Then the weaver set forth upon his travels, and sought Micheline at every fairy ring and haunted pool, by cairn and by waterfall, but nowhere could he find her. At last one day as he went along the road feeling much disheartened, he thought he recognised the rich trappings of a horse that was cropping the grass by the roadside, and the next moment he caught sight of the prince standing near by.
“Fortune has again brought us together, friend,” said the prince, “therefore let us continue our journey in each other’s company.”
And as they went along they told one another all their adventures. The prince too had been in many lands, but his quest had led him into courts and palaces, where he had been sumptuously feasted; kings and queens had put on their crowns in his honour, but that one crown of strange workmanship he had nowhere found. Presently the two travellers reached the entrance of a narrow, gloomy gorge.
“Let us press on,” counselled the prince, “it may be that on the other side we shall find some shelter for the night, for already it grows dusk.”
But no sooner had they entered the gorge, with steep hillsides to either hand, than the prince’s steed took fright, and reared and threw his rider, and galloped madly back by the way they had come.
“What can have startled the horse?” cried the prince, as he sprang up unhurt.
“Hush,” said the weaver, “listen.” Then, as they stood and listened, a sound of laughter and revelry reached them from within the hillside to their right.
“We have found the way into Fairyland,” cried the weaver, “and I must go and seek Micheline among her own people.”
“Be wary, friend,” cautioned the prince, “for if I am not mistaken the hill fairies have a bad reputation, and have worked harm to wayfarers before now.”
But the weaver would not be dissuaded. “How shall we enter, prince?” he cried, on fire with impatience.