He had been sent from the castle on the Wye, which might well be called, like one in Sir Walter’s tales, “Castle Dangerous,” upon an errand to an outpost, and was returning by moonlight along the banks of the stream, there a rushing mountain torrent. It was a weird scene, the peaks of the Black Mountains rose up into the calm pellucid air of night, the solemn woods lined the further bank of the river, and extended to the bases of the hills. It was just the time and the hour when the wild, unconquered Celts were likely to make their foray upon the dwellers on the English side of the stream, if they could find a spot where they could cross. About half a mile from Llanystred Castle, amidst the splash and dash of the water, Hubert distinguished some peculiar and unaccustomed sounds, like the murmur of many voices, in some barbarous tongue, all ll’s and consonants. He waited and listened. Just below him roared and foamed the stream, and it so happened that a series of black rocks raised their heads above the swollen waters like still porpoises, at such distances as to afford lithesome people the chance of crossing, dry shod, when the water was low. But it was a risk, for the river had all the strength of a cataract, and he who slipped would infallibly be carried down by the strong current and dashed against the rocks and drowned. Here Hubert watched, clad in light mail was he, and he cunningly kept in the shadow. Soon he saw a black moving mass opposite, and then the moonlight gleam upon a hundred spear tops. Did his heart fail him? No; the chance he had pined for was come. It was quite possible for one daring man to bid defiance to the hundred here, and prevent their crossing. See, they come, and Hubert’s heart beats loudly—the first is on the first stone, the others press behind. He, the primus, leaps on to the second rock, and so to the third, and still his place is taken, at every resting place he leaves, by his successor. Yes, they mean to get over, and to have a little blood letting and fire raising tonight, just for amusement. And only one stout heart to prevent them. They do not see him until the last stepping stone is attained by the first man, and but one more leap needed to the shore, when a stern, if youthful, voice cries: “Back, ye dogs of Welshmen!” and the first Celt falls into the stream, transfixed by Hubert’s spear, transfixed as he made the final leap. A sudden pause: the second man tries to leap so as to avoid the spear, his own similar weapon presented before him, but position gives Hubert advantage, and the second foe goes down the waves, dyeing them with his blood, raising his despairing hand, as he dies, out of the foaming torrent. The third hesitates.