“We call that hill Moelfre,” said the old man desisting from his labour, and touching his hat.
“Dear me,” said I; “Moelfre, Moelfre!”
“Is there anything wonderful in the name, sir?” said the old man, smiling.
“There is nothing wonderful in the name,” said I, “which merely means the bald hill, but it brings wonderful recollections to my mind. I little thought when I was looking from the road near Pentraeth Coch yesterday on that hill, and the bay and strand below it, and admiring the tranquillity which reigned over all, that I was gazing upon the scene of one of the most tremendous conflicts recorded in history or poetry.”
“Dear me,” said the old reaper; “and whom may it have been between? the French and English, I suppose.”
“No,” said I; “it was fought between one of your Welsh kings, the great Owain Gwynedd, and certain northern and Irish enemies of his.”
“Only think,” said the old man, “and it was a fierce battle, sir?”
“It was, indeed,” said I; “according to the words of a poet, who described it, the Menai could not ebb on account of the torrent of blood which flowed into it, slaughter was heaped upon slaughter, shout followed shout, and around Moelfre a thousand war flags waved.”
“Well, sir,” said the old man, “I never before heard anything about it, indeed I don’t trouble my head with histories, unless they be Bible histories.”
“Are you a Churchman?” said I.