The mountain's very breath grew
sweeter and sweeter of Winnie's lips. As I walked about the hills I
found myself repeating over and over again one of the verses which
Winnie used to sing to me as a child at Raxton.
Eryri fynyddig i mi,
Bro dawel y delyn yw,
Lle mae'r defaid a'r wyn,
Yn y mwswg a'r brwyn,
Am can inau'n esgyn i fyny,
A'r gareg yn ateb i fyny, i fyny,
O'r lle bu'r eryrod yn byw. [Footnote]
[Footnote:
Mountain-wild Snowdon for me!
Sweet silence there for the harp,
Where loiter the ewes and the lambs,
In the moss and the rushes,
Where one's song goes sounding up
And the rocks re-echo it higher and higher
In the height where the eagles live.]
But then I felt that Sinfi was the mere instrument of the mysterious
magic of y Wyddfa, that magic which no other mountain in Europe
exercises. I knew that among all the Gypsies Sinfi was almost the
only one who possessed that power which belonged once to her race,
that power which is expressed in a Scottish word now universally
misused, 'glamour,' the power which Johnnie Faa and his people
brought into play when they abducted Lady Casilis.
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