“No, no, sure enough; no storm was there. But it is plain to see what has killed him!” This was Evan Peters, the quarryman, and I glanced at him very suspiciously. “Iss, sure, plain enough,” said another; and then they all broke into Welsh, with much gesticulation; and “e-ah, e-ah,” and “otty, otty,” and “hanool, hanool,” were the sounds they made—at least to an ignorant English ear.
“What do you mean, you fools?” I asked, being vexed at their offhand way of settling things so far beyond them. “Can you pretend to say what it was?”
“Indeed, then, and indeed, my gentleman, it is no use to talk no more. It was the Caroline Morgan.”
“Which is the nearest house?” I asked, for I saw that some of them were already girding up their loins to fly, at the mere sound of that fearful name; for the cholera morbus had scared the whole country; and if one were to fly, all the rest would follow, as swiftly as mountain sheep go. “Be quick to the nearest house, my friends, and we will send for the doctor.”
This was a lucky hit; for these Cambrians never believed in anyone’s death until he had “taken the doctor.” And so, with much courage and kindness, “to give the poor gentleman the last chance,” they made a rude litter, and, bearing the body upon sturdy shoulders, betook themselves to a track which I had overlooked entirely. Some people have all their wits about them as soon as they are called for, but with me it is mainly otherwise. And this I had shown in two things already; the first of which came to my mind the moment I pulled out my watch to see what the time was. “Good Heavens!” it struck me, “where is George’s watch? It was not in any of his pockets; and I did not feel it in his fob.”
In an instant I made them set down the bier; and, much as it grieved me to do such a thing, I carefully sought for my dear friend’s watch. No watch, no seals, no ribbon, was there! “Go on,” I said; and I fell behind them, having much to think about. In this condition, I took little heed of the distance, or of the ground itself; being even astonished when, at last, we stopped; as if we were bound to go on forever.
CHAPTER VI.
We had stopped at the gate of an old farmhouse, built with massive boulder stones, laid dry, and flushed in with mortar. As dreary a place as was ever seen; at the head of a narrow mountain-gorge, with mountains towering over it. There was no sign of life about it, except that a gaunt hog trotted forth, and grunted at us, and showed his tusks, and would perhaps have charged us, if we had not been so many. The house looked just like a low church-tower, and might have been taken for one at a distance if there had been any battlements. It seemed to be four or five hundred years old, and perhaps belonged to some petty chief in the days of Owen Glendower.