Departure from Beddgelert—Vortigern’s Hill—Snowdon—Llynn Gwynant—Lines written upon Llynn Gwynant—Gwrydd—Public Houses—Lake Fishing—A Night Adventure—Pass of Llanberis—Legend of the Giant’s Night-Cap—The Lakes—The Castle of Dolbadarn and Legend—View of the Lakes.

“Oh, who hath stood on Snowdon’s side,
And glanced o’er Mona’s virgin pride;
And gazed on fatal Moel y don,
But thought of those once there undone?
When Saxons, and their foreign band,
Were crushed by the sons of the mountain land.”

T. J. Llewelyn Grichard.

On the following morning I quitted the inn, where every attention was shewn that a traveller could desire, and proceeded over the Ivy bridge, through which the Gwynant flowed, deep and smooth as glass, without an obstruction to ruffle its clear waters, that glided along, kissing its verdant banks, like the stream of a happy life. Quietude reigned in this region uninterrupted. About half a mile from Beddgelert, a rocky eminence projects into the road, called Vortigern’s Hill, or Dinas Emrys, a magician, who was sent for to this place by Vortigern, when he found himself hated by his subjects, and fled from their just anger to this secluded spot. Passing this memorable place, a round clump of rock attracts the eye, rising as it were in the centre of the valley, and called Moel Wynn. Looking backward, Moel Hebog, the Hawk hill, rises majestically and closes up the entrance to Beddgelert. Moel Shebbod towers in front, and, as we pursued our delightful path, about two miles and a half from Beddgelert, an opening of the hills upon the left displayed a deep gorge, and the base of Snowdon, whose high peak, rising in the unclouded skies, held up the holy symbol of Christianity, as in adoration of the Creator. At length, I reached Llynn Dinas, a lake of about three quarters of a mile in extent, through which the Gwynant runs; it is surrounded by lofty mountains of a deeper tint than is usually seen upon the Welsh hills. A beautifully situated cottage here at the far end of the lake, belonging to Mr. Sampson, nestles among the protecting woods, and forms a delightful object. The river which feeds the lake, winds through the verdant and undulating grounds which form a miniature park, between the cottage and the lake. Following up the course of the stream, I left Llynn Dinas behind me, and proceeded by a gradual ascent through the most delightful scenery I ever beheld, until I caught glimpses through the plantations of

LLYNN GWYNANT,

and after a while beheld it stretching beneath me upon my left hand. The valley forms a bowl among the hills. The bottom is a small grassy plain, dotted with trees, which has obtained the appellation of Beauty sleeping in the lap of Terror. The mountains that surround the vale, have a wild and rugged appearance. As I proceeded along the road towards the head of the valley, a horn was sounded from the mountain, and I perceived a Welsh girl standing upon a projecting eminence: bare headed and bare footed, was this nymph of Cambria; her cheeks were swelled out with her occupation, and she looked like a female Boreas, bursting with the wind she was sending forth by degrees to alarm the world.

She eyed me with glances of curiosity all the while, and I thought she could perhaps give me some information about the valley, which might be interesting; so quitting the direct road, I scrambled up the hill side, and asked her the meaning of her sounding the horn so loudly? But she either did not, or would not, understand me; and after vainly endeavouring to extract any thing from her, I quietly sat myself down, delighted by the splendid view beneath me, and gave vent to my feelings in the following lines:

LLYNN GWYNANT.

Llynn Gwynant, Llynn Gwynant! how bless’d should I be,
When the winter of life crowns my temples with snow,
To rest on thy margin, with her who loves me,
And children whose love gathers strength as they grow.

There are mountains whose peaks rise more lofty by far,
And valleys more spacious and fertile to view,
But of all the high hills and green glens that there are,
Llynn Gwynant give me, with its waters of blue.Lynn Gwynant, Lynn Gwynant! I bid thee farewell,
Where peace in the beauty of solitude glows,
Again in the cold hearted city to dwell,
And pine for the calm of thy blissful repose.

Farewell to the lake with the surface of glass,
Brown heath and blue mountains—abode of the free!
This heart, like the flood from the high Ffynnon Las, [250]
Will leap from its gloom to find rapture in thee.

