The Foundling by Lloyd Alexander Page B

consoled himself with delicious dreams of how he would even the score—should he ever have a host of warriors at his command.
    Suddenly he realized the clash of arms and noise of battle came not from his imaginings but from a short way down the road. A band of robbers, lying in ambush, had set upon the riders. The servants had fled bawling in terror and the lord himself was hard pressed and sorely in danger of losing his head as well as his purse.
    Snatching out his sword and shouting his battle cry, “A Fflam! A Fflam!” Fflewddur rushed into the fray, and laid about him so fiercely and ferociously the robbers turned and fled as if a whole army of long-legged madmen were at their heels.
    Shamefaced, the lord knelt humbly before him, saying: “Alas, I gave you a cudgel to your back, but you gave me a bold sword at my side.”
    â€œAh—yes, well, for the matter of that,” replied Fflewddur, a little
tartly now the danger was past, “the truth is, a Fflam is hotblooded! I’d been itching for a good fight all this day. But had I known it was you,” he added, “believe me, I’d have kept on my way—Oh, not again! Drat and blast the wretched things!” He moaned as three harp strings broke one after the other, and the instrument jangled as if it would fall to bits.
    More than ever dismayed at the state of his harp strings, Fflewddur left the lord’s domain and turned back toward Caer Dathyl, journeying to stand once again before the Chief Bard.
    â€œA Fflam is thankful,” he began, “and not one to look a gift horse—in this case, harp—in the mouth. But the strings were weak and worn. As for my wanderings, I was dined and feasted, welcomed and treated royally wherever I went. But the strings—there, you see, they’re at it again!” he exclaimed, as several broke in two even as he spoke.
    â€œI’ve only to take a breath!” Fflewddur lamented. “Why, the wretched things break at every word—” He stopped short and stared at the harp. “It would almost seem—” he murmured, his face turning sickly green. “But it can’t be! But it is!” He groaned, looking all the more woebegone.
    The Chief Bard was watching him closely and Fflewddur glanced sheepishly at him.
    â€œAh—the truth of it is,” Fflewddur muttered, “I nearly froze to death in the wind, nearly drowned in the river, and my royal welcome was a royal cudgeling.
    â€œThose beastly strings,” he sighed. “Yes, they do break whenever I, ah, shall we say, adjust the facts. But facts are so gray and dreary, I can’t help adding a little color. Poor things, they need it so badly.”
    â€œI have heard more of your wanderings than you might think,”
said the Chief Bard. “Have you indeed spoken all the truth? What of the old man you warmed with your cloak? The child you saved from the river? The lord at whose side you fought?”
    Fflewddur blinked in astonishment. “Ah—yes, well, the truth of it is: it never occurred to me to mention them. They were much too dull and drab for any presentable tale at all.”
    â€œYet those deeds were far more worthy than all your gallant fancies,” said the Chief Bard, “for a good truth is purest gold that needs no gilding. You have the modest heart of the truly brave; but your tongue, alas, gallops faster than your head can rein it.”
    â€œNo longer!” Fflewddur declared. “Never again will I stretch the truth!”
    The harp strings tightened as if ready to break all at once.
    â€œThat is to say,” Fflewddur added hastily, “never beyond what it can bear. A Fflam has learned his lesson. Forever!”
    At this, a string snapped loudly. But it was only a small one.
    Such is the tale of Fflewddur Fflam, the breaking of the strings, and the harp he carried in all his wanderings from that day forward.
    And such is the end of