She wur tryin' to ketch hold on it, as the water wur
carryin' it along, and he pretty nigh beat her to death wi' his wings
for her pains. It wur then as she come an' stayed along o' us for a
bit, an' she got to be as fond o' my crwth as you be's, an' she used
to say that if there wur any music as 'ud draw her sperrit hack to
the airth arter she wur dead it 'ud be the sound o' my crwth; but
there she wur wrong as wrong could be: Romany music couldn't never
touch Gorgio sperrit; 'tain't a bit likely. But it can draw her
livin' mullo [wraith].' And as she spoke she began to play her crwth
_pizzicato_ and to sing the opening bars of the old Welsh incantation
which I had heard on Snowdon on that never-to-be-forgotten morning.
This, as usual, sent my mind at once back to the picture of Fenella
Stanley calling round her by the aid of her music the spirits of
Snowdon. And then a strange hallucination came upon me, that made me
clutch at Sinfi's arm. Close by her, reflected in a little glassy
pool divided off from the current by a ring of stones, two blue eyes
seemed gazing.
Pages:
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344