apart from welsh fable and tradition, the lands of craigaderyn had been in possession of sir madoc's family for many ages, and for more generations of the line of lloyd; but the mansion, the court itself, is not older than the stuart times, and portions of it were much more recent, particularly the library, the shelves of which were replete with all that a gentleman's library should contain; the billiard-room and gun-room, where all manner of firearms, from the old long-barrelled fowling-piece of anne's time down to joe manton and colt's revolver, stood side by side on racks; the kennels, where many a puppy yelped; and the stable-court, where hoofs rang and stall-collars jangled, and where mr. bob spurrit--a long-bodied, short-and-crooked legged specimen of the welsh groom--reigned supreme, and watered and corned his nags by the notes of an ancient clock in the central tower--a clock said to have been brought as spoil from the church of todtenhausen, by sir madoc's grandfather, after he led the welsh fusileers at the battle of minden. masses of that "rare old plant, the ivy green," heavy, leafy, and overlapping each other, shrouded great portions of the house. oriels, full of small panes and quaint coats of arms, abutted here and there; while pinnacles and turrets, vanes, and groups of twisted, fluted, or garlanded stone chimney stacks, rose sharply up to break the sky-line and many a panel and scutcheon of stone were there, charged with the bend, ermine, and pean of lloyd--the lion rampant wreathed with oak, and armed with a sword--and the heraldic cognizance of many a successive matrimonial alliance.

some portions of the house, where the walls were strong and the lower storey vaulted, were associated, of course, with visits from llewellyn and owen glendower; and there also abode--a ghost. the park, too, was not without its old memories and traditions. many of its trees were descendants of an ancient grove dedicated to druidic worship; and bones frequently found there were alleged by some to be the relics of human sacrifice, by others to be those of roman or of saxon warriors slain by the sturdy britons who, under cadwallader, llewellyn of the torques, or some other hero of the pendragonate, had held, in defiance of both, the caer or fort on the summit of craigaderyn. but the woodlands on which sir madoc mostly prided himself were those of the old acorn season, when nature planted her own wild forests, and sowed the lawn out of her own lawns, as some writer has it. they were unquestionably the most picturesque, but the trim and orderly chase was not without its beauties too, and there had many grand eisteddfoddiau been held under the auspices of sir madoc, and often fifty harpers at a time had made the woods ring to "the noble race of shenkin," or "the march of the men of harlech."

the old court and its surroundings were such as to make one agree with what lord lyttelton wrote of another welsh valley, where "the mountains seemed placed to guard the charming retreat from invasions; and where, with the woman one loves, the friend of one's heart, and a good library, one might pass an age, and think it a day."

the ghost was a tall thin figure, dressed somewhat in the costume of henry viii.'s time; but his full-skirted doublet with large sleeves, the cap bordered with ostrich feathers, the close tight hose, and square-toed shoes, were all deep black, hence his, or its, aspect was sombre in the extreme, shadowy and uncertain too, as he was only visible in the twilight of eve, or the first dim and similarly uncertain light of the early dawn; and these alleged appearances have been chiefly on st. david's day, the 1st of march, and were preceded by the sound of a harp about the place--but a harp unseen. he was generally supposed to leave, or be seen quitting, a portion of the house, where the old wall was shrouded with ivy, and to walk or glide swiftly and steadily, without casting either shadow or foot-mark on the grass, towards a certain ancient tree in the park, where he disappeared--faded, or melted out of sight. on the wall beneath the ivy being examined, a door--the portion of an earlier structure--was discovered to have been built up, but none knew when or why; and tradition averred that those who had seen him pass--for none dared follow--towards the old tree, could make out that his figure and face were those of a man in the prime of life, but the expression of the latter was sad, solemn, resolute, and gloomy.