Having nearly reached the extremity of this valley, I gazed, from my elevated situation, upon the dark and perpendicular rocks on the opposite side; and towering in the air immediately over the centre of the valley was an eagle with expanded wings, apparently motionless. Presently it rose a little higher, but without the slightest visible exertion, then stooped again, mounted once more, and, as fast as the eye could follow, swept round the huge buttresses of sharp ridged cliffs, that hang over the entrance of the pass of Llanberis.

As Llynn Gwynant is gradually shut out from the lingering gaze of the traveller, (who it may be said during the whole of the ascent, should turn his eyes behind him), and he at length looks forward in the direction of Llanberris, a new scene of grandeur bursts upon him. He has left beauty behind in its loveliest form;—but the sublime and wonderful now call forth all the springs of admiration.

Snowdon, from the Pass of Llyn Gwynant

Snowdon again appears in all his splendor! Mountains that by comparison looked like hillocks rise round his regal waist, in groups numerous and picturesque. The deep black crags that form the western side of the valley make a magnificent fore-ground, and open here like nature’s gates, to disclose the secrets of her bosom.

The accompanying etching, gives an admirable idea of this imposing scene. About a mile from hence is a place called Gwrydd, where there is a small public house, with a sign signifying nothing. Here I resolved to “rough it” for a day, intending to fish the lakes, situated immediately above this spot, as nature’s cisterns to water the pleasant valleys.

The public house possesses a small parlour, carpetted, with half a dozen hair-bottomed chairs, and a mahogany table. A silent but most importunate monitor urged me to discover what food this mountain chalet could produce. “Eggs and bacon,” was the expected reply to my question; and I soon had the pleasure of seeing this humble, but most grateful, fare placed before me, and in spite of the indifferent style of the cooking, I partook of it eagerly, having that incomparable sauce “a good appetite.”

After I had repaired my broken rod, I ascended the mountain at the back of the house, and arrived at a large oval lake, in which the black and sterile rocks that form inaccessible ramparts on one side are reflected in its generally unruffled surface. The scene is wild and desolate, such as Despair herself would select for her abode. There are plenty of fish in this lake, but they are all small and extremely shy. I remained upon its margin until the shadows of night gave me warning to attend to my safety, and make the best of my way to my lodging, where I speedily ascended by a ladder-like staircase to a kind of cock-loft which was divided into two compartments, one for the accommodation of the family, man, wife, children and servants, the other fitted up for travellers. Sleep soon overtook me, and I should have continued to sleep, I have no doubt, until breakfast time, had I not been awakened by a trifling accident.

“At the mid hour of night, when stars were weeping,”

and ghosts of the mighty walk upon the hills, with a variety of other interesting objects that poets and nursery maids have described infinitely better than I can pretend to do, I was visited by a dream in which the ghost of a lobster popped his head out of a salad bowl, and demanded upon what authority I had presumed to make mince-meat of his body, when a loud crash roused me from my slumber, and I found myself with my knees, doubled up to my chin upon the floor; the bedstead having broken in the middle, and deposited me in this unenviable position. I need not say that for the remaining part of the night, I was wholly left to waking reveries, and uncontrollable desires for the blessings of daylight, which at last greeted my longing eyes, and hurrying on my clothes, I descended and walked forth to scent the morning air, in the direction of Llanberris. The mists rolled like troubled lakes in the valleys, and the black bleak rocks looked cheerless and forbidding. The breeze was keen and piercing, and I started at a round pace to get myself warm by exercise. Having reached the summit of the roadway, I plunged at once into the pass of Llanberis, wild and gloomy. The precipices on my left looked truly terrible, like the shadow of death wrapped in a vapoury shroud. This pass is above four miles in length, and is a fine specimen of rugged grandeur. Not a single tree enlivens with its verdure this tremendous chasm. Range above range of rocks tower over the traveller upon either side, bearing various tints of black, brown, green and purple, according to the disposition of the sun’s rays, and the distances of the ponderous masses. The rocks on both sides are nearly perpendicular; and, about two miles down the pass, the tourist will perceive some prodigious masses of rock upon his right hand that have fallen from the overhanging cliffs, which, when he pauses to look upon, will strike a feeling of terror into his heart, as he inwardly exclaims, “could any one have witnessed the descent of this tremendous mass?” The accompanying sketch gives a most accurate description.

