I got up and gave him the sele of the day in English. He was a man about thirty, rather tall than otherwise, with a very prepossessing countenance. He shook his head at my English.
“What,” said I, addressing him in the language of the country, “have you no English? Perhaps you have Welsh?”
“Plenty,” said he, laughing; “there is no lack of Welsh amongst any of us here. Are you a Welshman?”
“No,” said I, “an Englishman from the far east of Lloegr.”
“And what brings you here?” said the man.
“A strange errand,” I replied, “to look at the birthplace of a man who has long been dead.”
“Do you come to seek for an inheritance?” said the man.
“No,” said I. “Besides the man whose birth-place I came to see died poor, leaving nothing behind him but immortality.”
“Who was he?” said the miller.