think," said I to the girl; "that yonder figure is that of Owen
Tudor?"

"Yes, sir," said the girl; "yon figure is that of Owen Tudor; the other
is that of his wife, the great queen; both their bodies rest below."

I forbore to say that the figures were not those of Owen Tudor and the
great queen, his wife; and I forbore to say that their bodies did not
rest in that church, nor anywhere in the neighbourhood, for I was
unwilling to dispel a pleasing delusion. The tomb is doubtless a tomb of
one of the Tudor race, and of a gentle partner of his, but not of the
Rose of Mona and Catherine of France. Her bones rest in some corner of
Westminster's noble abbey; his moulder amongst those of thousands of
others, Yorkists and Lancastrians, under the surface of the plain, where
Mortimer's Cross once stood, that plain on the eastern side of which
meanders the murmuring Lug; that noble plain, where one of the hardest
battles which ever blooded English soil was fought; where beautiful young
Edward gained a crown, and old Owen lost a head, which when young had
been the most beautiful of heads, which had gained for him the
appellation of the Rose of Anglesey, and which had captivated the glances
of the fair daughter of France, the widow of Monmouth's Harry, the
immortal victor of Agincourt.

Nevertheless, long did I stare at that tomb which though not that of the
Rose of Mona and his queen, is certainly the tomb of some mighty one of
the mighty race of Theodore. Then saying something in Welsh to the
pretty damsel, at which she started, and putting something into her hand,
at which she curtseyed, I hurried out of the church.

CHAPTER XXXVII

Mental Excitation--Land of Poets--The Man in Grey--Drinking Healths--The
Greatest Prydydd--Envy--Welshmen not Hogs--Gentlemanly Feeling--What
Pursuit?--Tell him to Walk Up--Editor of the _Times_--Careful
Wife--Departure.

I regained the high road by a short cut, which I discovered, across a
field. I proceeded rapidly along for some time. My mind was very much
excited: I was in the birthplace of the mighty Tudors--I had just seen
the tomb of one of them; I was also in the land of the bard; a country
which had produced Gwalchmai who sang the triumphs of Owain, and him who
had sung the Cowydd of Judgment, Gronwy Owen. So no wonder I was
excited. On I went reciting bardic snatches connected with Anglesey. At
length I began repeating Black Robin's ode in praise of the island, or
ra