ainst some of the guests who were sitting or
standing in the kitchen, and pushing the landlord about, crying at the
same time that they would stand by Sir Watkin to the last, and would
never see him plundered. One of them, a fellow of about thirty, in a
hairy cap, black coat, dirty yellow breeches, and dirty white top-boots,
who was the most obstreperous of them all, at last came up to the old
chap who disliked South Welshmen and tried to knock off his hat, swearing
that he would stand by Sir Watkin; he, however, met a Tartar. The enemy
of the South Welsh, like all crusty people, had lots of mettle, and with
the stick which he held in his hand forthwith aimed a blow at the
fellow's poll, which, had he not jumped back, would probably have broken
it.

"I will not be insulted by you, you vagabond," said the old chap, "nor by
Sir Watkin either; go and tell him so."

The fellow looked sheepish, and turning away proceeded to take liberties
with other people less dangerous to meddle with than old crabstick. He,
however, soon desisted, and sat down evidently disconcerted.

"Were you ever worse treated in South Wales by the people there than you
have been here by your own countrymen?" said I to the old fellow.

"My countrymen?" said he; "this scamp is no countryman of mine; nor is
one of the whole kit. They are all from Wrexham, a mixture of broken
housekeepers and fellows too stupid to learn a trade; a set of scamps fit
for nothing in the world but to swear bodily against honest men. They
say they will stand up for Sir Watkin, and so they will, but only in a
box in the Court to give false evidence. They won't fight for him on the
banks of the river. Countrymen of mine, indeed! they are no countrymen
of mine; they are from Wrexham, where the people speak neither English
nor Welsh, not even South Welsh as you do."

Then giving a kind of flourish with his stick he departed.

CHAPTER LXVIII

Llan Silin Church--Tomb of Huw Morris--Barbara and Richard--Welsh Country
Clergyman--The Swearing Lad--Anglo-Saxon Devils.

Having discussed my ale I asked the landlord if he would show me the
grave of Huw Morris. "With pleasure, sir," said he; "pray follow me."
He led me to the churchyard, in which several enormous yew trees were
standing, probably of an antiquity which reached as far back as the days
of Henry the Eighth, when the yew bow was still the favourite weapon of
the men of Britain. The church fronts the south