“They scaled the wall, and on the other side of it the fiddler had two horses, waiting tied to the gate.  They galloped through many villages, and by the dawn they had reached a village far beyond the Count’s lands.  Here they stopped at an inn, and they were married by the priest that day.  But they did not stop in this village; they sought a further country, beyond reach of all pursuit.  They settled in a village, and the fiddler earned his bread by his fiddling, and Elisinde kept their cottage neat and clean.  For awhile they were as happy as the day was long; the fiddler found favour everywhere by his fiddling, and Elisinde ingratiated herself by her gentle ways.  But one day when Elisinde was lying in bed and the fiddler had lulled her to sleep with his music, some neighbours, attracted by the sound, passed the cottage and looked in at the window.  And to their astonishment they saw the fiddler sitting by a bed on which lay what seemed to them to be a sleeping princess; and the whole cottage was full of dazzling light, and the fiddler’s face shone, and his hair and his eyes glittered like gold.  They went away much frightened, and told the whole village the news.

“Now there were already not a few of the villagers who looked askance on the fiddler; and this incident set all the evil and envious tongues wagging.  When the fiddler went to play the next day at the inn men turned away from him, and a child in the street threw a stone at him.  Presently he was warned that he had better swiftly fly or else he would be drowned as a sorcerer.

“So he and Elisinde fled in the night to a neighbouring village.  But soon the dark rumours followed them, and they were forced to flee once more.  This happened again and again, till at last in the whole country there was not a village which would receive them, and one night they were obliged to take refuge in a barn, for Elisinde was expecting the birth of her child.  That night their child was born, a beautiful little boy, and an hour afterwards Elisinde smiled and died.

“All that night the villagers heard from afar a piteous wailing music, infinitely sad and beautiful, and those that heard it shuddered and crossed themselves.

“The next day the villagers sought the barn, for they had resolved to drown the sorcerer; but he was not there.  All they found was the dead body of Elisinde, and a little baby lying on some straw.  The body of Elisinde was covered with roses.  And this was strange, for it was midwinter.  The fiddler had disappeared and was never heard of again, and an old wood-cutter, who was too old to know any better, took charge of the baby.

“I will tell you what happened to it another day.”

* * * * *

“We wish to hear the end of your story,” said the ex-Prime Minister to the flute-player.

“Yes,” said the scholar, “and I want to know who the fiddler was.”

This conversation took place at the Green Tower two weeks after the gathering I have already described.  The same people were present; but there was another guest, namely, the musician, who, unlike the flute-player, was not an amateur.