Pass of Llanberis

I stood contemplating this scene, and suddenly a wild shout roused me from my reverie.“Halloo, halloo! over—over—over!”

I turned my eyes up the mountain to my left, and there saw a shepherd, forming a speaking trumpet with his hands, and shouting to a dog (of what kind heaven knows, but in my opinion a thorough bred mongrel), and the fleet animal was dashing down the hill in the direction to where I stood. In an instant, he had passed me. It was a perfect nondescript! a thing that looked like the offspring of a French poodle and a Welsh goat; such a mass of hair, rags and wool, I never before beheld. I sat watching his progress, which was exceedingly rapid, and as I marked him, as he scrambled up the opposite craggs, I could not help admiring the instinct (or training) of the wretched looking animal. Sheep after sheep did it pursue, and drive down into the hollow from which they had strayed—some of them leading him a chase (of no enviable description) nearly to the summit of the barren mountain; but, with untired feet and unceasing bark, he tracked and outstripped them all, and, in conclusion, forced them into the bounds allotted for them at the bottom of the vale, where a scanty supply of grass served for them to browse upon. This duty done, the faithful animal left them, and again crossing the valley, rushed by me and rejoined his master.

I was about to pursue my journey, when I perceived a man fishing in the stream beneath. I descended to learn what sport he had met with, and found he had not been fortunate. I asked him if he remembered the time, when the huge rock, I have before noticed, fell from the brow of the precipice?

“It would be hard for me to do that, sir,” said the fisherman, who laying his rod upon the ground, seemed desirous of saying something more upon the subject.

“Is there any legend about it?” I inquired.

“Indeed, sir, there is,” replied he; “and, if you’ll only stop till I put up my tackle, as I suppose you’re going to Llanberis, I’ll tell you as much as I know about the matter.”

I remarked, as he spoke, an expression of countenance that told me he thought tale telling might prove more profitable than trout fishing; but I readily agreed to his proposition, and in a few minutes we were trudging, side by side, along the road towards the village.

I dare say, sir, you havn’t come so far, without seeing Cader Idris, or the Chair of Idris, as it is called, for Idris Gawr you must know, sir, was a famous giant of his day, but whether you have or not, he had a brother, sir, as I’ve been told, Dyn Ddu o’r’ Craig, which means the black man of the craig, who had a very fine castle upon the top of that precipice, at the foot of which you noticed those large pieces of rock. Well, sir, he never loved his brother, but he had a great liking for his niece; one of the prettiest girls, ’twas thought, ever seen in this part of the country; but she was to be married to a fine young hero, one of the knights of King Arthur’s round table, who had done wonders for her sake, and made all the world confess Merch Idris was the most beautiful creature in the world.

Well, sir, she was mortally afraid of her uncle, for he had a head as big as the top of Snowdon, and a forest of whiskers, and a beard that a man might take a day’s shooting in, without tearing his coat with the branches; so that he never could be conquered, having so much game in him, ha! ha! ha!—You’ll excuse me, sir, but what a comfortable thing it must be for a man to catch birds enough in his whiskers, to serve him for dinner!—Well, sir, it happened that Merch Idris was benighted between Capel Curig and her father’s castle, and, as she had only one attendant, and he was a poor weak coward, you may easily suppose she was for getting home as fast as possible; but a storm came on, and the night closed round them, and by some means or other they lost their way; for you know, sir, at that time there were no turnpike roads, as there are now, and they wandered about upon their merlins until nightfall, without knowing what part of the world they were in; when all of a sudden, the servant’s beast, who went first, sank into a bog, up to his neck; and his rider began to roar for help so loudly, that the lady’s animal took fright, set off at full speed, and never stopped until they came to the gates of a large castle. The night was so dark, she couldn’t make out whether she had ever seen it before or not; however, she thought it would be better to blow the horn at the gate, and ask for shelter, than wander about the mountains all night, at the risk of breaking her neck, or being smothered in a quagmire. So she blew a blast (for at that time o’ day every great lady played upon some instrument or other, and this young lady surpassed all others upon the horn) so loud, that presently a warden called out from the top of a tower. “Who’s there?” Well, she mustered up courage enough to say, she was “A lady in great distress.”

