Here I became silent, and presently arrived at the side of a little dell or ravine, down which the road led from east to west. The northern and southern sides of this dell were precipitous. Beneath the southern one stood a small cottage. Just as I began to descend the eastern side, two men began to descend the opposite one, and it so happened that we met at the bottom of the dingle, just before the house, which bore a sign, and over the door of which was an inscription to the effect that ale was sold within. They saluted me; I returned their salutation, and then we all three stood still looking at one another. One of the men was rather a tall figure, about forty, dressed in grey, or pepper-and-salt, with a cap of some kind on his head, his face was long and rather good-looking, though slightly pock-broken. There was a peculiar gravity upon it. The other person was somewhat about sixty—he was much shorter than his companion, and much worse dressed—he wore a hat that had several holes in it, a dusty, rusty black coat, much too large for him; ragged yellow velveteen breeches, indifferent fustian gaiters, and shoes, cobbled here and there, one of which had rather an ugly bulge by the side near the toes. His mouth was exceedingly wide, and his nose remarkably long; its extremity of a deep purple; upon his features was a half-simple smile or leer; in his hand was a long stick. After we had all taken a full view of one another I said in Welsh, addressing myself to the man in grey, “Pray may I take the liberty of asking the name of this place?” “I believe you are an Englishman, sir,” said the man in grey, speaking English, “I will therefore take the liberty of answering your question in the English tongue. The name of this place is Dyffryn Gaint.” “Thank you,” said I; “you are quite right with regard to my being an Englishman; perhaps you are one yourself?” “Sir,” said the man in grey, “I have not the honour to be so. I am a native of the small island in which we are.” “Small,” said I, “but famous, particularly for producing illustrious men.” “That’s very true indeed, sir,” said the man in grey, drawing himself up; “it is particularly famous for producing illustrious men.” “There was Owen Tudor?” said I. “Very true,” said the man in grey, “his tomb is in the church a little way from hence.” “Then,” said I, “there was Gronwy Owen, one of the greatest bards that ever lived. Out of reverence to his genius I went yesterday to see the place of his birth.” “Sir,” said the man in grey, “I should be sorry to leave you without enjoying your conversation at some length. In yonder house they sell good ale, perhaps you will not be offended if I ask you to drink some with me and my friend?” “You are very kind,” said I, “I am fond of good ale, and fonder still of good company—suppose we go in?”