“Not in the least,” said I; “but I doubt very much that his tomb was ever discovered with the inscription which you allude to upon it.”
“But it was, sir, I do assure you, and the descendants of Madoc and his people are still to be found in a part of America speaking the pure iaith Cymraeg better Welsh than we of Wales do.”
“That I doubt,” said I. “However, the idea is a pretty one; therefore cherish it. This is a beautiful country.”
“A very beautiful country, sir; there is none more beautiful in all Wales.”
“What is the name of the river, which runs beneath the bridge?”
“The Ceiriog, sir.”
“The Ceiriog,” said I; “the Ceiriog!”
“Did you ever hear the name before, sir?”
“I have heard of the Eos Ceiriog,” said I; “the Nightingale of Ceiriog.”
“That was Huw Morris, sir; he was called the Nightingale of Ceiriog.”