"Alack that I must tell it! Is the caged beast as princely and as mighty as he that roams abroad where he will?... Sometimes he hunteth the stag or the boar--and there is metheglin, or wine, perchance--and good beer. What else is left to our lord Gwrtheyrn? he who was a hero in good King Arthur's time! That fat-faced Queen--I trow she is no stay to him! 'The sweet Verge of Drunkenness!' That was a song my father used to sing." "Most honoured sir," Mogneid broke in, "I thank you very heartily for your kind entertainment. But I must press on upon my road. I shall praise your hospitality to my noble cousin, believe you me. Tell me, I pray you, how soon I may be with him?" "Fifteen miles and more is Caer Gwrtheyrn from here. Cross you Clywedog and Ithon both. From the ford of Ithon there is a bridle-track the whole way. May the Saints and Mary keep you! and all the powers that be! May you suffer no violence, and may no goblin or hound of hell affright you!" "May all the powers bless you, my father! May the She-Greyhound of the Heavens,[2] who maketh fat both land and cattle, favour you! Fare ye well!" [2] Ceridwen. Mogneid and his little train set forth once more. They reached the glen of Trawscoed in the cool of the evening when the sky was aglow with amber lights and calm turquoise depths. Caer Gwrtheyrn, the residence of the King of this country, which took the name of Gwrtheyrion from its then lord, rose a mile or so before them, upon the heights of Mynydd Denarch. As the Demetian cast his eye over the surrounding country, in the east, upon the track that descended from the hills of Gref-o-dig and Bron-y-Garn-llwyd, he caught sight of what looked to him like the glint of the sun on steel helmet and corslet. Mogneid lost no time. He quickened his pace, and reached the gateway of Caer Gwrtheyrn in about fifteen minutes. Soon the customary ritual was fulfilled: his feet were bathed by the porter, to signify his acceptance of hospitality for the night, and the King's door-keeper ushered him into the castle hall. It was dark already there. The torches smoked foully. There was a manifold smell of beer, roast meat, barley-broth, rosemary and woodruff, dogs and humanity. Mogneid felt that he could never find his way except perhaps by the sense of touch. Presently a loud, harsh voice rang out: "Who is it? Who? What say you? Thou didst not inquire? What have I told thee? I will have the name and ancestry of every considerable visitor to my house--announced to me"--the voice spoke thickly--"as has always been my wont! Curse thee for a numskull! Whom have we here?"