“The jolly harper man secretly expected him, or at least he hoped that he would come out. Like the Queen of Sheba, he wished to test the wisdom of this new Solomon, and to inquire of him if there were no way of turning his wonderful musical genius into bags of gold.
“‘Why do you wander here, my good harper?’ asked the hermit, when the last strain melted away in low, airy echoes over the lake. ‘There are neither lads to dance nor lassies to sing. This hill is my dominion, and the dominion of a hermit is solitude.’
“‘See you not Loch Lomond silvered in the moon?’ said the jolly harper man. ‘Nature inspired me to touch my harp, and I love to play when the inspiration of Nature comes upon me.’
“The answer pleased the hermit as much as the music.
“‘But why is your music so sad, my good harper man; what is there that you would have that fortune denies?’
“‘Alas!’ said the jolly harper man, ‘I am very poor. My harpings all die in the air, and leave me but a scanty purse, poor clothing, and no roof over my head. You are a man of wisdom, to whom all things are clear. Point out to me the way to fortune, my wise hermit. I have a good liberal heart; you could not do a service to a more deserving man.’
“The old hermit sat down on a stone in silence, resting his chin on his staff. He seemed lost in profound thought. At last he looked up, and said slowly, pausing between each sentence,—
“‘Beyond the border there is a famous country; in that country there is a palace; near the palace there is a stable, and in that stable there is a stately horse. That horse is the pride of the kingdom; the man who would get possession of that horse, without the king’s knowledge, might exchange him for a province.’
“‘Wonderful! wonderful! But—’
“‘Near Striveling town there is a hill; on the hillside is a lot; in the lot is a fine gray mare, and beside the gray mare is a foal.’