'You'll soon come back, Sinfi?' I said.

'We've got to see about that,' she replied, still pale and trembling
from the effects of that sudden upheaval of the passion of a
Titaness. 'If the livin' mullo does come you can't have a love-feast
without company, you know, and I sha'n't be far off if you find you
want me.'

She then took up her crwth, went round the llyn, and disappeared
through the eastern cleft. In a few minutes I heard her crwth. But
the air she played was not the air of the song she called the 'Welsh
dukkerin' gillie' which I had heard by Beddgelert. It was the air of
the same idyll of Snowdon that I first beard Winifred sing on the
sands of Raxton. Then I heard in the distance those echoes, magical
and faint, which were attributed by Winifred and Sinfi to the
Knockers or spirits of Snowdon.

IV

There I stood again, as on that other morning, in the crevice
overlooking the same llyn, looking at what might well have been the
same masses of vapour enveloping the same peaks, rolling as then,
boiling as then, blazing as then, whenever the bright shafts of
morning struck them. There I stood again, listening to the wild notes
of Sinfi's crwth in the distance, as the sun rose higher, pouring a
radiance through the eastern gate of the gorge, and kindling the
aerial vapours moving about the llyn till their iridescent sails
suggested the wings of some enormous dragon-fly of every hue.

'Her song does not come,' I said, 'but, this time, when it does come,
it will not befool my senses. Sinfi's own presence by my side--that
magnetism of hers which D'Arcy spoke of--would be required before the
glamour could be cast over me, now that I know she is crazy. Poor
Sinfi! Her influence will not to-day be able to cajole my eyes into
accepting her superstitious visions as their own.'

But as I spoke a sound fell, not upon my ears alone, but upon every
nerve of my body, the sound of a voice singing, a voice that was not
Sinfi's, but another's,

'I met in a glade a lone little maid,
At the foot of y Wyddfa the white;
Oh, lissom her feet as the mountain hind,
And darker her hair than the night;
Her cheek was like the mountain rose,
But fairer far to see.
As driving along her sheep with a song,
Down from the hills came she.'

It was the same voice that I heard singing the same song on Raxton
Sands. It was the same voice that I heard singing the same song