The shelter of the Saracen's Head was timely and grateful none the less, and no one could have been kindlier or more attentive than our hostess. We had a nicely served lunch in the hotel parlor, which was just across the hallway from the lounging room, where the villagers assembled to indulge in such moderate drinking as Welshmen are addicted to. The public room was a fine old apartment with open-beamed ceiling--not the sham with which we decorate our modern houses, but real open beams that supported the floor--and one end of the room was occupied by a great open fireplace with old-time spits and swinging cranes. Overhead was hung a supply of hams and bacon and on iron hooks above the door were suspended several dressed fowls, on the theory that these improve with age. We were given a small but clean and neat apartment, from which I suspicion the younger members of the landlord's family had been unceremoniously ousted to make room for us. The distressing feature was the abominable beds, but as these prevailed in most of the country hotels at which we stopped we shall not lay this up too strongly against the Saracen's Head. I noticed that on one of the window-panes someone had scribbled with a diamond, "Sept. 4, 1726," which would seem to indicate that the original window was there at that time. The house itself must have been considerably older. If rates had been the sole inducement, we should undoubtedly have become permanent boarders at the Saracen's Head, for I think that the bill for our party was seven shillings for supper, room and breakfast. We left Cerrig-y-Druidion next morning in a gray, driving rain, with drifting fogs that almost hid the road at times. A few miles brought us to the Conway River, the road closely following the stream through the picturesque scenery on its banks. It was swollen by heavy rains and the usually insignificant river was a wild torrent, dashing in rapids and waterfalls over its rocky bed. The clouds soon broke away and for the remainder of the day the weather was as fine as could possibly be wished for. Bettws-y-Coed is the most famous of mountain towns in Wales, and its situation is indeed romantic. It is generally reputed to be the chief Welsh honeymoon resort and a paradise for fishermen, but it has little to detain the tourist interested in historic Britain. We evidently should have fared much differently at its splendid hotel from what we did at Cerrig-y-Druidion, but we were never sorry for our enforced sojourn at the Saracen's Head. The road from Bettws-y-Coed to Carnarvon is a good one, but steep in places, and it passes through some of the finest mountain scenery in Wales. It leads through the Pass of Llanberis and past Snowdon, the king of the Welsh mountains--though tame indeed to one who has seen the Rockies. Snowdon, the highest in the Kingdom, rises not so much as four thousand feet above the sea level.