“Perhaps she was the daughter of the Lewis family of Llan Dyfnant,” said Pritchard; “that’s an old family and a rich one. Perhaps he came from a distance and saw and married a daughter of the Lewis of Dyfnant—more than one stranger has done so. Lord Vivian came from a distance and saw and married a daughter of the rich Lewis of Dyfnant.” I shook honest Pritchard by the hand, thanked him for his kindness and wished him farewell, whereupon he gave mine a hearty squeeze, thanking me for my custom. “Which is my way,” said I, “to Pen Caer Gybi?” “You must go about a mile on the Bangor road, and then turning to the right pass through Penmynnydd, but what takes you to Holyhead?” “I wish to see,” said I, “the place where Cybi the tawny saint preached and worshipped. He was called tawny because from his frequent walks in the blaze of the sun his face had become much sun-burnt. This is a furiously hot day, and perhaps by the time I get to Holyhead, I may be so sun-burnt as to be able to pass for Cybi himself.” CHAPTER XXXVI Moelfre—Owain Gwynedd—Church of Penmynnydd—The Rose of Mona. Leaving Pentraeth Coch I retraced my way along the Bangor road till I came to the turning on the right. Here I diverged from the aforesaid road, and proceeded along one which led nearly due west; after travelling about a mile I stopped, on the top of a little hill; cornfields were on either side, and in one an aged man was reaping close to the road; I looked south, west, north and east; to the south was the Snowdon range far away, with the Wyddfa just discernible; to the west and north was nothing very remarkable, but to the east or rather north-east, was mountain Lidiart and the tall hill confronting it across the bay. “Can you tell me,” said I to the old reaper, “the name of that bald hill, which looks towards Lidiart?” “We call that hill Moelfre,” said the old man desisting from his labour, and touching his hat. “Dear me,” said I; “Moelfre, Moelfre!” “Is there anything wonderful in the name, sir?” said the old man, smiling. “There is nothing wonderful in the name,” said I, “which merely means the bald hill, but it brings wonderful recollections to my mind. I little thought when I was looking from the road near Pentraeth Coch yesterday on that hill, and the bay and strand below it, and admiring the tranquillity which reigned over all, that I was gazing upon the scene of one of the most tremendous conflicts recorded in history or poetry.” “Dear me,” said the old reaper; “and whom may it have been between? the French and English, I suppose.” “No,” said I; “it was fought between one of your Welsh kings, the great Owain Gwynedd, and certain northern and Irish enemies of his.” “Only think,” said the old man, “and it was a fierce battle, sir?”