"Did you ever hear of a place called Sycharth?
"Sycharth! Sycharth! I never did, sir."
"It is the place where Glendower lived, and it is not far off. I
want to go there, but do not know the way."
"Sycharth! Sycharth!" said the landlady musingly: "I wonder if it
is the place we call Sychnant."
"Is there such a place?"
"Yes, sure; about six miles from here, near Langedwin."
"What kind of place is it?"
"In truth, sir, I do not know, for I was never there. My cook,
however, in the kitchen, knows all about it, for she comes from
there."
"Can I see her?"
"Yes, sure; I will go at once and fetch her."
She then left the room and presently returned with the cook, a
short, thick girl with blue staring eyes.
"Here she is, sir," said the landlady, "but she has no English."
"All the better," said I. "So you come from a place called
Sychnant?" said I to the cook in Welsh.
"In truth, sir, I do;" said the cook.
"Did you ever hear of a gwr boneddig called Owen Glendower?"
"Often, sir, often; he lived in our place."
"He lived in a place called Sycharth?" said I.
"Well, sir; and we of the place call it Sycharth as often as
Sychnant; nay, oftener."
"Is his house standing?"
"It is not; but the hill on which it stood is still standing."
"Is it a high hill?"
"It is not; it is a small, light hill."
"A light hill!" said I to myself.
