One day they crossed a dark line of hills, and came out on a wild moorland country, where they had never been before. On the side of the hill they saw a little village, and at once turned towards it, but as they drew near Chrysea said,
“What gloomy place is this? See how dark and miserable it looks.”
“Let us try to cheer it with some music,” said Arasmon, and began to play upon his lute, while Chrysea sang. One by one the villagers came out of their cottages and gathered round them to listen, but Chrysea thought she had never before seen such forlorn-looking people. They were thin and bent, their faces were pale and haggard, also their clothes looked old and threadbare, and in some places were worn into holes. But they crowded about Arasmon and Chrysea, and begged them to go on playing and singing, and as they listened the women shed tears, and the men hid their faces and were silent. When they stopped, the people began to feel in their pockets as if to find some coins, but Arasmon cried,
“Nay, good friends, keep your money for yourselves. You have not too much of it, to judge by your looks. But let us stay with you for tonight, and give us food and lodging, and we shall think ourselves well paid, and will play and sing to you as much as you like.”
“Stay with us as long as you can, stay with us always,” begged the people; and each one entreated to be allowed to receive the strangers and give them the best they had. So Arasmon and Chrysea played and sang to them till they were tired, and at last, when the heavy rain began to fall, they turned towards the village, but as they passed through its narrow streets they thought the place itself looked even sadder than its inmates. The houses were ill-built, and seemed to be almost tumbling down. The streets were uneven and badly kept. In the gardens they saw no flowers, but dank dark weeds. They went into a cottage which the people pointed out to them, and Arasmon lay down by the fire, calling to Chrysea to rest also, as they had walked far, and she must be weary. He soon fell asleep, but Chrysea sat at the door watching the dark clouds as they drifted over the darker houses. Outside the cottage hung a blackbird in a cage, with drooping wings and scanty plumage. It was the only animal they had yet seen in the village, for of cats or dogs or singing-birds there seemed to be none.
When she saw it, Chrysea turned to the woman of the house, who stood beside her, and said,
“Why don’t you let it go? It would be much happier flying about in the sunshine.”
“The sun never shines here,” said the woman sadly. “It could not pierce through the dark clouds which hang over the village. Besides, we do not think of happiness. It is as much as we can do to live.”
“But tell me,” said Chrysea, “what is it that makes you so sad and your village such a dreary place? I have been to many towns in my life, but to none which looked like this.”
“Don’t you know,” said the woman, “that this place is spellbound?”
“Spellbound?” cried Chrysea. “What do you mean?”
The woman turned and pointed towards the moor. “Over yonder,” she said, “dwells a terrible old wizard by whom we are bewitched, and he has a number of little dark elves who are his servants, and these are they who make our village what you see it. You don’t know how sad it is to live here. The elves steal our eggs, and milk, and poultry, so that there is never enough for us to eat, and we are half-starved. They pull down our houses, and undo our work as fast as we do it. They steal our corn when it is standing in sheaves, so that we find nothing but empty husks;” and as she ceased speaking the woman sighed heavily.
“But if they do all this harm,” said Chrysea, “why do not some of you go to the moor and drive them away?”
“It is part of the spell,” said the woman, “that we can neither hear nor see them. I have heard my grandfather say that in the old time this place was no different to others, but one day this terrible old magician came and offered the villagers a great deal of money if they would let him dwell upon the moor; for before that it was covered with golden gorse and heather, and the country folk held all their merrymakings there, but they were tempted with the gold, and sold it, and from that day the elves have tormented us; and as we cannot see them, we cannot get rid of them, but must just bear them as best we may.”
“That is a sad way to speak,” said Chrysea. “Cannot you find out what the spell really is and break it?”
“It is a song,” said the woman, “and every night they sing it afresh. It is said that if anyone could go to the moor between midnight and dawn, and could hear them singing it, and then sing through the tune just as they themselves do, the charm would be broken, and we should be free. But it must be someone who has never taken their money, so we cannot do it, for we can neither see nor hear them.”
“But I have not taken their money,” said Chrysea. “And there is no tune I cannot sing when I have heard it once. So I will go to the moor for you and break the spell.”
“Nay, do not think of such a thing,” cried the woman. “For the elves are most spiteful, and you don’t know what harm they might do to you, even if you set us