“Oho!” says the warden, and off he set. Now the young lady scarcely knew how to take the salutation of the warden, whether it was meant friendly or otherwise. She had not pondered long upon those mysterious sounds, when the portcullis was raised, and the first living thing she saw was her tremendous uncle Dyn Ddu o’r’ Craig! with a hundred torches behind him, ready to welcome her into his castle. You may be sure she was not much pleased at his presence, and regretted that she had not held out till the morning. But she had gone too far, and so she went in, and the iron grating was closed again, with a sound that struck terror into her pretty heart. Now it so happened that Sir Tristram (that was the name of her lover) was staying with her father, Idris Gawr; and they were both of them puzzled what to think when Merch Idris didn’t reach home at the time they expected her. So the knight mounted his charger and gallopped off one way, and Idris took up his club and walked off the other, to search for her. All this time, the villain of an uncle was trying to wheedle the fair maid, his niece, to marry him; and, when he found her deaf to his monstrous wishes, he flew into a mighty passion, and dragged her to the top of the precipice, by the hair of her head, and swore, in a most unchristian manner, that he would pitch her over, if she didn’t consent.

But just as he was about to put his threat into execution, he heard a horse at full gallop behind him; so he turned round just time enough to avoid the slashing sword of Sir Tristram, who made a determined cut at his head, that would have taken it clean off, if he hadn’t have ducked. Well, he was fain to let go the lady to save himself from the fury of the knight, although he didn’t think much of him. But he pulled up a tree, and he made a mighty blow at him, which the knight, by the blessing of providence, escaped; but the horse wasn’t so fortunate, for it fell upon the poor creature’s head, and smashed it to atoms. Well, the knight began to think the giant “too much of a horse” for him; and so he blew three notes upon his bugle, which was the appointed signal between him and Idris, and no sooner had he done so, than it was answered.

“And now,” said Sir Tristram, “my fine fellow, you’ll have your match in a minute; and sure enough, as he spoke, Dyn Ddu o’r’ Craig saw his brother running at the rate of half a mile a stride. Well, he was greatly perplexed what to do; but he thought he had better get into the castle. So, he took Merch Idris under his left arm, and kept the knight off with the roots of the tree. However, he couldn’t reach the gates in time.

“And now,” says Idris to his brother, “you ruffian,” says he, “what are you going to do with my daughter? Put her down, or I’ll smash you, as I do this tower!” and with that he hit a turret of the castle, and it flew about in all directions. “Why then,” says the other, “I think I can do as great a feat as that.” So he knocked the other turret on the head, and drove it clean down into the earth, so that not a brick of it was seen above ground! Well, with that the two giants began to bang each other with their cudgels, till they were black and blue, while Sir Tristram and the lady ran off to Cader Idris, as fast as they could, to get out of harm’s way.

Idris was the stronger giant of the two, and after three hours’ hard fighting, you wouldn’t have known them for human beings; but Idris having got Dyn with his back to the precipice, (where he threatened to throw the poor young lady over) hit him, with all his force, such a blow on the nose as made him stagger back and roll right over the edge of the craig. Well, he rolled and he rolled, till he got to the place where you were standing, and then he stopped; but he was quite dead. Then the famous Idris, seeing his brother lie like a huge bundle of rags, without motion, by the side of the stream, tore off a large piece from the top of the mountain, and throwing it with great force, it lit full upon the giant as he lay, while his conqueror roared out, in a voice that was heard at Carnaervon,—“Good rest to you, brother Dyn! there’s a nightcap for you!”

And ever since, that piece of rock has been called “the Giant’s Nightcap.”

