"What'll you do?" Naggeneen answered; "there's nothing you can do. They'll outwit you, whatever you do."
"But there must be some way. Tell us what to do, Naggeneen," the King pleaded.
"I'll tell you what to do, then," said Naggeneen; "send out your people and let them learn the ways of men. Let them learn to make the iron coaches that go up in the air; let them learn to make the coaches that go on the ground, with the iron ropes; let them learn to talk miles away through iron strings; let them learn to make the bright lights that you see; let them learn to open the rock so that it will not close again; let them learn to cross running water in boats full of iron; let them learn to handle iron and do what they like with it, as if it were only gold, and then, maybe, they'll be able to do all the things that men do."
The fairies were simply cowering away from the King and Naggeneen and shivering and squealing with fright at the talk of handling iron and crossing running water. "Ah, Naggeneen," said the King, "you know we can't do all that. Tell us what we'll do at all."
"There's nothing that you can do," said Naggeneen. "There's only one thing I know you can try, and I think that'll do no good either."
"But what is it?" said the King. "We'll try it, anyway."
"It's not the time to try it yet," Naggeneen answered. "When the time comes I'll tell you."
"Then, Naggeneen," said the King, "give us a tune out of the fiddle."
And Naggeneen took the fiddle and played. But there was no merriment in it now. It was only the breath of sorrow and loss and disappointment that breathed from the shivering strings. The fairies did not dance; they only stood and listened, pale and still. In a few moments the King gave the sign for Naggeneen to stop, and in a minute more the lights were out and the whole palace was as quiet as the hill, before any palace was there.