IV

When we reached the camping-place on the Carnarvon road we found a

very jolly party. Panuel had had some very successful dealings, and

he was slightly market-merry. He said to Videy, 'Make the tea, Vi,

and let Sinfi hev' hern fust, so that she can play on the Welsh

fiddle while the rest on us are getting ourn. It'll seem jist like

Chester Fair with Jim Burton scrapin' in the dancin' booth to heel

and toe.'

Sinfi soon finished her tea, and began to play some merry dancing

airs, which set Rhona Boswell's limbs twittering till she spilt her

tea in her lap. Then, laughing at the catastrophe, she sprang up

saying, 'I'll dance myself dry,' and began dancing on the sward.

After tea was over the party got too boisterous for Sinfi's taste,

and she said to me, 'Let's slip away, brother, and go up the pathway,

and I'll show you Winnie's favourite place.'

This proposal met my wishes entirely, and under the pretence of going

to look at something on the Carnarvon road we managed to escape from

the party, Sinfi still carrying her crwth and bow. She then led the

way up a slope green with grass and moss. We did not talk till we had

passed the slate quarry.

The evening was so fine and the scene was so lovely that Sinfi's very

body seemed to drink it in and become intoxicated with beauty. After

we had left the slate quarries behind, the panorama became more

entrancing at every yard we walked. Cwellyn Lake and Valley, Moel

Hebog, y Garnedd, the glittering sea, Anglesey, Holyhead Hill, all

seemed to be growing in gold and glory out of masses of sunset mist.

When at last we reached the edge of a steep cliff, with the rocky

forehead of Snowdon in front, and the shining llyns of Cwm y Clogwyn

below, Sinfi stopped.

'This is the place,' said she, sitting down on a mossy mound, 'where

Winnie loved to come and look down.'

After Sinfi and I had sat on this mound for a few minutes, I asked

her to sing and play one or two Welsh airs which I knew to be

especial favourites of hers, and then, with much hesitancy, I asked

her to play and sing the same song or incantation which had become

associated for ever with my first morning on the hills.

'You mean the Welsh dukkerin' gillie,' said Sinfi, looking, with an

expression that might have been either alarm or suspicion, into my

face.

'Yes.'

'You've been a-thinkin' all this while, brother, that I don't know

why you asked me about Winnie's favourite places on Snowdon, and why

you wanted me to take my crwth to the camp. But I've been a-thinkin'

about it, and I know now why you did, and I know why you wants me to

play the Welsh dukkerin' gillie here. It's because you heerd me say

that if I were to play that dukkerin' gillie on Snowdon in the places

she was fond on, I could tell for sartin whether Winnie wur alive or

dead. If she wur alive her livin' mullo 'ud follow the crwth. But I

ain't a-goin' to do it.'

'Why not, Sinfi?'

'Because my mammy used to say it ain't right to make use o' the real

dukkerin' for Gorgios, and I've heerd her say that if them as had the

real dukkerin'--the dukkerin' for the Romanies--used it for the

Gorgios, or if they turned it into a sport and a plaything, it 'ud

leave 'em altogether. And that ain't the wust on it, for when the

real dukkerin' leaves you it turns into a kind of a cuss, and it

brings on the bite of the Romany Sap. [Footnote] Even now, Hal, I

sometimes o' nights feels the bite here of the Romany Sap,' pointing

to her bosom, 'and it's all along o' you, Hal, it's all along o' you,

because I seem to be breaking the promise about Gorgios I made to my

poor mammy.'

[Footnote: The Romany serpent, Conscience.]

'The Romany Sap? You mean the Romany conscience, I suppose, Sinfi:

you mean the trouble a Romany feels when he has broken the Romany

laws, when he has done wrong according to the Romany notions of right

and wrong. But you are innocent of all wrong-doing.'

'I don't know nothin' about conscience,' said she, 'I mean the Romany

Sap. Don't you mind when we was a-goin' up Snowdon arter Winifred

that mornin'? I told you as the rocks, an' the trees, an' the winds,

an' the waters cuss us when we goes ag'in the Romany blood an' ag'in

the dukkerin' dook. The cuss that the rocks, an' the trees, an' the

winds, an' the waters makes, an' sends it out to bite the burk

[Footnote] o' the Romany as does wrong--that's the Romany Sap.'

[Footnote: Breast.]

'You mean conscience, Sinfi.'

'No, I don't mean nothink o' the sort; the Romanies ain't got no

conscience, an' if the Gorgios has, it's precious little good as it

does 'em, as far as I can see. But the Romanies has got the Romany

Sap. Everything wrong as you does, such as killin' a Romany, or

cheatin' a Romany, or playin' the lubbany with a Gorgio, or breakin'

your oath to your mammy as is dead, or goin' ag'in the dukkerin'

dook, an' sich like, every one o' these things turns into the Romany

Sap.'

'You're speaking of conscience, Sinfi.'

'Every one o' them wrong things as you does seems to make out o' the

burk o' the airth a sap o' its own as has got its own pertickler

stare, but allus it's a hungry sap, Hal, an' a sap wi' bloody fangs.

An' it's a sap as follows the bad un's feet, Hal--follows the bad

un's feet wheresomever they goes; it's a sap as goes slippin' thro'

the dews o' the grass on the brightest mornin', an' dodges round the

trees in the sweetest evenin', an' goes wriggle, wriggle across the

brook jis' when you wants to enjoy yourself, jis' when you wants to

stay a bit on the steppin'-stuns to enjoy the sight o' the dear

little minnows a-shootin' atween the water-creases. That's what the

Romany Sap is.'