We soon obtained a view of the lakes that spread themselves before us—viz.: Lyn Peris and Lyn Padarn, with the romantic castle of Dolbadarn upon its rocky promontory. On issuing from a pass on our left, as my companion informed me, is a valuable copper mine, and a stream of water conveyed over the road, by the aid of a wooden conduit, into the lake, which stream, he said, was for the use of the mine.

At length, I reached the inn, called Victoria, and satisfying my companion with a gratuity which was more profitable than fishing, I entered and ordered breakfast, and procured an admittance to the castle of Dolbadarn. This ancient fortress is supposed to have been built by one Padarn Beisrydd ap Idwal, for the purpose of guarding the mountain pass which I had just quitted. A single round tower is all that remains of the castle, although traces are left of a much more extensive building. Here Owen Goch was imprisoned twenty years by his brother Llewellyn, the last Prince of Wales of the British line; and an ode is still extant, written by Howel-Voel, wherein his captivity is affectionately lamented.

The view from the castle is truly sublime, comprising the two lakes, and the tremendous range of mountains, that seem to admit no outlet from the vale. But the most beautiful prospect is from the lake in front of the promontory on which the castle stands, and is reflected in the smooth waters beneath, while the majestic Snowdon towers in the distance.

In the twelfth century, it is said there lived a celebrated beauty, whose father was the lord of this castle, and of whom something like the following legend is related:

LEGEND OF DOLBADARN.

Margaret of Dolbadarn was one of the fairest damsels of whom Cambria ever boasted at court or tourney;—fair without vanity, highborn without ostentation, she exhibited the simplicity of nobility.

Like others of her rank, she had many knights who owned her power, and panted to put lance in rest for the peerless Margaret; but in the number there was but one whom her eye followed through the glittering throng, and whose approach made her heart beat, and the mounting blood turn the delicate pink upon her cheek to crimson; and William of Montgomery was the happy knight.

But her father had other views, and Hector of March-lyn-Mawr was proposed by him to be her husband—a youth of noble presence, but ignoble mind. His lands extended far and near, and skirted those of the Lord of Dolbadarn, who was, from that circumstance, doubly anxious to have the union consummated.

He was, however, a tender guardian; he loved his daughter, and was by her loved tenderly in return. Both knights had free access to Margaret, and both were anxious to deserve her favour. William was young, valiant, handsome, and honest; Hector was bold, gloomy, uncourtly and subtle. The Baron saw the decided preference his daughter gave to William of Montgomery, and grieved in his heart that it was not bestowed upon his more wealthy rival. He therefore resolved to put a proposal to his daughter, which was, that at the ensuing tournament to be given at his castle, the knights should prove their skill upon each other, and that he who was proclaimed the most accomplished master of his weapons, should receive her hand as the reward. For, though he was desirous of an alliance with the wealthy and powerful house of March Lyn Mawr, he was by no means insensible to the merits of Montgomery, whose name stood high in the lists of chivalry, and whose engaging manners won friends for him wherever he appeared. With a heavy heart did Margaret submit to the proposal of her father, although a feeling of confidence within her bosom told her the object of her attachment would prove the victor. Far different emotions agitated the hearts of the rivals, when they were informed of the Baron’s determination. William of Montgomery flung himself upon his knees before the old man, exclaiming with enthusiasm,

“By bath, and bed, and white chemise, [266] I will for ever be a true knight to thee for this especial favour, my good Lord of Dolbadarn! My lance and blade are yours at command, and,” turning to his rival, “Hector, if I bear thee not over thy charger’s croup, why say my heart and hand shook with fear in the encounter.—But, if thou gainest the field, I’ll give thee a grey palfrey for thy bride, to bear her to the church yonder, by thy side.”

“Agreed,” said Hector; “and noble Lord of Dolbadarn, if heaven desert me not in the hour of trial, I doubt not my success in winning thy daughter for my bride. Yet, should I fail, I promise thee, William of Montgomery, to give thee a steed, fleeter than any in thy stables, to bear the Lady Margaret as thy bride to church, nor will I bear thee any ill will shouldst thou prove conqueror, but drink a health to thee and thine, with a kind heart and true.”

