Are you going far to-night, sir?"
"I am going to Beth Gelert," said I.
"A good six miles, sir, from here. Do you come from Caernarvon?"
"Farther than that," said I. "I come from Bangor."
"To-day, sir, and walking?"
"To-day, and walking."
"You must be rather tired, sir, you came along the valley very
slowly."
"I am not in the slightest degree tired," said I; "when I start
from here, I shall put on my best pace, and soon get to Beth
Gelert."
"Anybody can get along over level ground," said the old man,
laconically.
"Not with equal swiftness," said I. "I do assure you, friend, to
be able to move at a good swinging pace over level ground is
something not to be sneezed at. Not," said I, lifting up my voice,
"that I would for a moment compare walking on the level ground to
mountain ranging, pacing along the road to springing up crags like
a mountain goat, or assert that even Powell himself, the first of
all road walkers, was entitled to so bright a wreath of fame as the
Snowdon Ranger."
"Won't you walk in, sir?" said the elderly man.
"No, I thank you," said I, "I prefer sitting out here gazing on the
lake and the noble mountains."
"I wish you would, sir," said the elderly man, "and take a glass of
something; I will charge you nothing."
"Thank you," said I, "I am in want of nothing, and shall presently
start.
