Occasionally I heard a dreadful noise in the kitchen, and the woman told me that the fellow there was making himself exceedingly disagreeable, chiefly, she believed, because she had refused to let him sleep in the house—she said that he was a low fellow, that went about the country with fish, and that he was the more ready to insult her as the master of the house was now gone out. I asked if he was an Englishman. “Yes,” said she, “a low Englishman.” “Then he must be low indeed,” said I. “A low Englishman is the lowest of the low.” After a little time I heard no more noise, and was told that the fellow was gone away. I had a little whisky and water, and then went to bed, sleeping in a tolerable chamber, but rather cold. There was much rain during the night, and also wind; windows rattled, and I occasionally heard the noise of falling tiles. I arose about eight. Notwithstanding the night had been so tempestuous, the morning was sunshiny and beautiful. Having ordered breakfast, I walked out in order to have a look at the town. Llan Rhyadr is a small place, having nothing remarkable in it save an ancient church, and a strange little antique market-house, standing on pillars. It is situated at the western end of an extensive valley, and at the entrance of a glen. A brook, or rivulet, runs through it, which comes down the glen from the celebrated cataract, which is about four miles distant to the west. Two lofty mountains form the entrance of the glen, and tower above the town, one on the south and the other on the north. Their names, if they have any, I did not learn. After strolling about the little place for about a quarter of an hour, staring at the things and the people, and being stared at by the latter, I returned to my inn, a structure built in the modern Gothic style, and which stands nearly opposite to the churchyard. Whilst breakfasting, I asked the landlady, who was bustling about the room, whether she had ever heard of Owen Glendower. “In truth, sir, I have. He was a great gentleman who lived a long time ago, and, and—” “Gave the English a great deal of trouble,” said I. “Just so, sir; at least, I dare say it is so, as you say it.” “And do you know where he lived?” “I do not, sir; I suppose a great way off, somewhere in the south.” “Do you mean South Wales?” “In truth, sir, I do.” “There you are mistaken,” said I; “and also in supposing he lived a great way off. He lived in North Wales, and not far from this place.” “In truth, sir, you know more about him than I.” “Did you ever hear of a place called Sycharth?” “Sycharth! Sycharth! I never did, sir.” “It is the place where Glendower lived, and it is not far off. I want to go there, but do not know the way.” “Sycharth! Sycharth!” said the landlady musingly; “I wonder if it is the place we call Sychnant.” “Is there such a place?” “Yes, sure; about six miles from here, near Llangedwin.” “What kind of place is it?”