the origin of the legend, as told to me by winifred lloyd, referred to a period rather remote in history, and was to the following effect. some fifteen miles southward from craigaderyn is a quaint and singular village named dinas mowddwy, situated very strangely on the shelf of a steep mountain overlooking the dyfi stream--a lofty spot commanding a view of the three beautiful valleys of the ceryst; but this place was in past times the abode and fortress of a peculiar and terrible tribe, called the gwylliad cochion, or red-haired robbers, who made all north wales, but more particularly their own district, a by-word and reproach, from the great extent and savage nature of the outrages they committed by fire and sword; so that to this day, we are told, there may be seen, in some of the remote mountain hamlets, more especially in cemmaes near the sea, the well-sharpened scythe-blades, which were placed in the chimney-corners overnight, to be ready for them in case of a sudden attack. they were great crossbowmen, those outlaws, and never failed in their aim; and so, like the broken clans upon the highland border, they levied black mail on all, till the night of the 1st of march, 1534; when, during a terrific storm of thunder, lightning, and wind, sir jorwerth lloyd of craigaderyn, john wynne ap meredydd, and a baron named owen, scaled the mountain at the head of their followers, fell on them sword in hand, and after slaying a great number, hung one hundred of them in a row. one wretched mother, a red-haired celt, begged hard and piteously to have her youngest son spared; but sir jorwerth was relentless, so the young robber perished with the rest. then the woman rent her garments, and laying bare her bosom, said it had nursed other sons and daughters, who would yet wash their hands in the blood of them all. owen was waylaid and slain by them at a place named to this day llidiart-y-barwn, or the baron's gate, and meredydd fell soon after; but for lloyd the woman, who was a reputed witch, had prepared another fate, as if aiming at the destruction of his soul as well as his body; for after his marriage with gwerfyl owen, he fell madly in love with a golden-haired girl whom he met when hunting in the forest near craigaderyn; and as he immediately relinquished all attendance at church and all forms of prayer, and seemed to be besotted by her, the girl was averred to be an evil spirit, as she was never seen save in his company, and then only (by those who watched and lurked) "in the glimpses of the moon."

on the third st. david's eve after the slaughter at dinas mowddwy, he was seated with gwerfyl in her chamber, listening to a terrific storm of wind and rain that swept through the valley, overturning the oldest trees, and shaking the walls of the ancient house, while the lightning played above the dim summits of snowdon, and every mountain stream and rhaidr, or cataract, rolled in foam and flood to llyn alwen or the conway.

on a tabourette near his knee she sat, lovingly clasping his hand between her own two, for he seemed restless, petulant, and gloomy, and had his cloak and cap at hand, as if about to go forth, though the weather was frightful.

"jorwerth," said she softly, "the last time there was such a storm as this was on that terrible night--you remember?"

"when we cut off the gwylliad cochion--yes, root and branch, sparing, as we thought, none, while the rain ran through my armour as through a waterspout. but why speak of it, to-night especially? yes, root and branch, even while that woman vowed vengeance," he added, grinding his teeth. "but what sound is that?"

"music," she replied, rising and looking round with surprise; but his tremulous hand, and, more than that, the sudden pallor of his face, arrested her, while the strains of a small harp, struck wildly and plaintively, came at times between the fierce gusts of wind that shook the forest trees and the hiss of the rain on the window-panes without. louder they seemed to come, and to be more emphatic and sharp; and, as he heard them, a violent trembling and cold perspiration came over all the form of sir jorwerth lloyd.

"heaven pity the harper who is abroad to-night!" said gwerfyl, clasping her white hands.

"let hell do so, rather!" was the fierce response of her husband, as his eyes filled with a strange light.

at that moment a hand knocked on the window, and the startled wife, as she crouched by her husband's side, could see that it was small and delicate, wondrously beautiful too, and radiant with gems or glittering raindrops; and now her husband trembled more violently than ever.

gwerfyl crossed herself, and rushed to the window.

"strange," said she; "i can see no one."

"no one in human form, perhaps," replied her husband gloomily, as he lifted his cloak. "look again, dear wife."

the lady did so, and fancied that close to the window-pane she could see a female face--anon she could perceive that it was small and beautiful, with hair of golden red, all wavy, and, strange to say, unwetted by the rain, and with eyes that were also of golden red, but with a devilish smile and glare, and glitter in them and over all her features, as they appeared, but to vanish, as the successive flashes of lightning passed. with terror and foreboding of evil, she turned to her startled husband. he was a pale and handsome man, with an aquiline nose, a finely-cut mouth and chin; but now his lips were firmly compressed, a flashing and fiery light seemed to sparkle in his eyes, his forehead was covered with lines, and the veins of his temples were swollen, while his black hair and moustache seemed to have actually become streaked with gray. what unknown emotion caused all this? there were power and passion in his bearing; but something strange, and dark, and demon-like was brooding in his soul. the white drops glittered on his brow as he threw his cloak about him, and then the notes of the harp were heard, as if struck triumphantly and joyously.

