‘But this was all in his sleep,’ said I, ‘was it not?’

‘Yes,’ said Peter, ’in his sleep; and on that account the book is called Gweledigaethau y Bardd Cwsg, or, Visions of the Sleeping Bard.’

‘I do not care for wonders which occur in sleep,’ said I.  ’I prefer real ones; and perhaps, notwithstanding what he says, the man had no visions at all—­they are probably of his own invention.’

‘They are substantially true, young man,’ said Peter; ’like the dreams of Bunyan, they are founded on three tremendous facts, Sin, Death, and Hell; and like his they have done incalculable good, at least in my own country, in the language of which they are written.  Many a guilty conscience has the Bardd Cwsg aroused with its dreadful sights, its strong sighs, its puffs of smoke from the pit, and its showers of sparks from the mouth of the yet lower gulf of—­Unknown—­were it not for the Bardd Cwsg perhaps I might not be here.’

‘I would sooner hear your own tale,’ said I, ’than all the visions of the Bardd Cwsg.’

Peter shook, bent his form nearly double, and covered his face with his hands.  I sat still and motionless, with my eyes fixed upon him.  Presently Winifred descended the hill, and joined us.  ’What is the matter?’ said she, looking at her husband, who still remained in the posture I have described.  He made no answer; whereupon, laying her hand gently on his shoulder, she said, in the peculiar soft and tender tone which I had heard her use on a former occasion, ’Take comfort, Peter; what has happened now to afflict thee?’ Peter removed his hand from his face.  ‘The old pain, the old pain,’ said he; ’I was talking with this young man, and he would fain know what brought me here, he would fain hear my tale, Winifred—­my sin:  O pechod Ysprydd Glan!  O pechod Ysprydd Glan!’ and the poor man fell into a more fearful agony than before.  Tears trickled down Winifred’s face, I saw them trickling by the moonlight, as she gazed upon the writhing form of her afflicted husband.  I arose from my seat.  ‘I am the cause of all this,’ said I, ’by my folly and imprudence, and it is thus I have returned your kindness and hospitality; I will depart from you and wander my way.’  I was retiring, but Peter sprang up and detained me.  ‘Go not,’ said he, ’you were not in fault; if there be any fault in the case it was mine; if I suffer, I am but paying the penalty of my own iniquity’; he then paused, and appeared to be considering:  at length he said, ’Many things which thou hast seen and heard connected with me require explanation; thou wishest to know my tale, I will tell it thee, but not now, not to-night; I am too much shaken.’

Two evenings later, when we were again seated beneath the oak, Peter took the hand of his wife in his own, and then, in tones broken and almost inarticulate, commenced telling me his tale—­the tale of the Pechod Ysprydd Glan.