The bow ran on and on, and magically called forth one tune after another. Always it was something new, and it was so beautiful that the poor fiddler must have known how little his own skill was worth. And it was this that tortured him worse than the fatigue.
"He who plays upon my violin understands the art. But never in all my born days have I been anything but a bungler. Now for the first time I'm learning how music should sound."
For a few seconds he became so transported by the music that he forgot his evil fate; then he felt how his arm ached from weariness and he was seized anew with despair.
"This violin I cannot lay down until I have played myself to death. I can understand that the Water-Sprite won't be satisfied with less."
He began to weep over himself, but all the while he kept on playing.
"It would have been better for me had I stayed at home in the little cabin with mother. What is all the glory worth if it is to end in this way?"
He sat there hour after hour. Morning came on, the sun rose, and the birds sang all around him; but he played and he played, without intermission.
As it was a Sunday that dawned, he had to sit there by the old mill all alone. No human beings tramped in this part of the forest. They went to church down in the dale, and to the villages along the big highway.
Forenoon came along, and the sun stepped higher and higher in the sky. The birds grew silent, and the wind began to murmur in the long pine needles.
Lars Larsson did not let the summer day's heat deter him. He played and played. At last evening was ushered in, the sun sank, but his bow needed no rest, and his arm continued to move.