“Once, it’s said, there was a young maid. Fair as a dream was her face, with skin white and clear as milk and hair black as midnight, eyes blue as a lake. More than her beauty was the loveliness of her manner, for a form maid was once she. And greater than her manner used to be the glory of her voice. When she sang, the birds stilled to hear and the angels smiled.”
As they climbed the hill, the sea began to sing as backdrop, or so it seemed, to his story.
“Many’s the morning her tune would raise over the hills, and the pleasure of it rivaled the sun,” he continued, and tugged her alongside the path. As they walked on, the breeze turned to wind and danced merrily over sea and rock.
“Well, one day a man came out from the city, down by the shore. He saw this maiden singing in the field; an
