“Dear blackbird,” said Arasmon, looking up to it, “I wish your singing could tell me where to find my wife Chrysea;” and as he looked up he saw a golden harp hanging upon the branches, and he took it down and ran his fingers over the strings. Never before did harp give forth such music. It was like a woman’s voice, and was most beautiful, but so sad that when Arasmon heard it he felt inclined to cry. It seemed to be calling for help, but he could not understand what it said, though each time he touched the strings it cried, “Arasmon, Arasmon, I am here! It is I, Chrysea;” but though Arasmon listened, and wondered at its tones, yet he did not know what it said.
He examined it carefully. It was a beautiful little harp, made of pure gold, and at the top was a pair of golden hands and arms clasped together.
“I will keep it,” said Arasmon, “for I never yet heard a harp with such a tone, and when Chrysea comes she shall sing to it.”
But Chrysea was nowhere to be found, and at last the villagers declared she must be lost, or herself have gone away on purpose, and that it was vain to seek her farther. At this Arasmon was angry, and saying that he would seek Chrysea as long as he had life, he left the village to wander over the whole world till he should find her. He went on foot, and took with him the golden harp.
He walked for many, many miles far away from the village and the moor, and when he came to any farmhouses, or met any country people on the road he began to play, and everyone thronged round him and stared, in breathless surprise at his beautiful music. When he had done he would ask them, “Have you seen my wife Chrysea? She is dressed in white and gold, and sings more sweetly than any of the birds of heaven.”
But all shook their heads and said, “No, she had not been there;” and whenever he came to a strange village, where he had not been before, he called, “Chrysea, Chrysea, are you here?” but no Chrysea answered, only the harp in his hands cried whenever he touched its strings, “It is I, Arasmon! It is I, Chrysea!” but though he thought its notes like Chrysea’s voice, he never understood them.
He wandered for days and months and years through countries and villages which he had never known before. When night came and he found himself in the fields alone, he would lie down upon his cloak and sleep with his head resting upon the harp, and if by chance one of its golden threads was touched it would cry, “Arasmon, awake, I am here!” Then he would dream that Chrysea was calling him, and would wake and start up to look for her, thinking she must be close at hand.
One day, towards night, when he had walked far, and was very tired, he came to a little village on a lonely, rocky coast by the sea, and he found that a thick mist had come up, and hung over the village, so that he could barely see the path before him as he walked. But he found his way down on to the beach, and there stood a number of fisherwomen, trying to look through the mist towards the sea, and speaking anxiously.
“What is wrong, and for whom are you watching, good folk?” he asked them.
“We are watching for our husbands,” answered one. “They went out in their boats fishing in the early morning, when it was quite light, and then arose this dreadful fog, and they should have come back long ago, and we fear lest they may lose their way in the darkness and strike on a rock and be drowned.”
“I too, have lost my wife Chrysea,” cried Arasmon. “Has she passed by here? She had long golden hair, and her gown was white and gold, and she sang with a voice like an angel’s.”
The women all said, “No, they had not seen her;” but still they strained their eyes towards the sea, and Arasmon also began to watch for the return of the boats.
They waited and waited, but they did not come, and every moment the darkness grew thicker and thicker, so that the women could not see each other’s faces, though they stood quite near together.
Then Arasmon took his harp and began to play, and its music floated over the water for miles through the darkness, but the women were weeping so for their husbands, that they did not heed it.
“It is useless to watch,” said one. “They cannot steer their boats in such a darkness. We shall never see them again.”
“I will wait all night till morning,” said another, “and all day next day, and next night, till I see some sign of the boats, and know if they be living or dead,” but as she stopped speaking, there rose a cry of “Here they are,” and two or three fishing-boats were pushed on to the sand close by where they stood, and the women threw their arms round their husbands’ necks, and all shouted for joy.
The fishermen asked who it was who had played the harp; “For,” they said, “it was that which saved us. We were far from land, and it was so dark that we could not tell whether to go to left or to right, and had no sign to guide us to shore; when of a sudden we heard the most beautiful music, and we followed the sound, and came in quite safely.
“ ’Twas this good
