found, and sometimes they knock to give warnin’ of a dangerous precipuss, and sometimes they knock to give the person as is talkin’ warnin’ that he’s sayin’ or doin’ somethin’ as may lead to danger.  They speaks to each other too, but in a v’ice so low that you can’t tell what words they’re a-speakin’, even if you knew their language.  My crwth and song will rouse every spirit on the hills.’

I listened again.  This was the mysterious sound that had so captivated Winnie’s imagination as a child.

The extraordinary lustre of Sinfi’s eyes indicated to me, who knew them so well, that every nerve, every fibre in her system, was trembling under the stress of some intense emotion.  I stood and watched her, wondering as to her condition, and speculating as to what her crazy project could be.

Then she proceeded to unpack the little basket.

‘This is for the love-feast,’ said Sinfi.

‘You mean betrothal feast,’ I said.  ‘But who are the lovers?’

‘You and the livin’ mullo that you made me draw for you by my crwth down by Beddgelert—­the livin’ mullo o’ Winnie Wynne.’

‘At last then,’ I said to myself, ’I know the form the mania has taken.  It is not her own betrothal, but mine with Winnie’s wraith, that is deluding her crazy brain.  How well I remember telling her how I had promised Winnie as a child to be betrothed by Knockers’ Llyn.  Poor Sinfi!  Mad or sane, her generosity remains undimmed.’

Before the breakfast cloth could be laid—­indeed before the basket was unpacked—­she asked me to look at my watch, and on my doing so and telling her the time, she jumped up and said, ’It’s later than I thought.  We must lay the cloth arterwards.’  She then placed me in that same crevice overlooking the tarn whence Winnie had come to me on that morning.

Knockers’ Llyn, it will perhaps be remembered, is enclosed in a little gorge opening by a broken, ragged fissure at the back to the east.  Leading to this opening there is on one side a narrow, jagged shelf which runs half-way round the pool.  Sinfi’s movements now were an exact repetition of everything she did on that first morning of our search for Winnie.

While I stood partially concealed in my crevice, Sinfi took up her crwth, which was lying on the rock.

‘What are you going; to do, Sinfi?’ I said.

‘I’m just goin’ to bring back old times for you.  You remember that mornin’ when my crwth and song called Winnie to us at this very llyn?  I’m goin’ to play on my crwth and sing the same song now.  It’s to draw her livin’ mullo, as I did at Bettws and Beddgelert, so that the dukkeripen of the “Golden Hand” may come true.’

‘But how can it come true, Sinfi?’ I said.

’The dukkeripen allus does come true, whether it’s good or whether it’s bad.’

‘Not always,’ I said.

‘No, not allus,’ she cried, starting up, while there came over her face that expression which had so amazed me at Beddgelert.  When at last breath came to her she was looking towards y Wyddfa through the kindling haze.