CHAPTER LXXVII
The Deaf Man—Funeral Procession—The Lone Family—The Welsh and their Secrets—The Vale of the Dyfi—The Bright Moon.
A little way from Cemmaes I saw a respectable-looking old man like a little farmer, to whom I said:
“How far to Machynlleth?”
Looking at me in a piteous manner in the face he pointed to the side of his head, and said—“Dim clywed.”
It was no longer no English, but no hearing.
Presently I met one yet more deaf. A large procession of men came along the road. Some distance behind them was a band of women and between the two bands was a kind of bier drawn by a horse with plumes at each of the four corners. I took off my hat and stood close against the hedge on the right-hand side till the dead had passed me some way to its final home.
Crossed a river, which like that on the other side of Cemmaes streamed down from a gulley between two hills into the valley of the Dyfi. Beyond the bridge on the right-hand side of the road was a pretty cottage, just as there was in the other locality. A fine tall woman stood at the door, with a little child beside her. I stopped and inquired in English whose body it was that had just been borne by.
“That of a young man, sir, the son of a farmer, who lives a mile or so up the road.”
Myself.—He seems to have plenty of friends.