“Plenty,” said I; “but those altars are older than the time of the Welsh colonists, and were erected by the old Gauls.”
“Well,” said the man of the cap, “I am glad to have seen a man of Llydaw.”
“Whom do you call a man of Llydaw?” said I.
“Whom but yourself?” said he of the hat.
“I am not a man of Llydaw,” said I in English, “but of Norfolk, where the people eat the best dumplings in the world, and speak the purest English. Now a thousand thanks for your civility. I would have some more chat with you, but night is coming on, and I am bound to Holyhead.”
Then leaving the men staring after me, I bent my steps towards Holyhead.
I passed by a place called Llan something, standing lonely on its hill. The country around looked sad and desolate. It is true night had come on when I saw it.
On I hurried. The voices of children sounded sweetly at a distance across the wild champaign on my left.
It grew darker and darker. On I hurried along the road; at last I came to lone, lordly groves. On my right was an open gate and a lodge. I went up to the lodge. The door was open, and in a little room I beheld a nice-looking old lady sitting by a table, on which stood a lighted candle, with her eyes fixed on a large book.
“Excuse me,” said I; “but who owns this property?”