“Anything else?” said I.
“Yes, master! I and my mort worships something besides good ale; don’t we, Sue?” and then he leered at the mort, who leered at him, and both made odd motions backwards and forwards, causing the baskets which hung around them to creak and rustle, and uttering loud shouts of laughter, which roused the echoes of the neighbouring hills.
“Genuine descendants, no doubt,” said I to myself as I walked briskly on, “of certain of the old heathen Saxons who followed Rag into Wales, and settled down about the house which he built. Really, if these two are a fair specimen of the Wrexham population, my friend the Scotch policeman was not much out when he said that the people of Wrexham were the worst people in Wales.”
CHAPTER LXVI
Sycharth—The kindly Welcome—Happy Couple—Sycharth—Recalling the Dead—Ode to Sycharth.
I was now at the northern extremity of the valley near a great house, past which the road led in the direction of the north-east. Seeing a man employed in breaking stones, I inquired the way to Sychnant.
“You must turn to the left,” said he, “before you come to yon great house, follow the path which you will find behind it, and you will soon be in Sychnant.”
“And to whom does the great house belong?”
“To whom? why, to Sir Watkin.”
“Does he reside there?”