dges, not a sheep on the pastures. The
solitude in the glare of the broad August sun was oppressive. Some houses
they passed--if buildings of rough stones, containing but a single room,
can be called houses--but they were deserted. Desolation preceded their
way, for they were on the track of Harold the Victor. At length, they
passed the cold Conovium, now Caer-hen, lying low near the river. There
were still (not as we now scarcely discern them, after centuries of
havoc,) the mighty ruins of the Romans,--vast shattered walls, a tower
half demolished, visible remnants of gigantic baths, and, proudly rising
near the present ferry of Tal-y-Cafn, the fortress, almost unmutilated,
of Castell-y-Bryn. On the castle waved the pennon of Harold. Many large
flat-bottomed boats were moored to the river-side, and the whole place
bristled with spears and javelins.

Much comforted, (for,--though he disdained to murmur, and rather than
forego his mail, would have died therein a martyr,--Mallet de Graville
was mightily wearied by the weight of his steel,) and hoping now to see
Harold himself, the knight sprang forward with a spasmodic effort at
liveliness, and found himself in the midst of a group, among whom he
recognised at a glance his old acquaintance, Godrith. Doffing his helm
with its long nose-piece, he caught the thegn's hand, and exclaimed:

"Well met, ventre de Guillaume! well met, O Godree the debonnair! Thou
rememberest Mallet de Graville, and in this unseemly guise, on foot, and
with villeins, sweating under the eyes of plebeian Phoebus, thou
beholdest that much-suffering man!"

"Welcome indeed," returned Godrith, with some embarrassment; "but how
camest thou hither, and whom seekest thou?"

"Harold, thy Count, man--and I trust he is here."

"Not so, but not far distant--at a place by the mouth of the river called
Caer Gyffin [158]. Thou shalt take boat, and be there ere the sunset."

"Is a battle at hand? Yon churl disappointed and tricked me; he promised
me danger, and not a soul have we met."

"Harold's besom sweeps clean," answered Godrith, smiling. "But thou art
like, perhaps, to be in at the death. We have driven this Welch lion to
bay at last. He is ours, or grim Famine's. Look yonder;" and Godrith
pointed to the heights of Penmaen-mawr. "Even at this distance, you may
yet descry something grey and dim against the sky."

"Deemest thou my eye so ill practised in siege, as not to see towers?
Tall and m