He saw in the dim light she was slim and fair, and had a wealth of golden hair; he saw her dress was grey and her hood was red.

So much the moonlight revealed, but further than this he could not discover, and politeness forbade his asking.

As if in answer to his thoughts, however, her next words enlightened him.
"I am Valmai Powell, the niece of Essec Powell, the preacher." A long, low whistle escaped from the young man's lips.
"By Jove!" he said.
The girl was silent, but could he have seen the hot blush which spread over her face and neck, he would have known that he had roused the quick Welsh temper.

He was unconscious of it, however, and strode on in silence, until they reached a rough-built, moss-grown bridge, and here they both stopped as if by mutual consent.

Leaning their elbows on the mossy stone wall, they looked down to the depths below, where the little river Berwen babbled and whispered on its way to the sea.
"There's a nice noise it is making down there," said Valmai.