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.