"Ancestors?" said the girl; "what is that?"
"Oh! my grandfather and great-grandfather, and all the long dead of my family."
"Yes, indeed, I see. Ancestors," she repeated, with a sort of scheduling tone, as though making sure of the fresh information; "I do not know much English, but there's good you are speaking it! Can you speak Welsh?"
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Cardo, and his voice woke the echoes from Moel Hiraethog, the hill which they were nearing, and which they must compass before reaching the valley of the Berwen. "Ha! ha! ha! Can I speak Welsh? Why, I am Welsh to the core, Cymro glan gloyw![1] What are you?"
"Oh! Welsh, of course. You can hear that by my talk."
"Indeed no," said Cardo. "I did not know anyone at Traeth Berwen could speak English as well as you do."
He was longing to find out who his fellow-traveller was. He saw in the dim light she was slim and fair, and had a wealth of golden hair; he saw her dress was grey and her hood was red. So much the moonlight revealed, but further than this he could not discover, and politeness forbade his asking. As if in answer to his thoughts, however, her next words enlightened him.
"I am Valmai Powell, the niece of Essec Powell, the preacher."
A long, low whistle escaped from the young man's lips.
"By Jove!" he said.