"Can you tell me the name of that tall hill?" said I, pointing in
the direction of the south-west. "That hill, sir," said the
beggar, "is called Moel Vamagh; I ought to know something about it
as I was born at its foot." "Moel," said I, "a bald hill; Vamagh,
maternal or motherly. Moel Vamagh, the Mother Moel." "Just so,
sir," said the beggar; "I see you are a Welshman, like myself,
though I suppose you come from the South - Moel Vamagh is the
Mother Moel, and is called so because it is the highest of all the
Moels." "Did you ever hear of a place called Mold?" said I. "Oh,
yes, your honour," said the beggar; "many a time; and many's the
time I have been there." "In which direction does it lie?" said I.
"Towards Moel Vamagh, your honour," said the beggar, "which is a
few miles beyond it; you can't see it from here, but look towards
Moel Vamagh and you will see over it." "Thank you," said I, and
gave something to the beggar, who departed, after first taking off
his hat. Long and fixedly did I gaze in the direction of Mold.
The reason which induced me to do so was the knowledge of an
appalling tragedy transacted there in the old time, in which there
is every reason to suppose a certain Welsh bard, called Lewis Glyn
Cothi, had a share.

This man, who was a native of South Wales, flourished during the
wars of the Roses. Besides being a poetical he was something of a
military genius, and had a command of foot in the army of the
Lancastrian Jasper Earl of Pembroke, the son of Owen Tudor, and
half-brother of Henry the Sixth. After the battle of Mortimer's
Cross, in which the Earl's forces were defeated, the warrior bard
found his way to Chester, where he married the widow of a citizen
and opened a shop, without asking the permission of the mayor, who