“Are you a Welshman?” said the old man.
“No,” said I, “I am no Welshman.”
“Can you speak Welsh?” said he, addressing me in that language.
“A little,” said I; “but not so well as I can read it.”
“Well,” said the old man, “I have lived here a great many years, but never before did a Saxon call upon me, asking questions about Gronwy Owen, or his birth-place. Immortality to his memory! I owe much to him, for reading his writings taught me to be a poet!”
“Dear me!” said I, “are you a poet?”
“I trust I am,” said he; “though the humblest of Ynys Fon.”
A flash of proud fire, methought, illumined his features as he pronounced these last words.
“I am most happy to have met you,” said I; “but tell me how am I to get to Llanfair?”
“You must go first,” said he, “to Traeth Coch, which in Saxon is called the ‘Red Sand.’ In the village called the Pentraeth which lies above the sand, I was born; through the village and over the bridge you must pass, and after walking four miles due north you will find yourself in Llanfair eithaf, at the northern extremity of Mon. Farewell! That ever Saxon should ask me about Gronwy Owen, and his birth-place! I scarcely believe you to be a Saxon, but whether you be or not, I repeat farewell.”