“Yes,” said she, “I can speak it, but not very well. There is not much Welsh spoken by the children hereabout. The old folks hold more to it.”
I saw again the Rhymni river, and crossed it by a bridge; the river here was filthy and turbid owing of course to its having received the foul drainings of the neighbouring coal works—shortly afterwards I emerged from the coom or valley of the Rhymni and entered upon a fertile and tolerably level district. Passed by Llanawst and Machen. The day which had been very fine now became dark and gloomy. Suddenly, as I was descending a slope, a brilliant party consisting of four young ladies in riding habits, a youthful cavalier, and a servant in splendid livery—all on noble horses, swept past me at full gallop down the hill. Almost immediately afterwards seeing a road-mender who was standing holding his cap in his hand—which he had no doubt just reverentially doffed—I said in Welsh: “Who are those ladies?”
“Merched Sir Charles—the daughters of Sir Charles,” he replied.
“And is the gentleman their brother?”
“No! The brother is in the Crim—fighting with the Roosiaid. I don’t know who yon gentleman be.”
“Where does Sir Charles live?”
“Down in the Dyfryn, not far from Basallaig.”
“If I were to go and see him,” I said, “do you think he would give me a cup of ale?”
“I dare say he would; he has given me one many a time.”
I soon reached Basallaig, a pleasant village standing in a valley and nearly surrounded by the groves of Sir Charles Morgan. Seeing a decent public-house I said to myself, “I think I shall step in and have my ale here, and not go running after Sir Charles, whom perhaps after all I shouldn’t find at home.” So I went in and called for a pint of ale. Over my ale I trifled for about half-an-hour, then paying my groat I got up and set off for Newport in the midst of a thick mist which had suddenly come on and which speedily wetted me nearly to the skin.