“The Washer of the Ford.”
But hereat Torcall Dall gave a sore cry and snatched his hand away, and fled sidelong into an alley of the wood.
It was moonshine when he lay down, weary. The sound of flowing water filled his ears.
“Come,” said a voice.
So he rose and went. When the cold breath of the water was upon his face, the guide that led him put a fruit into his hand.
“Eat, Torcall Dall!”
He ate. He was no more Torcall Dall. His sight was upon him again. Out of the blackness shadows came; out of the shadows, the great boughs of trees; from the boughs, dark branches and dark clusters of leaves; above the branches, white stars; below the branches, white flowers; and beyond these, the moonshine on the grass and the moonfire on the flowing of a river dark and deep.
“Take your harp, O Harper, and sing the song of what you see.”
Torcall heard the voice, but saw no one. No shadow moved. Then he walked out upon the moonlit grass; and at the ford he saw a woman stooping and washing shroud after shroud of woven sunbeams: washing them there in the flowing water, and singing a low song that he did not hear. He did not see her face. But she was young, and with long black hair that fell like the shadow of night over a white rock.
So Torcall took his harp, and he sang: