"What hill may that be?" said I in English, pointing to the
elevation.

"Dim Saesneg, sir," said the man, looking rather sheepish, "Dim
gair o Saesneg."

Rather surprised that a person of his appearance should not have a
word of English, I repeated my question in Welsh.

"Ah, you speak Cumraeg, sir;" said the man evidently surprised that
a person of my English appearance should speak Welsh. "I am glad
of it! What hill is that, you ask - Dyna Mont Owain Glyndwr, sir."

"Is it easy to get to?" said I.

"Quite easy, sir," said the man. "If you please I will go with
you."

I thanked him, and opening a gate he conducted me across the field
to the mount of the Welsh hero.

The mount of Owen Glendower stands close upon the southern bank of
the Dee, and is nearly covered with trees of various kinds. It is
about thirty feet high from the plain, and about the same diameter
at the top. A deep black pool of the river which here runs far
beneath the surface of the field, purls and twists under the
northern side, which is very steep, though several large oaks
spring out of it. The hill is evidently the work of art, and
appeared to me to be some burying-place of old.