“He lived in a place called Sycharth?” said I.
“Well, sir; and we of the place call it Sycharth as often as Sychnant; nay, oftener.”
“Is his house standing?”
“It is not; but the hill on which it stood is still standing.”
“Is it a high hill?”
“It is not; it is a small, light hill.”
“A light hill!” said I to myself. “Old Iolo Goch, Owen Glendower’s bard, said the chieftain dwelt in a house on a light hill.
“‘There dwells the chief we all extol
In timber house on lightsome knoll.’
“Is there a little river near it,” said I to the cook, “a ffrwd?”
“There is; it runs just under the hill.”