“Ah, you rascal!” cried the judge.  “Is this where you’ve been all the time, and a better man than you as good as hanged for you?  But you shall come home now.”

Saying which, he ran in, and seized the fiddler by the arm, but Limping Tim resisted so stoutly that the sheriff had to go to the judge’s assistance, and even then the fairies so pinched and hindered them that the sheriff was obliged to call upon the gaoler to put his arms about his waist, who persuaded the chaplain to add his strength to the string.  But as ill luck would have it, just as they were getting off, one of the fairies picked up Limping Tim’s fiddle, which had fallen in the scuffle, and began to play.  And as he began to play, every one began to dance—­the fiddler, and the judge, and the sheriff, and the gaoler, and even the chaplain.

“Hangman! hangman!” screamed the judge, as he lifted first one leg and then the other to the tune, “come down, and catch hold of his reverence the chaplain.  The prisoner is pardoned, and he can lay hold too.”

The hangman knew the judge’s voice, and ran towards it; but as they were now quite within the ring he could see nothing, either of him or his companions.

The farmer’s son followed, and warning the hangman not to touch the ring, he directed him to stretch his hands forwards in hopes of catching hold of some one.  In a few minutes the wind blew the chaplain’s cassock against the hangman’s fingers, and he caught the parson round the waist.  The farmer’s son then seized him in like fashion, and each holding firmly by the other, the fiddler, the judge, the sheriff, the gaoler, the parson, the hangman, and the farmer’s son all got safely out of the charmed circle.

“Oh, you scoundrel!” cried the judge to the fiddler; “I have a very good mind to hang you up on the gallows without further ado.”

But the fiddler only looked like one possessed, and upbraided the farmer’s son for not having the patience to wait three minutes for him.

“Three minutes!” cried he; “why, you’ve been here three months and a day.”

This the fiddler would not believe, and as he seemed in every way beside himself, they led him home, still upbraiding his companion, and crying continually for his fiddle.

His neighbours watched him closely, but one day he escaped from their care and wandered away over the hills to seek his fiddle, and came back no more.

His dead body was found upon the downs, face downwards, with the fiddle in his arms.  Some said he had really found the fiddle where he had left it, and had been lost in a mist, and died of exposure.  But others held that he had perished differently, and laid his death at the door of the fairy dancers.

As to the farmer’s son, it is said that thenceforward he went home from market by the high-road, and spoke the truth straight out, and was more careful of his company.

“I WON’T.”

“Don’t Care”—­so they say—­fell into a goose-pond; and “I won’t” is apt to come to no better an end.  At least, my grandmother tells me that was how the Miller had to quit his native town, and leave the tip of his nose behind him.