At this time, there dwelt an old woman in the pass of Llanberis who was dreaded by all the country people, for she was accounted a witch; and on the night of that same day the storm raged furiously, and the tall trees were cracking in the forest, when a horseman was seen galloping up the pass. He stopped at the witch’s hut, and knocking loudly, he cried, “Ho! mother witch! open the door! for thy devil’s counsel is needed.”

The door was then opened, and the knight fastened his coal-black steed, dripping with rain and sweat, to a withered ash, and strode into the cabin. The fire reflected in his suit of steel made him appear a knight of flame; and, as he stamped his armed heels upon the floor, his armour rang with a muffled sound, like the death bell which tolls for the great, who die in the odour of sanctity: and the old hag laughed; her spirit was glad—for she knew that a deed of damning crime was shortly to be committed!

He sat him down upon the three-legged stool, and said, “Dame, I am ill at ease; for I love a maid whose heart I cannot win. Attend to me;—the gallant and high-minded Montgomery I must encounter for her in the lists; and, should he conquer, he will bear away the prize I am burning to possess; but, if the chance be mine, her own consent waits on her father’s choice, whose wishes are for me. Doubts on the issue urge me to seek thy aid. May my saint desert me if I would not rather shake hands with the foul fiend himself, than give a palfrey for my Margaret to ride to church upon, with any but myself.”

The witch laughed aloud, till he jumped from the stool, to see her old sides shake. “Hector of March Lyn Mawr,” quoth she, “fear not that Margaret of Dolbadarn will ever become the bride of Montgomery; for shouldst thou be overcome in the lists, (and my power will not assist thee in the joust) call aloud ‘Hell kite! hell kite!’ and presently shall a gallant palfrey come and raise thee from the ground, which being done, present it to thy foe, and thou shalt see the issue.” He thanked her, dropped his purse upon the floor, mounted his steed, and vanished down the pass.

There was a great assemblage of people at the castle of Dolbadarn, to witness the jousting; and knights from all quarters arrived, to break a lance with merry England’s best, for glory and lady love.

The tilting ground was enclosed by galleries erected for the ladies and nobles who wished to be spectators of the games. Upon the plain, at the end of the vale, fifty shields were hung up by the knights who wished to signalize themselves. Three score of coursers, with a squire of honour, first entered the lists; then followed as many knights in jousting harness, led in silver chains, by the same number of ladies, richly clad, to the sound of clarions, and trumpets, and minstrelsy. When the ladies ascended the galleries, the squires dismounted, and the knights vaulted gaily into their saddles. The scaffoldings were hung with tapestry, and embroideries of gold and silver; and the scene was animated and costly in the extreme. Joy lighted up the eyes of all, save those of Margaret and her two lovers. She sat a lily among roses, pale and dejected. Sometimes, indeed, she lifted her dark eyes, and her snowy neck took for a moment the carnation’s hue when she beheld the form of Montgomery, which yet faded as quickly as it came, and the Parian marble was left pure as before.

Sir William walked, with a bold and lofty mien, along the line of shields, glancing at them with indifference, until he stopped before that which bore the arms of Hector, and then a smile of scorn played upon his lips, and he passed on. Hector marked that smile, and his cheeks flushed with anger. Great skill was displayed by youthful knights decked in ladies’ favours. But, when the time arrived for the trial between Sir William of Montgomery and Hector of March Lyn Mawr, a hum of unusual interest arose among the gallant and beauteous auditory. From the opposed lists they passed each other, to determine the length of the course, with visors up. Sir William smiled gaily, but Hector wore a sad and mournful look, as though he feared or doubted the event of the trial.

This ceremony of preparation being over, each took his post assigned, awaiting the signal for the charge. The Lady Margaret was pale as death, but none around her noticed it, they being all intent upon the two knights, who wore no outward favours, though one possessed an amulet which he had placed near his heart, beneath his vest. It was a white rose, which the fair Margaret had taken from her bosom, and given him an hour before in secret.

The nominal prize for the victor was a jewelled sword, but the prize on which their hearts were set was a gem transcendant—the all-surpassing Margaret!

