And then ere the last notes had left Othmar’s mouth, she bent forward, and clasped him in her slender arms, and kissed him on the lips while still they were open to sing.
“Goodbye, Othmar,” cried she, “and that will be your last note for many a long year, for surely you will have no need to sing after I am gone,” and at that all the strange folk standing near gave a laugh that was more a chord of music than a laugh. And when her lips touched Othmar’s he quivered all over as a fiddle-string does when the bow is drawn across it; and he gave a cry which was like the sweet sound of a bell.
“Mine, mine!” cried the girl, as he fell back from her frightened. “Now my voice will be the sweetest and best of all, for I have got Othmar’s too. No one will hear Othmar now—Othmar who sang like the birds. And never will he call the birds again, but I can sing as he sang, and all who hear me will think that Othmar sings too. Rejoice, my sisters, sing and rejoice,” but at that moment the dwarf started up crying out—
“The dawn, the dawn, my children; see, the sun, the sun; beware, beware its rays.” Then came a great burst of sound like a chord from all the music folk, followed by a flash of light like lightning, and when it had cleared away, the singing men and girls had gone, and in their places there lay upon the ground all the musical instruments—fiddles, viols, pipes, horns, and cymbals. Othmar stood staring as if he had been turned to stone, and watched as if he were in a dream, while the little man quietly packed the instruments on to the mule, and went away leading it by the bridle as he had come.
“Goodbye, Othmar,” he called back, “goodbye. When you hear my fiddles again, they will be sweeter than ever, for I have added your voice to them.” And he went on his way over the hillside and disappeared beyond the ridge. Othmar ran after him, but he stumbled and fell. He tried to call out, but no voice would come! Tears ran down his cheeks, and he sobbed bitterly, but no sound came with the sobs, and he knew that his voice had left him. The singing girl had stolen it, and he could never sing or cry out again!
The sun was rising high in the heavens. The green lizards, slowworms, frogs and beetles were still ranged around, and gazed at Othmar with their heads wonderingly on one side. The birds sang louder and louder, and their voices sounded sweet in the morning air. Othmar bent his head and wept because he knew that never could he call them to him again. Then from behind a bush there rose a big black raven, who cast a long shadow behind him which almost covered Othmar as he sat, and it gave a deep croak and then spoke quite clearly—
“Poor Othmar!” it said, “she has stolen your voice!” and he hopped down. “You will never speak nor sing again. Poor Othmar!—ah! they stole my voice too; once I could sing far better than the birds you hear now. That was thousands of years ago, but the dwarf came to my nest, and told me if I would go with him he would teach me how to whistle so that the worms should rise out of the ground and jump into my mouth when they heard me, and he called one of his trumpet-men to teach me—one you saw dance—and he bid me lay my beak below his lips while he sang; then he stole my voice, all but a croak, which he did not want because it was so harsh, but all your voice was sweet, therefore she has got it all—poor Othmar, poor Othmar!”
Then Othmar raised himself, with the tears running from his eyes, and turned to find his way back to the village. It seemed a long distance, for he missed his path, and it was near nightfall before he saw the tops of the cottages and his own little home; but as he neared the village, he could see Hulda standing in the road, shading her eyes from the sun, and watching the way he came.
“Othmar,” she cried when she saw him, “is it you? I have been to search for you far and near, and there are others now looking for you, for we were afraid lest you had fallen down some crevice, or slipped over the rocks.”
Othmar came up to her, and put out his hand, and she saw how pale he was, and that his eyes were full of tears, but he said nothing.
“Othmar, tell me,” cried Hulda; “what has happened? why don’t you speak?” but still Othmar was silent. “Are you hurt, Othmar? Did the dwarf do you any harm?”
Then Othmar flung himself on the ground, and began to sob, but his sobs gave no sound, though the ground was wet with his tears, and Hulda knew that Othmar was dumb.
“Poor Othmar, poor Othmar!” croaked the raven who had kept close to Othmar, and flew overhead, but Hulda did not understand it, only she wept to see his grief.
“Never fear, Othmar,” she said tenderly, “your voice will soon come back; it was the long cold night, and the fear that has driven it away. Come home with me, and let me nurse you, and you shall soon be well.”
Othmar shook his head, and the tears fell from his eyes, but he let her take his hand and lead him into the village where his old mother sat and waited for him; but still, although she sprang forward to greet him, and put her arms around his neck, he could not speak, and his deep sobs gave no sound. At first the villagers said he was ill, and soon he would be well again, but
