"Swain, swain!" she hissed.
"I had to bind up my kirtle to-day behind," said she, "so we couldn't go dancing the Halling-fling3 together on the green sward. But the homestead in the Blue Mountains is my lawful property, and tell the old man that it was madcap Gyri thou wast running after to-day, because thou art so madly fond of dancing jigs and hallings."
Then she clapped her hands aloud, and straightway was full of fear lest she should have awakened the old man.
And she was gone.
But the lad sat inside there, and thought it all over, and looked up at the thin pale summer moon, and he thought that never in his whole life had he been in such evil case.
From time to time he heard something moving, scraping, and snorting against the wall outside. It was the old fellow who lay there and kept watch over him.
"Thou, swain, thou," said another voice at the peep-hole.
It was she who had planted herself so firmly on the rock with such sturdy hips and such a masterful voice.
"For these three hundred years have I been blowing the langelur4 here in the summer evenings far and wide, but never has it drawn any one westward hither into the Blue Mountains. And let me tell thee that we are all homeless and houseless, and all thou seest here is but glitter and glamour. Many a man has been befooled hither time out of mind. But I won't have the other lasses married before me. And rather than that any one of them should get thee, I'll free thee from the mountains. Mark me, now! When the sun is hot and high the old man will get frightened and crawl into his corner. Then look to thyself. Shove hard against the door of the hayloft, and hasten to get thee over the fence, and thou wilt be rid of us."
The drummer was not slow to follow this counsel. He crept out the moment the sun began to burn, and cleared the fence with one good bound.