were given a small but clean and neat apartment, from which I suspicion the younger members of the landlord’s family had been unceremoniously ousted to make room for us.  The distressing feature was the abominable beds, but as these prevailed in most of the country hotels at which we stopped we shall not lay this up too strongly against the Saracen’s Head.  I noticed that on one of the window-panes someone had scribbled with a diamond, “Sept. 4, 1726,” which would seem to indicate that the original window was there at that time.  The house itself must have been considerably older.  If rates had been the sole inducement, we should undoubtedly have become permanent boarders at the Saracen’s Head, for I think that the bill for our party was seven shillings for supper, room and breakfast.

We left Cerrig-y-Druidion next morning in a gray, driving rain, with drifting fogs that almost hid the road at times.  A few miles brought us to the Conway River, the road closely following the stream through the picturesque scenery on its banks.  It was swollen by heavy rains and the usually insignificant river was a wild torrent, dashing in rapids and waterfalls over its rocky bed.  The clouds soon broke away and for the remainder of the day the weather was as fine as could possibly be wished for.

Bettws-y-Coed is the most famous of mountain towns in Wales, and its situation is indeed romantic.  It is generally reputed to be the chief Welsh honeymoon resort and a paradise for fishermen, but it has little to detain the tourist interested in historic Britain.  We evidently should have fared much differently at its splendid hotel from what we did at Cerrig-y-Druidion, but we were never sorry for our enforced sojourn at the Saracen’s Head.

The road from Bettws-y-Coed to Carnarvon is a good one, but steep in places, and it passes through some of the finest mountain scenery in Wales.  It leads through the Pass of Llanberis and past Snowdon, the king of the Welsh mountains—­though tame indeed to one who has seen the Rockies.  Snowdon, the highest in the Kingdom, rises not so much as four thousand feet above the sea level.

Carnarvon Castle is conceded from many points of view to be the finest ruin in the Kingdom.  It does not occupy an eminence, as did so many castles whose position contributed much to their defense, but it depended more on its lofty watch-towers and the stupendous strength of its outer walls.  These are built of solid granite with a thickness of ten feet or more in vital places, and it is doubtful if even the old-time artillery would have made much impression upon them.  Its massive construction no doubt accounts for the wonderful preservation of the outer walls, which are almost entire, and Carnarvon Castle, as viewed from the outside, probably appears very much the same as it did when the builders completed the work about 1300.  It was built by King Edward I as a royal residence from which to direct his operations against