Whilst He Was Absent A Wolf From The Neighbouring
Mountains, In Quest Of Prey, Found Its Way Into The Tent, And Was
About To Devour The Child, When The Watchful Dog Interfered, And
After A Desperate Conflict, In Which The Tent Was Torn Down,
Succeeded In Destroying The Monster.
Llywelyn returning at evening
found the tent on the ground, and the dog, covered with blood,
sitting beside it.
Imagining that the blood with which Gelert was
besmeared was that of his own son devoured by the animal to whose
care he had confided him, Llywelyn in a paroxysm of natural
indignation forthwith transfixed the faithful creature with his
spear. Scarcely, however, had he done so when his ears were
startled by the cry of a child from beneath the fallen tent, and
hastily removing the canvas he found the child in its cradle, quite
uninjured, and the body of an enormous wolf, frightfully torn and
mangled, lying near. His breast was now filled with conflicting
emotions, joy for the preservation of his son, and grief for the
fate of his dog, to whom he forthwith hastened. The poor animal
was not quite dead, but presently expired, in the act of licking
his master's hand. Llywelyn mourned over him as over a brother,
buried him with funeral honours in the valley, and erected a tomb
over him as over a hero. From that time the valley was called Beth
Gelert.
Such is the legend, which, whether true or fictitious, is
singularly beautiful and affecting.
The tomb, or what is said to be the tomb, of Gelert, stands in a
beautiful meadow just below the precipitous side of Cerrig Llan:
it consists of a large slab lying on its side, and two upright
stones. It is shaded by a weeping willow, and is surrounded by a
hexagonal paling. Who is there acquainted with the legend, whether
he believes that the dog lies beneath those stones or not, can
visit them without exclaiming with a sigh, "Poor Gelert!"
After wandering about the valley for some time, and seeing a few of
its wonders, I inquired my way for Festiniog, and set off for that
place. The way to it is through the pass at the south-east end of
the valley. Arrived at the entrance of the pass I turned round to
look at the scenery I was leaving behind me; the view which
presented itself to my eyes was very grand and beautiful. Before
me lay the meadow of Gelert with the river flowing through it
towards the pass. Beyond the meadow the Snowdon range; on the
right the mighty Cerrig Llan; on the left the equally mighty, but
not quite so precipitous, Hebog. Truly, the valley of Gelert is a
wondrous valley - rivalling for grandeur and beauty any vale either
in the Alps or Pyrenees. After a long and earnest view I turned
round again and proceeded on my way.
Presently I came to a bridge bestriding the stream, which a man
told me was called Pont Aber Glas Lyn, or the bridge of the
debouchement of the grey lake.
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