’There you’re right, Hal Aylwin.  It ain’t every dukkeripen as comes true.  The dukkeripen allus comes true, unless it’s one as says a Gorgio shall come to the Kaulo Camloes an’ break Sinfi Lovell’s heart.  Before that dukkeripen shall come true Sinfi Lovell ’ud cut her heart out.  Yes, my fine Gorgio, she’d cut it out—­she’d cut it out and fling it in that ’ere llyn.  She did cut it out when she took the cuss on herself.  She’s a-cuttin’ it out now.’

Then without saying another word Sinfi took up her crwth and moved towards the llyn.

‘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 in the London streets—­Winnie’s!