“It is called Mynydd Mawr, or the Great Mountain. Yonder rock, which bulks out from it, down the lake yonder, and which you passed as you came along, is called Castell Cidwm, which means Wolf’s rock or castle.” “Did a wolf ever live there?” I demanded. “Perhaps so,” said the man, “for I have heard say that there were wolves of old in Wales.” “And what is the name of the beautiful hill yonder, before us across the water?” “That, sir, is called Cairn Drws y Coed,” said the man. “The stone heap of the gate of the wood,” said I. “Are you Welsh, sir?” said the man. “No,” said I, “but I know something of the language of Wales. I suppose you live in that house?” “Not exactly, sir; my father-in-law here lives in that house, and my wife with him. I am a miner, and spend six days in the week at my mine, but every Sunday I come here, and pass the day with my wife and him.” “And what profession does he follow?” said I; “is he a fisherman?” “Fisherman!” said the elderly man contemptuously, “not I. I am the Snowdon Ranger.” “And what is that?” said I. The elderly man tossed his head proudly, and made no reply. “A ranger means a guide, sir,” said the younger man—“my father-in-law is generally termed the Snowdon Ranger because he is a tip-top guide, and he has named the house after him the Snowdon Ranger. He entertains gentlemen in it who put themselves under his guidance in order to ascend Snowdon and to see the country.” “There is some difference in your professions,” said I; “he deals in heights, you in depths; both, however, are break-necky trades.” “I run more risk from gunpowder than anything else,” said the younger man. “I am a slate-miner, and am continually blasting. I have, however, had my falls. Are you going far to-night, sir?” “I am going to Bethgelert,” said I. “A good six miles, sir, from here. Do you come from Caernarvon?” “Farther than that,” said I. “I come from Bangor.” “To-day, sir, and walking?” “To-day, and walking.” “You must be rather tired, sir; you came along the valley very slowly.” “I am not in the slightest degree tired,” said I; “when I start from here, I shall put on my best pace, and soon get to Bethgelert.” “Anybody can get along over level ground,” said the old man, laconically. “Not with equal swiftness,” said I. “I do assure you, friend, to be able to move at a good swinging pace over level ground is something not to be sneezed at. Not,” said I, lifting up my voice, “that I would for a moment compare walking on the level ground to mountain ranging, pacing along the road to springing up crags like a mountain goat, or assert that even Powell himself, the first of all road walkers, was entitled to so bright a wreath of fame as the Snowdon Ranger.” “Won’t you walk in, sir?” said the elderly man. “No, I thank you,” said I; “I prefer sitting out here, gazing on the lake and the noble mountains.”