazing his fill at the face
which had haunted him ever since he had seen it on the road from Caer
Madoc. Yes, it was a beautiful face! even more lovely than he imagined
it to be in the dim evening light. He took note of the golden wavy
hair growing low on her broad, white forehead, her darker eyebrows that
reminded him of the two arches of a beautiful bridge, under which
gleamed two clear pools, reflecting the blue of the sky and the glint
of the sunshine, the straight, well-formed nose, the pensive, mobile
mouth, the complexion of a pale pink rose, and added to this the
indescribable charm of grace and manner which spread through her
personality.