“Ah,” said the man of the hat, speaking Welsh, “I was right after all; oh, I could have sworn you were Llydaweg. Well, how are the descendants of the ancient Britons getting on in Llydaw?”
“They were getting on tolerably well,” said I, “when I last saw them, though all things do not go exactly as they could wish.”
“Of course not,” said he of the hat. “We too have much to complain of here; the lands are almost entirely taken possession of by Saxons, wherever you go you will find them settled, and a Saxon bird of the roof must build its nest in Gwyn dŷ.”
“You call a sparrow in your Welsh a bird of the roof, do you not?” said I.
“We do,” said he of the hat. “You speak Welsh very well, considering you were not born in Wales. It is really surprising that the men of Llydaw should speak the iaith so pure as they do.”
“The Welsh, when they went over there,” said I, “took effectual means that their descendants should speak good Welsh, if all tales be true.”
“What means?” said he of the hat.
“Why,” said I, “after conquering the country they put all the men to death, and married the women, but before a child was born they cut out all the women’s tongues, so that the only language the children heard when they were born was pure Cumraeg. What do you think of that?”
“Why, that it was a cute trick,” said he of the hat.
“A more clever trick I never heard,” said he of the cap.