She then led the
way up a slope green with grass and moss. We did not talk till we had
passed the slate quarry.
The evening was so fine and the scene was so lovely that Sinfi's very
body seemed to drink it in and become intoxicated with beauty. After
we had left the slate quarries behind, the panorama became more
entrancing at every yard we walked. Cwellyn Lake and Valley, Moel
Hebog, y Garnedd, the glittering sea, Anglesey, Holyhead Hill, all
seemed to be growing in gold and glory out of masses of sunset mist.
When at last we reached the edge of a steep cliff, with the rocky
forehead of Snowdon in front, and the shining llyns of Cwm y Clogwyn
below, Sinfi stopped.
'This is the place,' said she, sitting down on a mossy mound, 'where
Winnie loved to come and look down.'
After Sinfi and I had sat on this mound for a few minutes, I asked
her to sing and play one or two Welsh airs which I knew to be
especial favourites of hers, and then, with much hesitancy, I asked
her to play and sing the same song or incantation which had become
associated for ever with my first morning on the hills.
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