"No, I daresay! They say the devil isn't, either," said Deio.
It was very evident the person in question was no favourite of his.
Meanwhile Caradoc, or Cardo as he was called all over the country side,
the "Vicare du's" only son, had begun his tramp homewards with a light
heart and a brisk step. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with
health and youthful energy expressed in every limb and feature, with
jet black hair and sparkling eyes to match. His dark, almost swarthy
face, was lighted up by a pleasant smile, which seemed ever hovering
about the corners of his mouth, and which would make itself evident in
spite of the moustache which threatened to hide it.
The band of the local militia was practising in the open market hall as
he passed, and an old Welsh air struck familiarly on his ear.
"They'll wonder what's become of me at home," he thought, "or rather
Betto will. I don't suppose my father would notice my absence, so long
as I was home to supper. Poor old dad!" he added, and a grave look
came over his face.
In truth it was not a very cheerful home to which he was returning, but
it was home, and had been his from childhood. It had been the home
also of his ancestors for generations, which, to a Welshman, means a
great deal, for the ties of home are in the very roots of his being.
Home draws him from the furthermost ends of the earth, and leaving it,
adds bitterness even to death.
His mother had died at his birth, so that the sacred word "mother" had
never been more than a name to him, and he had taught himself to banish
the thought of her from his mind; in fact an indescribable uneasiness
always leapt up within his heart when her name was mentioned, and that
was very rarely, for his father never spoke of her, and old Betto, the
head servant, but seldom, and then with such evident sadness and
reticence, that an undefined, though none the less crushing fear, had
haunted him from childhood upwards. As he stepped out so bravely this
soft spring evening, the look of disquietude did not remain long on his
face. At twenty-four life has not lost its rosy tints; heart, mind,
and body are fresh and free to take a share in all its opening scenes,
more especially if, as in Cardo's case, love, the disturber, has not
yet put in an appearance.
As he reached the brow of the hill beyond the town, the white dusty
road stretched like a sinuous snake over the moor before him, while on
the left, the sea lay soft and grey in the twilight, and the moon rose
full and bright on his right. The evening air was very still, but an
occasional strain of the band he had left behind him reached his ears,
and with a musical voice he hummed the old Welsh air which came
fitfully on the breeze: "By Berwen's banks my love hath strayed,
For many a day in sun and shade;
And while she carols loud and clear,
The little birds fly down to hear.