Six warriors walked on either side of the bier. The horses’ hooves and the wagon’s wheels were wrapped with rags, likewise the spearsand shields of the warriors. The Liwyddi followed, each man, woman and child carrying an unlit torch.

Burial of a king has been observed in this way from time past remembering. The wheels and hooves are muffled, so that the bier may pass silently through the land; the weapons are covered and the torches unlit, so that no eye will mark the passing procession. Secrecy and silence are maintained so that the gravemound will never be discovered and desecrated by an enemy.

As night drew its cloak of stars across the sky, we arrived at Glyn Du, a narrow valley tributary to the Vale of Modornn. The funeral procession entered the black glen, moving beside the still, dark water. The deep-folded valley was darker even than the sky above, which still glimmered in blue twilight. The gravemound loomed on its hill as a mass of thick-gathered shadow.

At the foot of Cnoc Righ, the Hill of Kings, I kindled a small fire to light the torches. As the people took their places, forming two long lines on either side of the path

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leading up the hill to the entrance of the cairn, the flame was passed from torch to torch. This is the Aryant 0!, the radiant way along which a king is carried to the tomb. When the people had assembled, I began the funeral rite, saying:

“The sword I bear on my thigh was a wall, high and strong-the bane of marauding enemies! Now it is broken.

“The torc I bear in my hand was a light of keen judgment-the beacon of rightwise favor shining from the far-off hill. Now it is extinguished.

“The shield I bear on my shoulder was a platter of plenty in the hail of honor-the sustenance of heroes. Now it is riven, and the hand that upheld it is cold.

“The pale white corpse will soon be covered, under earth and blue stones: Woe my heart, the king is dead.

“The pale white corpse will soon be covered, amidst earth and oak: Woe my heart, the Ruler of Clans is slain.

“The pale white corpse will soon be covered, under the greensward in the tumulus: Woe my heart, Prydain’s chieftain will join his fathers in the Hero Mound.

“Men of Prydain! Fall on your faces, grief has overtaken you. The Day of Strife has dawned! Great the grief, sharp the sorrow. No glad songs will be sung in the land, only songs of mourning. Let all men make bitter lament. The Pillar of Prydain is shattered. The Hall of Tribes has no roof. The Eagle of Findargad is gone. The Boar of Sycharth is no more. The Great King, the Golden King, Meldryn Mawr is murdered. The Day of Strife has dawned!