gav-mush_." (Tell me if I am to be transported for stealing
a horse, or hung for killing a policeman.)

The old woman's face changed. "You'll never need to steal a horse. The
man that knows what you know never need be poor like me. I know who
_you_ are _now_; you're not one of these tourists. You're the boro
Romany rye [the tall gypsy gentleman]. And go your way, and brag about
it in your house,--and well you may,--that Old Moll of the Roads couldn't
take you in, and that you found her out. Never another _rye_ but you
will ever say that again. Never."

And she went dancing away in the sunshine, capering backwards along the
road, merrily shaking the pennies in her hand for music, while she sang
something in gypsy,--witch to the last, vanishing as witches only can.
And there came over me a feeling as of the very olden time, and some
memory of another witch, who had said to another man, "_Thou_ art no
traveler, Great master, I know thee now;" and who, when he called her the
mother of the giants, replied, "Go thy way, and boast at home that no man
will ever waken me again with spells. Never." That was the parting of
Odin and the Vala sorceress, and it was the story of oldest time; and so
the myth of ancient days becomes a tattered parody, and thus runs the
world away to Romanys and rags--when the gods are gone.

When I laughed at the younger professor for confounding forty years in
the church with as many at the wash-tub, he replied,--

"Cleanliness is with me so near to godliness that it is not remarkable
that in my hurry I mistook one for the other."

So we went on and climbed Cader Idris, and found the ancient grave of
rocks in a mystic circle, whose meaning lies buried with the last Druid,
who would perhaps have told you they were--

"Seats of stone nevir hewin with mennes hand
But wrocht by Nature as it ane house had bene
For Nymphes, goddis of floudes and woodis grene."

And we saw afar the beautiful scene, "where fluddes rynnys in the foaming
sea," as Gawain Douglas sings, and where, between the fresh water and
salt, stands a village, even where it stood in earliest Cymric
prehistoric dawn, and the spot where ran the weir in which the prince who
was in grief because his weir yielded no fish, at last fished up a poet,
even as Pharaoh's daughter fished out a prophet. I shall not soon forget
that summer day, nor the dream-like panorama, nor the ancient grave; nor
how the younger professor l