“That is so,” I whispered with a shudder.
There on the surface of the water were flickering points of fire. They could not come from above, they were not glow-worms, or sparks such as one sees passing over graves.
Ghicu Sina spoke:
“They are reflections, the lights are burning in the pool.”
With the fear that seizes us in the presence of the supernatural, I asked:
“What induced us to stay here?”
“Where else could we stop? There are no sheep-folds in these parts, formerly there were such, but since the death of the Spirit who guarded the mountains, none of them remain.”
After a pause he said slowly:
“You have heard of dead pools?” He stood immersed in thought. “This is a dead pool. I will tell you about it.
“Once upon a time, when the trees were bursting into leaf, this district was full of sheep. Flock after flock passed through, handled by sturdy shepherds, well known in their own neighbourhood. Then one spring-tide a stranger showed his face, beautiful as a god, wearing upon his shoulders a cloak as white as snow. Every one wondered, ‘Who may he be, and whence does he come?’ Many tales passed round until the mystery began to unravel itself. In the valley of the Tempe, so runs the story, whither he had wandered with the sheep, he fell in love with the beautiful Virghea. Mad with love, when the family made the winter-move, he followed her to the mountains; he came with a comrade and wandered about till he settled his sheep-fold here, in these parts.