But in the pretty village of Rucar, at the foot of the Bucegi, there dwelt a beautiful maiden, named Jalomitza, who had been rash enough to say that she engaged never to follow the enchanter, no matter in what shape he might appear before her, or with what promises he might try to entice her.
“And though he should even drag me into his cave,” she said, “I would still get forth again.”
This was a very daring speech, and the old folks shook their heads at it, and shrugged their shoulders, saying: “If he were really to come, she would yet go with him gladly, just like all the others.”
A short time passed, during which no one appeared, and nothing happened, to try the young girl’s courage. She was a joy for all men to look upon, with her red cheeks, her fresh, cool lips, her waving auburn hair, and her great blue eyes. Her nose was delicately cut, with transparent nostrils, only the tip had just a little impudent, upward turn. Her throat rose snow-white from her richly embroidered shift, and upon her forehead, temples, and neck the pretty reddish locks curled in wild abundance, escaping from the plaits and rebelliously defying all the efforts of the comb. When Jalomitza loosened her plaits she was as though clothed from head to foot in a golden mantle, of which she could not see the half in her little mirror when she was decking herself on a Sunday for the Hora.
There was one in the village who was for ever running after her, to the well, in the fields, and at the dance. But she did not care to have much to do with poor Coman, and yet he was a fine lad, and rich. He owned broad meadows, with horses, cows, buffaloes, and sheep, and wore a fine, embroidered white leather jerkin, and a long white cloak lined with red, and richly adorned with gold and coloured threads. Many a maiden looked round after Coman, but Jalomitza never did. She thought only of the enchanter Bucur, and of how she would strive with him and avenge all the poor maidens who had fallen into his clutches.
One beautiful Sunday afternoon, when the heated dancers were standing still to rest for a moment, there was heard close by the sweetest sound of flute-playing—so sweet that every heart in that gay young throng beat high with delight. All turned curiously to see who the player was, and there stood a handsome young shepherd, leaning against a tree, with his feet crossed, as quietly as though he had been there for ever—and yet no one had seen him come, and no one knew him. He played on and on, as if he were alone in the world; only once he raised his eyes and looked at Jalomitza, who had drawn quite near, and was listening to those heavenly melodies with parted lips and quivering nostrils.
After a while he looked at her again, and presently a third time.
Then Coman whispered to her from behind: “Come away, Jalomitza; yon is an impudent fellow!”
An impatient motion of the girl’s shoulders and elbows was the only reply.