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Updated: June 7, 2025
"Codais, ymolchais yn Mon, cyn naw awr Ciniewa'n Nghaer Lleon, Pryd gosber yn y Werddon, Prydnawn wrth dan mawn yn Mon." The above englyn was printed in the Greal, 1792, p. 316; the language shows it to be a production of about the middle of the seventeenth century. The following is nearly a literal translation:
Cynthia saw this and laid her cool hand upon his shoulder while she asked bravely, daringly: "Do you love me Sandy?" What other woman on earth could have put that question at such a time? He and she were alone in the empty woods and the night held them. Sandy turned to her. "As God hears me yes, lil' Cyn, with all my heart and soul. I have loved you all my life."
Is it all true that they sing of Destiny and the Fates that whatever they spin for a man at his birth must inevitably come about? Zeus. Unquestionably. Nothing is independent of their control. From their spindle hangs the life of all created things; whose end is predetermined even from the moment of their birth; and that law knows no change. Cyn.
Everything proceeds from the Fates, you say? Zeus. Yes. Cyn. And is it in your power to unspin what they have spun? Zeus. It is not. Cyn. Shall I proceed, or is the inference clear? Zeus. Oh, clear enough.
Joyce struggled through them, tearing the pocket of her sweater and pulling her hair awry. Cynthia prudently remained on the outskirts The quest did not greatly interest her. "There's nothing back there but the foundation of the house," she remarked. "You're wrong. There is!" called back Joy, excitedly, from the depths. "Crawl around the end of the bushes, Cyn! It will be easier.
Sandy was all boy now; the strange new dignity fell wearily from him he was playing, after a hard lesson, with little Cyn. "And what am I?" he asked, "what have you made me?" "Oh! I did not make you, Sandy. You just were! The moonlight was streaming in through the window where the roses and honeysuckle are it was a leafy moonlight and all ripply like dancing water.
Look how he rides in triumph! like lame Tamburlaine, with Techelles and Usumcasane and Theridamas to attend him, and with the sunset turning the dust raised by their horses' hoofs into a sort of golden haze about them. It is a beautiful world. And truly, Mistress Cyn," the poet said, reflectively, "that Pevensey is a very splendid ephemera.
Grafton held up a protesting hand. "The truth is, I'll not need your services in helping me to recover the diamond cross for Mrs. Larch or Miss Ratchford, as she calls herself since the separation. You can drop that case, Colonel." "Drop it?" "Yes, the diamond cross has been recovered. I just had a letter from Cyn from Miss Ratchford, saying she has the cross."
I have already told you that there are things which it is not proper for you to know. You said you were only going to ask me one question, instead of which you go on quibbling without end. I see what it is you are at: you want to make out that we Gods take no thought for human affairs. Cyn. It is nothing to do with me: it was you who said just now that the Fates ordained everything.
Even Cynthia was keen for the quest, and Joyce was simply bursting with new ideas, some of which she expounded to Cynthia as they were lighting their candles in the cellar. "You know, Cyn, I've been looking at the place carefully from the outside. We haven't seen a third of it yet, no, not even a quarter!
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