“Just so,” said the man of the hat.
“It looks old,” said I.
“And it is old,” he replied. “In the time of the Papists it was one of their chapels.”
“Does it belong to you?” I demanded.
“O no, it belongs to one Mr. Sparrow from Liverpool. I am his bailiff, and this man is a carpenter who is here doing a job for him.”
Here ensued a pause, which was broken by the man of the hat saying in English to the man of the cap—
“Who can this strange fellow be? he has not a word of English, and though he speaks Welsh, his Welsh sounds very different from ours. Who can he be?”
“I am sure I don’t know,” said the other.
“I know who he is,” said the first; “he comes from Llydaw, or Armorica, which was peopled from Britain estalom, and where I am told the real old Welsh language is still spoken.”
“I think I heard you mention the word Llydaw?” said I to the man of the hat.