The miller laughed.
“I could not have afforded all that time,” said he, “to study the songs of Gronwy. However, it is well that some people should have time to study them. He was a great poet as I have been told, and is the glory of our land—but he was unfortunate; I have read his life in Welsh and part of his letters; and in doing so have shed tears.”
“Has his house any particular name?” said I.
“It is called sometimes Ty Gronwy,” said the miller; “but more frequently Tafarn Goch.”
“The Red Tavern?” said I. “How is it that so many of your places are called Goch? there is Pentraeth Goch; there is Saint Pedair Goch, and here at Llanfair is Tafarn Goch.”
The miller laughed.
“It will take a wiser man than I,” said he, “to answer that question.”
The repast over I rose up, gave my host thanks, and said, “I will now leave you, and hunt up things connected with Gronwy.”
“And where will you find a lletty for night, gentleman?” said the miller’s wife. “This is a poor place, but if you will make use of our home you are welcome.”
“I need not trouble you,” said I, “I return this night to Pentraeth Goch where I shall sleep.”