So she quietly told her
sweetheart to go back to his father, and learn to forget her; and he went
away very sadly, vowing he would get permission to return and marry her,
or else he would never wed anyone. When he was gone, Ginnifer went out
over the moor among the heather, where she might fight her grief alone,
with only the birds and the flowers to see her weep. She lay on the short
moorland grass among the sweet bog-myrtle and asphodel, until the sun was
setting in a red ball over the hillside. Then, all of a sudden, she heard
a rustling and a whispering like countless leaves blown by an autumn
wind.
"Who is this?" said a voice. "Who dares to lie in our pixie ring?"
"It's a mortal! A mortal!" cried another.
Ginnifer raised her head. All the moor was alive with tiny pixies, whose
green garments were like moving fronds of fern. They crowded eagerly
round her.
"It's Ginnifer!" they said. "Ginnifer who lives in the stone hut on the
moor! Ginnifer who tended the plover with the broken wing, and watered
the harebells that were withering in the burning sun, and who treads so
lightly that the birds don't trouble to fly away from her.
Pages:
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269