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or what it could mean, only about the beauty of the sound. |
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As the afternoon wore away to evening, it became apparent that Rhiannon's careful planning had been wasted. She probably could have sung Branwen, Daughter of Llyr, which had violent anti-English feeling, without producing a political effect in the king. This both enchanted and annoyed her, for the artist in Henry had totally supplanted the king. He did not think about the meaning of anything, nor even about the fact that Llewelyn's daughter might well have business for her father in hand. All Henry could think of was Rhiannon's art. |
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He wanted to know everything; when and where she learned, where the songs came from, who had translated them into French from the Welsh. He listened intently, and her answers generated more questions. He examined her harp minutely and reverently, recognizing at once its great age and that it was a masterwork even finer than the broach and buckle that Llewelyn had sent him. |
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The artist in Rhiannon responded enthusiastically, charmed with Henry's delight, sincere interest, and manner. However, the part of her that was daughter of a Welsh prince, who had come to England with a purpose other than singing songs, was thoroughly annoyed. More than once, with more tact than she knew she had, Rhiannon tried to turn the talk to the meaning of Culhwch's relationship with Arthur, to the forbearance King Arthur had shown his too-eager, too-quarrelsome cousin just because he was so much the stronger. As far as Rhiannon could tell, it all went right over Henry's head. The king responded quite naturally, but he praised the beauty of the lines that described the lofty sentiments. There seemed to be no connection at all in his mind between himself and English Arthur, and Llewelyn, a Welsh Culhwch. |
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When, almost by force, Henry was at last separated |
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