Twm had reason to be satisfied with his progress on his road to London, for he had met danger, and his wit and ingenuity had proved equal to any emergency. But success did not make him over-confident, and consequently careless; but, on finding himself yet seventy-four miles from his journey’s end, he prepared for more trials of his skill and courage. He was sent for next morning by the mayor of Marlborough, who had heard of his adventure, and required to bring the horse with him, which he had so adroitly won.
Many gentlemen having assembled at the entrance to the town-hall, our hero appeared in all the pride of a conqueror, mounted on his goodly steed; although so humbly clad, their hats were doffed, and loud shouts of applause were immediately given. It was soon ascertained by the mayor and the gentlemen present, that the horse was regularly bred to the road, and instructed by a highwayman, therefore, not, as at first conjectured, the property of any person deprived of it by one of these free-faring gentry; consequently, his worship, with many comments on his cleverness and courage told our hero that the horse was his own by right of conquest; but that if he were inclined to part with it, he would give forty pounds for it Twm directly assented; and the money was paid to him the same morning.
Being now in want of an animal on which to continue his travel, Twm determined to walk on to Hungerford, and purchase one nearly like the one he had set out upon at the commencement of his journey, as he was still of the same opinion, that the less temptation in his outward appearance to the gentlemen of the road, the less likely were they to interfere with him.
About three miles out of Hungerford, he saw before him a pig-drover, with a large herd of porkers, that he alternately cursed in his ancient British tongue, and cut up with a whip; while at intervals between these amusing recreations he loudly sang, or roared, certain scraps of Welsh songs. Twm’s ear was quick in recognizing the well-known voice, and he soon stood side by side with his old friend Watt the mole-catcher. After mutual expressions of wonder and congratulation, Twm immediately asked him how his mother was, as well as farmer Cadwgan and his daughter Gwenny.
Watt replied that his mother and her husband were well; but instead of answering the latter question, enquired his adventures since he left Tregaron. Twm, with animated vanity, ran over that bright portion of his history, occasionally heightening the colour of events, according to the general practice of story-tellers, from time immemorial; dwelling particularly on his fortunate preservation of the lady of Ystrad Feen, and the benefits which accrued to him in consequence, from the liberality of Sir George Devereaux, whose confidential agent he then was, on business of the utmost importance, to London.
These extraordinary events were intended by Twm to astonish the sulky-looking mole-catcher, Watt, who was not in an impressionable mood; but Twm, nothing daunted, still ran on, saying, in allusion to his “friend” Sir George,—“Well, Watt, were he ten times as rich and happy as he is, I should never envy him any thing he possessed, but one lovely piece of property.” “And what might that be?” asked Watt. “Why,” replied the other, “could I once forget poor Gwenny Cadwgan, which I never can, I should envy him the possession of his charming young wife, the beautiful lady of Ystrad Feen—the finest, the handsomest, and cleverest woman I ever saw! and although now married to a second husband, she is little more than one-and-twenty years of age. But I was asking of my old sweet-heart Gwenny, poor Gwenny Cadwgan.”
“Poor Gwenny Cadwgan indeed!” echoed Watt.
The sneering manner in which the mole-catcher spoke this, alarmed our hero; “What of her, Watt?” cried he eagerly; “is anything the matter? tell me quickly, for Heaven’s sake!” Watt replied evasively, that great trouble had come to both her and her father, in consequence of their having harboured him when the hue and cry was up. That fact, he said, was discovered a few days after his disappearance, by old Rachel Ketch, who sold the secret to the Squire for the highest price she could get; and would have sold her own soul on similar terms to the Devil himself.
Twm observed Watt writhing as he spoke, and struggling inwardly, with some terrible feeling, that for awhile deprived him of utterance. He noticed with regret the deep furrows of worldly care on his cheek, so lately ruddy and mirthful; and thought he observed a sinister expression in his sunken eye and trembling lips, that now were paler than his sallow face. Fiercely resenting the closeness of our hero’s scrutiny by an assumption of rude abruptness, he said “but why do I waste time in talking here, when—but I must be off—good-bye!”
“But you have not told me of Gwenny and her father,” quote Twm, in amazement at his demeanour.