Donal read the ballad of Kemp Owen.
“I think—I think—I don’t think I understand it,” said Ginevra. “It is very dreadful, and—and—I don’t know what to think. Tell me about it, Donal.—Do you know what it means, Nicie?”
“No ae glimp, missie,” answered Nicie.
Donal proceeded at once to an exposition. He told them that the serpent was a lady, enchanted by a wicked witch, who, after she had changed her, twisted her three times round the tree, so that she could not undo herself, and laid the spell upon her that she should never have the shape of a woman, until a knight kissed her as often as she was twisted round the tree. Then, when the knight did come, at every kiss a coil of her body unwound itself, until, at the last kiss, she stood before him the beautiful lady she really was.
“What a good, kind, brave knight!” said Ginevra.
“But it’s no true, ye ken, missie,” said Nicie, anxious that she should not be misled. “It’s naething but Donal’s nonsense.”
“Nonsense here, nonsense there!” said Donal, “I see a heap o’ sense intil ’t. But nonsense or no, Nicie, its nane o’ my nonsense: I wuss it war. It’s hun’ers o’ years auld, that ballant, I s’ warran’.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Ginevra, with decision and dignity. “I hope he married the lady, and they lived happy ever after.”
“I dinna ken, mem. The man ’at made the ballant, I daursay, thoucht him weel payed gien the bonnie leddy said thank ye till him.”
“Oh! but, Donal, that wouldn’t be enough!—Would it, Nicie?”