id of
disturbing me so early. Wasn't that kind of him? I remembered the glove,
and the thought of it was more delicious than a breakfast of Cornish
cream and honey; although, of course, lurking in the background of my
mind was the horrid idea that he might have accidentally picked the
thing up to use as a bookmark. And another idea, gloomier even, though
not so horrid, was that, even if he does like me well enough to keep
things of mine, he must soon grow to hate me when he knows who I am.

He suggested coffee, but I wouldn't have it, because I was afraid Mrs.
Senter might appear and want to go to the castle too. I had visions of
her, hearing our voices in the corridor, and dashing out of bed to fling
on her clothes; but even if she did overhear the whole conversation, I
don't think she's the kind who looks her best before breakfast, if she
has dressed in a hurry; and anyway, we were spared the apparition.

It was a fine scramble getting to the ruins, and when Sir Lionel had
opened a door (with a key you get from a cottage close by the sea) it
was quite as if he were my host, entertaining me in his ancestral home.
I told him that it felt twice as interesting to be there with a true
Pendragon, than with a mere king or anybody like that, and he seemed
pleased.

"I _hope_ I am a 'true' Pendragon," he said, rather thoughtfully. "One
must try to be--always." He looked at me very, very kindly, as if he
would have liked to say something more; but he didn't speak, and turned
away his eyes to look far over the sea. It was only for a little while,
though, that he was absent-minded. Sitting there on the rough,
wind-blown grass which is the floor of the castle now, he told me things
about the place and its history. How Dundagel meant the "Safe Castle,"
and how the "Arthurian believers" say it was built by the Britons in
earliest Roman days; how David Bruce of Wales was entertained by the
Earl of Cornwall on the very spot where we were sitting, and how the
great hall, once famous, was destroyed as long ago as when Chaucer was a
baby. And as he talked, the rising wind wailed and sobbed like old, old
witches crying over the evil fallen on Arthur and his castle. Such an
old, wise-sounding wind it was, old enough to have been blowing when
Arthur was a baby, drowning the lullabies sung by his mother Igerna,
"that greatest beauty in Britain."

We forgot breakfast, and stopped in the ruins a long time, until
suddenly we both realized t