"And on their hinges grate
Harsh thunder."
which, grand as it was, was certainly equalled by the Welsh
version, and perhaps surpassed, for that he was disposed to think
that there was something more terrible in "croch daranau," than in
"harsh thunder."
"I am disposed to think so too," said I. "Now can you tell me
where Owen Pugh is buried?"
"I cannot," said he; "but I suppose you can tell me; you, who know
the burying-place of Huw Morris are probably acquainted with the
burying-place of Owen Pugh."
"No," said I, "I am not. Unlike Huw Morris, Owen Pugh has never
had his history written, though perhaps quite as interesting a
history might be made out of the life of the quiet student as out
of that of the popular poet. As soon as ever I learn where his
grave is I shall assuredly make a pilgrimage to it." Mr R- then
asked me a good many questions about Spain, and a certain singular
race of people about whom I have written a good deal. Before going
away he told me that a friend of his, of the name of J-, would call
upon me, provided he thought I should not consider his doing so an
intrusion. "Let him come by all means," said I; "I shall never
look upon a visit from a friend of yours in the light of an
intrusion."
In a few days came his friend, a fine tall athletic man of about
forty.
