Kansas University Weekly.
249
An Unwilling Offering.
On board an Atlantic steamer a party of us had been telling stories. Our party was quite cosmopolitan in its make-up, accordingly the stories varied considerably and covered a moderately wide range of subjects. There were hunting yarns, detective stories, war anecdotes, and some tales bordering on the mysterious and supernatural. The story that interested me the most was the following, told by Powell, a tall, fair-haired man with rather melancholy blue eyes and rosy cheeks.
"In the first place," he began, "you must know that I am a native of Wales, that rugged but beautiful little land on the west of England about which so little is known and less is understood; the land of poetry and romance; of legend and fable; the home of the stories of King Arthur and his doughty knights of the Round Table; and the native haunt of the last descendants of the ancient Britons, with their language, customs, and religion.
As I said, I am Welsh by birth and belong to a good family, in fact I can trace my lineage back to Llewelyn, the last Welsh king, who so long resisted the efforts of Edward I. to conquer the country. I was born and passed my youth in a little village among the mountains, far removed from the bustle and activity of the outer world. The village is situated at the extremity of a long narrow valley between two parallel mountain-ranges of moderate height, and seems to be so overshadowed and hemmed in by cliffs and precipices as to be utterly isolated from the outside world. Through the valley runs a shallow stream which rushes musically along a course strewed with rocks and boulders. The people live lives of simplicity and contentment, pay their taxes like good citizens, and care little about what is going on elsewhere. Yet sometimes in the evening the old men tell stories of former heroes and of glorious deeds done in battle, tales of the time when Cambria was free, and a native prince ruled over loyal Britons.
Amid such surroundings I grew up, happy and cotnented, and finally reached the age of eighteen. About that time there fell into my hands
some books which materially altered the tenor of my whole life. They were books of travel, some scientific works, and histories. Thenceforth I began to have vague desires to be different from the people about me, to rise in the world, and to come to be somebody. I wanted to have all my fellow-countrymen know me and revere my memory as they did those of the heroes in the books. All these influences led directly to the adventure which I started out to relate.
As I was one day walking down the single narrow street of the village I met an old woman who was called 'Old Nancy.' She was a queer character who made her living by collecting rags; she was reported to be a witch. Her back was bent, her face was wrinkled, she had very bright eyes and a fierce hooked nose; on her head she wore a red turban, and she always carried on her back a large sack which the children thought was for the express purpose in which to carry them away. We all stood in some awe of Nancy, so I was a little uneasy when she stopped me in my path by laying a skinny hand on my shoulder.
For a moment she stood silent, while her bright searching eyes scanned my every feature. At length she gave vent to a low chuckle, and said,—"Aha! you'll do, you'll do." Considerably mystified I asked,—"What is it, Nancy? what do you mean?" "So you want to be famous, do you?"—said the old hag with another hideous chuckle,—"want to be remembered and praised? All right, you shall have what you want; meet me at the Tower at nine o'clock tonight. Fear nothing, but be there or it shall be worse for you." Emphasizing these last words with her long, bony forefinger, she passed on, muttering and chuckling under her breath.
All the rest of that day I was in a state of great wonder and curiosity as to what 'Old Nancy' wanted with me away out there, at that time of night. The Tower was a dismantled, ivycovered old ruin that stood in a lonely spot on the mountain side near the river. The old woman could mean me no harm, for I had no valuables worth taking; and yet why had she pitched