And now the heralds sounded the charge, and the combatants met in mid career. The lance of Hector was shivered upon the breast of Montgomery; but Sir William’s struck full upon the visor of Hector, which made him bend his plume backwards. In the second course, Hector struck the coronal of Sir William’s helmet a skilful stroke. Margaret fainted, and the ladies about her were busy in applying restoratives; but none attempted to remove her, being too much interested in the event of the joust. Montgomery cast a look of fire up to the spot, and then re-closed his visor for the third course. His opponent was resolved to make it a decisive one. Striking their spurs into their chargers’ sides, like arrows shot from opposing bows, they flew along. Then was a clash, a glittering flash! and the prize was won—for Hector of March Lyn Mawr lay, stunned and motionless, upon the ground, borne from his saddle by the lance of the victorious Sir William of Montgomery!

Margaret, being restored to her senses, wept tears of joy, and spoke most sweet words, when her lover riding beneath the platform, demanded from her hand the honourable prize.

But a wonder now appeared, which turned all eyes to the spot where Hector lay o’erthrown; for a milk-white palfrey, of the most exquisite form, had galloped into the lists, and drawn him from beneath his charger, which had fallen with him in the violent concussion. His helmet being loosed, he soon partially recovered, and seeing the beautiful animal frisking and curvetting, as though overjoyed at his escape, he led it by the mane to his rival, saying,

“William of Montgomery, I give to thee this palfrey. Present it to thy bride, to whom I now resign all claim, and only request that she will, for my sake, let my favourite bear her to the church, where your union is to be celebrated.”

It was a lovely thing to look upon, and the maiden promised to use no other on that happy day.

The church of Llanberis was, at this time, about a mile from the castle of Dolbadarn, and the road, upon the bridal morning, resembled a mosaic pavement, when viewed from the mountain, it was so thickly studded with the fantastic dresses of the company, spectators, and gay flags and streamers waving in the air. The minstrels struck up their boldest notes of war, or delighted the ears and hearts of the female holiday makers with the soft songs of love. All was mirth, feasting, and jollity, while the air rung with the combined names of Margaret of Dolbadarn and William of Montgomery.

At length, the bridal procession issued forth from the castle gateway; the heralds led, the minstrels followed. Then came comely maidens with baskets of flowers, which they strewed around them, as they passed along. A body of armed knights followed and after them their esquires. Then appeared a troop of dancing girls, adorned with flowers, and clad in purest white; and a second band of minstrels struck their harps before the bridegroom and the happy bride, who rode gaily, side by side. She was dressed in rich attire; jewels glittered upon her robes and in her hair; and she rode upon the beautiful steed presented by March Lyn Mawr. The palfrey seemed proud of its lovely burthen, and gentle as the unwearied lamb. The bridegroom was clad in a light tunic and hose, and peaked boots; a many-coloured plume fluttered in his bonnet, and many sweet words did he whisper in Margaret’s ear. As the assembled multitude shouted their gratulations, he bent even to his saddle bow, to thank them for their courtesy. Young Hector rode upon her left, and he laughed, too, and he bowed low; but in his laugh there was a fiendish sound, and in his bow a scorn. Then followed the Lord of Dolbadarn, his long white locks waving in the summer breeze, surrounded by his relatives and friends. A troop of squires and pages followed, while all the retainers of his noble house brought up the rear.

The bride and bridegroom passed along, and thousands cheered them on their way, with shouts and praises. The sun shone brightly above their heads, and joy was in their hearts. On they went, until a turning in the road brought them at once in sight of the church; but here the palfrey grew restive, and Sir William seized the bridle, thinking to control him. This answered but for a short distance; for they had no sooner reached the gate, over which was carved a cross, than, even while the groom held the stirrup for her to alight, away, away, away flew the palfrey, like a falcon, down the wind. The Lady Margaret was a good horsewoman, but she could not control the enchanted steed. She, however, kept her seat well, and hoped the unruly animal would soon relax his speed.