"stay, stay! leave me not!" implored his wife on her knees, in a sudden access of terror and pity, that proved greater even than love.

"i cannot--i cannot! god pardon me and bless you, dear, dear wife, but go i must!"

("exactly like rudolph, as we saw him last night in the opera, breaking away from his followers when he heard the voice of lurline singing amid the waters of the rhine," added winifred in a parenthesis, as she laid her hand timidly on my arm.)

she strove on her knees to place in his hand the small ivory-bound volume of prayers which ladies then carried slung by a chain at their girdle, even as a watch is now; but he thrust it aside, as if it scorched his fingers. then he kissed her wildly, and broke away.

she sprang from the floor, but he was gone--gone swiftly into the forest; and with sorrow and prayer in her heart his wife stealthily followed him. by this time the sudden storm had as suddenly ceased; already the gusty wind had died away, and no trace of it remained, save the strewn leaves and a quivering in the dripping branches; the white clouds were sailing through the blue sky, and whiter still, in silvery sheen 'the moonlight fell aslant in patches through the branches on the glittering grass. amid that sheen she saw the dark figure of her husband passing, gliding onward to the old oak tree, and gwerfyl shrunk behind another, as the notes of the infernal harp--for such she judged it to be--fell upon her ear.

"you have come, my beloved," said a sweet voice; and she saw the same strangely-beautiful girl with the red-golden hair, her skin of wondrous whiteness, and eyes that glittered with devilish triumph, though to jorwerth du they seemed only filled with ardour and the light of passionate love, even as the beauty of her form seemed all round and white and perfect; but lo! to the eyes of his wife, who was under no spell, that form was fast becoming like features in a dissolving view, changed to that of extreme old age--gray hairs and wrinkles seemed to come with every respiration; for this mysterious love, who had bewitched her husband, was some evil spirit or demon of the woods.

"how long you have been!" said she reproachfully, for even the sweetness of her tone had suddenly passed away; "so long that already age seems to have come upon me."

"pardon me; have i not sworn to love you for ever and ever, though neither of us is immortal?"

"you are ready?" said she, laying her head on his breast.

"yes, my own wild love!"

"then let us go."

all beauty of form had completely passed away, and now gwerfyl saw her handsome husband in the arms of a very hag; hollow-cheeked, toothless, almost fleshless, with restless shifty eyes, and grey elf-locks like the serpents of medusa; a hag beyond all description hideous: and her long, lean, shrivelled arms she wound lovingly and triumphantly around him. her eyes gleamed like two live coals as he kissed her wildly and passionately from time to time, the full blaze of the moonlight streaming upon both their forms.

gwerfyl strove to pray, to cry aloud, to move. but her tongue refused its office, and her lips were powerless; all capability of volition had left her, and she was as it were rooted to the spot. a moment more, and a dark cloud came over the moon, causing a deeper shadow under the old oak tree. then a shriek escaped her, and when again the moon shone forth on the green grass and the gnarled tree, gwerfyl alone was there--her husband and the hag had disappeared. neither was ever seen more. north wales is the most primitive portion of the country, and it is there that such fancies and memories still linger longest; and such was the little family legend told me by winifred lloyd. i was thinking over it now, recalling the earnest expression of her bright soft face and intelligent eyes, and the tone of her pleasantly modulated voice, when she, half laughingly and half seriously, had related it, with more point than i can give it, while we sat in a corner and somewhat apart from every one--on the first night i met the cressinghams--in a crowded london ballroom, amid the heat, the buzz, and crush of the season--about the last place in the world to hear a story of diablerie; and "the old time" seemed to come again, as i descended to the drawing-room, to meet her and lady estelle.