“I wish you would, sir,” said the elderly man, “and take a glass of something; I will charge you nothing.” “Thank you,” said I—“I am in want of nothing, and shall presently start. Do many people ascend Snowdon from your house?” “Not so many as I could wish,” said the ranger; “people in general prefer ascending Snowdon from that trumpery place Bethgelert; but those who do are fools—begging your honour’s pardon. The place to ascend Snowdon from is my house. The way from my house up Snowdon is wonderful for the romantic scenery which it affords; that from Bethgelert can’t be named in the same day with it for scenery; moreover, from my house you may have the best guide in Wales; whereas the guides of Bethgelert—but I say nothing. If your honour is bound for the Wyddfa, as I suppose you are, you had better start from my house to-morrow under my guidance.” “I have already been up the Wyddfa from Llanberis,” said I, “and am now going through Bethgelert to Llangollen, where my family are; were I going up Snowdon again, I should most certainly start from your house under your guidance, and were I not in a hurry at present, I would certainly take up my quarters here for a week, and every day make excursions with you into the recesses of Eryri. I suppose you are acquainted with all the secrets of the hills?” “Trust the old ranger for that, your honour. I would show your honour the black lake in the frightful hollow, in which the fishes have monstrous heads and little bodies, the lake on which neither swan, duck nor any kind of wildfowl was ever seen to light. Then I would show your honour the fountain of the hopping creatures, where, where—” “Were you ever at that Wolf’s crag, that Castell y Cidwm?” said I. “Can’t say I ever was, your honour. You see it lies so close by, just across the lake, that—” “You thought you could see it any day, and so never went,” said I. “Can you tell me whether there are any ruins upon it?” “I can’t, your honour.” “I shouldn’t wonder,” said I, “if in old times it was the stronghold of some robber-chieftain; cidwm in the old Welsh is frequently applied to a ferocious man. Castell Cidwm, I should think, rather ought to be translated the robber’s castle, than the wolf’s rock. If I ever come into these parts again, you and I will visit it together, and see what kind of a place it is. Now farewell! It is getting late.” I then departed. “What a nice gentleman!” said the younger man, when I was a few yards distant. “I never saw a nicer gentleman,” said the old ranger.