A hundred horsemen galloped after her, the bridegroom taking the lead, who, being mounted on the swiftest horse, soon left the rest behind, although unable yet to overtake the bride. The palfrey first dashed forward in the direction of Carnaervon, but suddenly turned off to the right, and galloped up the mountain. Hundreds of the peasantry were trampled under foot by the horses of the pursuers; some bruised, some crippled, and some killed, while the old Lord of Dolbadarn wrung his withered hands, and tore his grey locks, in frantic agony. He accused Hector as the author of all this misery, and vented his curses upon him, which the infuriated mob hearing, they seized upon the astonished knight, and almost in an instant tossed him upon their spikes into the air. He fell to the ground again, but not to rise; his plume, besmeared with blood, was scattered in every direction; his body, pierced with twenty wounds, spouted forth blood in fountains; blows fell upon his harness thick as hail; while a ferocious smith, with one stroke of an axe, severed the head from the body, and placing it upon a pike, bore the dripping trophy of vengeance above the applauding and infuriated wretches who had suffered in the tumult.

Those who could govern their horses flew over the broken country in pursuit, while fleeter than a startled hind, the palfrey dashed along—at times abating his swift flight, to give the laggards hope, who furiously spurred their chargers forward

After the knight,
And lady bright.

But away, away flew the enchanted steed over moss and moor, o’er hill and dale, through ford and forest; while of those who followed up the chase some were smothered, horse and rider, in the deep morass; some broke their necks in attempting to leap stone walls; some dangled from the boughs in woody dell, or perished in the river, dashed by the torrent against broken rocks; and they cursed, and died as they cursed.

But Sir William of Montgomery pricked on his horse all foaming, and, as the strength of the noble animal began to fail, he cried aloud upon his patron saint to aid him. It was a charm of power, for it was a holy one; and the creature shook the foam from his mouth, and with recovered strength, dashed on in the pursuit. That charm, too, struck upon the heart of the palfrey, which began to fail him, and he tried in vain to keep the speed he had hitherto maintained. But the impetuous knight, seeing that he gained upon his lady love, furiously urged on his charger, and with desperate rashness, burying his rowels in his side, exclaimed—“Hell kite, speed on!”—the very words the witch had given as a charm to Hector, and the name of the palfrey.

No sooner was it pronounced, than his speed returned, and away, away the enchanted steed rushed on, as swiftly as before! The lady was, by this time, nearly senseless; her eyes were dimmed from the effect of the air, as she cut through it; and her heart trembled within her, like a fluttering dove. She cast an imploring look behind upon her lover, and raised one snowy arm beseechingly. He saw the action, and fancied he heard her voice, faintly calling upon him for aid. But it was to Him who governs all, she prayed; and again the wild horse felt the sacred power. But he had nearly reached the goal. With voice and spur the gallant knight pressed on up the rising ground, the summit of which, unknown to Margaret, or the knight, looked over the broad ocean;—it was the terrific Penman Maur.

Nearer and nearer did the knight approach; his charger’s foam was on the palfrey’s flanks. Another bound, and he was at the side of Margaret—another, and there was one loud wild scream that startled the eagles from their nests. Montgomery had clasped his lady round her waist, and borne her to his saddle bow. It was the movement of an instant—but, in that instant, steeds, knight, and lady plunged from the precipice’s edge! The first fall of fifty feet crushed the palfrey and war-horse; and the foul spirit, quitting the enchanted steed, like a dark cormorant hovered over the group.

The knight still clasped the maiden in his arms, whose shrieks were answered by the eagles’ screams; and the lovers were dashed from rock to rock, battered and bloody. The maiden fainted; but Sir William held her with the tenacious grasp of despair, with one arm to his breast, and with his right hand seized a dwarfish thorn—the only one that grew out of the rifted rock! But still there was no resting place for feet to stand upon, while the broken fragments of the cliff, disturbed by the weight of the fall, thundered downwards from above, and around them in every direction. One large mass struck the unhappy knight; the fragile thorn gave way, and the next moment beheld the loving pair, mutilated carcasses, floating upon the reckless waves! The eagles gorged upon their flesh, and not a vestige of the lost ones was left. A white scarf which Margaret wore, and which streamed, like the banner of death, from the blasted thorn, alone remained to tell the fate of Sir William of Montgomery, and his blooming bride!