The above was the substance of what he said, and nothing more, for he spoke in English somewhat broken.
“And how far is Llanfair from here?” said I.
“About ten miles,” he replied.
“That’s nothing,” said I; “I was afraid it was much farther.”
“Do you call ten miles nothing,” said he, “in a burning day like this? I think you will be both tired and thirsty before you get to Llanfair, supposing you go there on foot. But what may your business be at Llanfair?” said he looking at me inquisitively. “It is a strange place to go to, unless you go to buy hogs or cattle.”
“I go to buy neither hogs nor cattle,” said I, “though I am somewhat of a judge of both; I go on a more important errand, namely to see the birth-place of the great Gronwy Owen.”
“Are you any relation of Gronwy Owen?” said the old man, looking at me more inquisitively than before, through a large pair of spectacles, which he wore.
“None whatever,” said I.
“Then why do you go to see his parish? It is a very poor one.”
“From respect to his genius,” said I; “I read his works long ago, and was delighted with them.”