Caer Madoc is a sleepy little Welsh town, lying two miles from the sea
coast. Far removed from the busy centres of civilisation, where the
battle of life breeds keen wits and deep interests, it is still, in the
opinion of its inhabitants, next to London, the most important place in
the United Kingdom. It has its church and three chapels, its mayor and
corporation, jail, town hall, and market-place; but, more especially,
it has its fairs, and awakes to spasmodic jollity on such occasions,
which come pretty often--quite ten times in the year. In the interims
it resigns itself contentedly to its normal state of lethargy.

The day on which my story opens had seen the busiest and merriest fair
of the year, and the evening found the little town looking jaded and
disreputable after its few hours of dissipation, the dusty High Street
being littered with scraps of paper, orange-peel, and such like
_débris_. The merry-go-rounds and the "shows" had departed, the last
donkey-cart had rattled out of the town, laden with empty gingerbread
boxes.

In the stable of the Red Dragon three men stooped in conclave over the
hind foot of a horse. Deio, the ostler, and Roberts, the farrier,
agreed in their verdict for a wonder; and Caradoc Wynne, the owner of
the horse, straightened himself from his stooping posture with a nod of
decision.

"Yes, it's quite plain I mustn't ride him to-night," he said. "Well,
I'll leave him under your care, Roberts, and will either come or send
for him to-morrow."

"Needn't do that, sir," said Roberts, "for I am going myself to
Abersethin on Friday; that will give him one day's complete rest, and