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Petroc, his crozier tucked under his arm, astride a white mule with scarlet ear-tassels and bells and a saddle of scarlet leather. He gazed across the sands to the sea, and turned to St. Neot, who towered at his side upon a flea-bitten grey. "The parish seems to be deserted," said he: "not a man nor woman can I see, nor a trace of smoke above the chimneys." St. Neot tightened his thin lips.
In his secret heart he was mightily pleased. "Eight in the morning," he answered, with a glance back at the sun. "They'll be all abed, I'll warrant you." St. Petroc muttered a threat. They entered the village street. Not a soul turned out at their coming. Every cottage door was fast closed, nor could any amount of knocking elicit an answer or entice a face to a window.
The visitors found themselves at the foot of an enormous sand-hill, from the top of which the chant was pouring as lava from a crater. They set their ears to the sandy wall. They walked round it, and listened again. "But ever prowls th' insidious foe, And listens round the fold" This was too much. St. Petroc smote twice upon the sand-hill with his crozier, and shouted "Hi, there!"
Is that the value of a prince of Morganwg? It is ill to insult a captive." "Nay, Prince, there is no insult " "By St. Petroc, but there is, though! What will the men of Morganwg what will the Dyfed men say when they hear that the Saxon holds one of the line of Arthur at the value of a hundred cows? Ay, that is how I shall be known henceforth! Mordred of the cows, forsooth."
Enodar suddenly turned his face inland, and held up a finger. "Hark!" he shouted above the roar of the sea. "What is it?" "It sounds to me," said St. Petroc, after listening for some moments with his head on one side, "it sounds to me like a hymn." "To be sure 'tis a hymn," said St. Enodar, "and the tune is 'Mullyon, for a crown."
Between barren sea and barren downs the beach stretched away, with not a human shape in sight. St. Petroc, choking with impotent wrath, appeared to study the hollow green breakers from between the long ears of his mule, but with quick sidelong glances right and left, ready to jump down the throat of the first saint that dared to smile. After a minute or so St.
The chant ceased. For at least a couple of minutes nothing happened; and then St. Piran's bald head was thrust cautiously forward over the summit. "Holy St. Petroc! Was it only you, after all? And St. Neot and St. Udy O, glory be!" "Why, who did you imagine we were?" St. Petroc asked, still in amazement.
Anyway, 'twas revealed to me just now in a dream that I stood on the lawn at Bodmin Priory, and peeped in at the Priory window. An' there in the long hall sat all the saints together at a big table covered with red baize and plotted against us. There was St. Petroc in the chair, with St. Guron by his side, an' St. Neot, St. Udy, St. Teath, St. Keverne, St. Wen, St. Probus, St. Enodar, St.
But why didn't ye send word ye was comin', St. Petroc, darlint? For it's little but sand ye'll find in your mouths for breakfast, I'm thinkin'." The first-class smoking compartment was the emptiest in the whole train, and even this was hot to suffocation, because my only companion denied me more than an inch of open window. His chest, he explained curtly, was "susceptible."
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