On a tabourette near his knee she sat, lovingly clasping his hand between her own two, for he seemed restless, petulant, and gloomy, and had his cloak and cap at hand, as if about to go forth, though the weather was frightful. "Jorwerth," said she softly, "the last time there was such a storm as this was on that terrible night--you remember?" "When we cut off the Gwylliad Cochion--yes, root and branch, sparing, as we thought, none, while the rain ran through my armour as through a waterspout. But why speak of it, to-night especially? Yes, root and branch, even while that woman vowed vengeance," he added, grinding his teeth. "But what sound is that?" "Music," she replied, rising and looking round with surprise; but his tremulous hand, and, more than that, the sudden pallor of his face, arrested her, while the strains of a small harp, struck wildly and plaintively, came at times between the fierce gusts of wind that shook the forest trees and the hiss of the rain on the window-panes without. Louder they seemed to come, and to be more emphatic and sharp; and, as he heard them, a violent trembling and cold perspiration came over all the form of Sir Jorwerth Lloyd. "Heaven pity the harper who is abroad to-night!" said Gwerfyl, clasping her white hands. "Let Hell do so, rather!" was the fierce response of her husband, as his eyes filled with a strange light. At that moment a hand knocked on the window, and the startled wife, as she crouched by her husband's side, could see that it was small and delicate, wondrously beautiful too, and radiant with gems or glittering raindrops; and now her husband trembled more violently than ever. Gwerfyl crossed herself, and rushed to the window. "Strange," said she; "I can see no one." "No one in human form, perhaps," replied her husband gloomily, as he lifted his cloak. "Look again, dear wife."