The elder had a sharp, keen look; the younger a lumpy
and a stupid one. They were dressed like farmers. On my saluting
them in English the elder returned my salutation in that tongue,
but in rather a gruff tone. The younger turned away his head and
said nothing.
"What is the name of this house?" said I, pointing to the building.
"The name of it," said the old man, "is Ty Mawr."
"Do you live in it?" said I.
"Yes, I live in it."
"What waterfall is that?" said I, pointing to the torrent tumbling
down the crag at the farther end of the gloomy vale.
"The fountain of the Royal Dyfi."
"Why do you call the Dyfy royal?" said I.
"Because it is the king of the rivers in these parts."
"Does the fountain come out of a rock?"
"It does not; it comes out of a lake, a llyn."
"Where is the llyn?"
"Over that crag at the foot of Aran Vawr."
"Is it a large lake?"
"It is not; it is small."
"Deep?"
"Very."
"Strange things in it?"
"I believe there are strange things in it." His English now became
broken.
"Crocodiles?"
"I do not know what cracadailes be."
"Efync?"
"Ah!