'Don't talk like that, Sinfi,' I said; 'you make me feel the sap

myself.'

'It's a sap, Hal, as follows you everywheres, everywheres, till you

feel as you must stop an' face it whatever comes; an' stop you do at

last, an' turn round you must, an' bare your burk you must to the

sharp teeth o' that air wenemous sap.'

'Well, and what then, Sinfi?'

'Well then, when you ha' given up to the thing its fill o' your

blood, then the trees, an' the rocks, an' the winds, an' the waters

seem to know, for everythink seems to begin smilin' ag'in, an' you're

let to go on your way till you do somethin' bad ag'in. That's the

Romany Sap, Hal, an' I won't deny as I sometimes feel its bite pretty

hard here' (pointing to her breast) 'when I thinks what I promised my

poor mammy, an' how I kep' my word to her, when I let a Gorgio come

under our tents.' [Footnote]

[Footnote: To prevent misconceptions, it may be well to say that the

paraphrase of Sinfi's description of the 'Romany Sap,' which appeared

in the writer's reminiscences of George Borrow, was written long

after the main portion of the present narrative.]

'You don't mean,' I said, 'that it is a real flesh-and-blood sap, but

a sap that you think you see and feel.'

'Hal,' said Sinfi, 'a Romany's feelin's ain't like a Gorgio's. A

Romany can feel the bite of a sap whether it's made o' flesh an'

blood or not, and the Romany Sap's all the wuss for not bein' a

flesh-and-blood sap, for it's a cuss hatched in the airth; it's

everythink a-cussin' on ye--the airth, an' the sky, an' the dukkerin'

dook.'

Her manner was so solemn, her grand simplicity was so pathetic, that

I felt I could not urge her to do what her conscience told her was

wrong. But soon that which no persuasion of mine would have effected

the grief and disappointment expressed by my face achieved.

'Hal,' she said, 'I sometimes feel as if I'd bear the bite o' all the

Romany saps as ever wur hatched to give you a little comfort.

Besides, it's for a true Romany arter all--it's for myself quite as

much as for you that I'm a-goin' to see whether Winnie is alive or

dead. If she's dead we sha'n't see nothink, and perhaps if she's in

one o' them fits o' hern we sha'n't see nothink; but if she's alive

and herself ag'in, I believe I shall see--p'raps we shall both

see--her livin' mullo.'

She then drew the bow across the crwth. The instrument at first

seemed to chatter with her agitation. I waited in breathless

suspense. At last there came clearly from her crwth the wild air I

had already heard on Snowdon. Then the sound of the instrument ceased

save for the drone of the two bottom strings, and Sinfi's voice leapt

out and I heard the words of what she called the Welsh dukkering

gillie.

As I listened and looked over the wide-stretching panorama before me,

I felt my very flesh answering to every vibration; and when the song

stopped and I suddenly heard Sinfi call out, 'Look, brother!' I felt

that my own being, physical and mental, had passed into a new phase,

and that resistance to some mighty power governing my blood was

impossible.

'Look straight afore you, brother, and you'll see Winnie's face.

She's alive, brother, and the dukkeripen of the Golden Hand will come

true, and mine will come true. Oh, mammy, mammy!'

At first I saw nothing, but after a while two blue eyes seemed gazing

at me as through a veil of evening haze. They were looking straight

at me, those beloved eyes--they were sparkling with childish

happiness as they had sparkled through the vapours of the pool when

she walked towards me that morning on the brink of Knockers' Llyn.

Starting up and throwing up my arms, I cried, 'My darling!' The

vision vanished. Then turning round, I looked at Sinfi. She seemed

listening to a voice I could not hear--her face was pale with

emotion. I could hear her breath coming and going heavily; her bosom

rose and fell, and the necklace of coral and gold coins around her

throat trembled like a shuddering snake while she murmured, 'My

dukkeripen! Yes, mammy, I've gone ag'in you and broke my promise,

and this is the very Gorgio as you meant.'

'Call the vision back,' I said; 'play the air again, dear Sinfi.'

She sprang in front of me, and seizing one of my wrists, she gazed in

my face, and said, 'Yes, it's "dear Sinfi"! You wants dear Sinfi to

fiddle the Gorgie's livin' mullo back to you.'

I looked into the dark eyes, lately so kind. I did not know them.

They were dilated and grown red-brown in hue, like the scorched

colour of a North African lion's mane, and along the eyelashes a

phosphorescent light seemed to play. What did it mean? Was it indeed

Sinfi standing there, rigid as a column, with a clenched brown fist

drawn up to the broad, heaving breast, till the knuckles shone white,

as if about to strike me? What made her throw out her arms as if

struggling desperately with the air, or with some unseen foe who was

binding her with chains?

I stood astounded, watching her, as she gradually calmed down and

became herself again; but I was deeply perplexed and deeply troubled.

After a while she said, 'Let's go back to "the Place,"' and without

waiting for my acquiescence, she strode along down the path towards

Beddgelert.

I was quickly by her side, but felt as little in the mood for talking

as she did. Suddenly a small lizard glided from the grass.

'The Romany Sap!' cried Sinfi, and she--the fearless woman before

whom the stoutest Gypsy men had quailed--sobbed wildly in terror. She

soon recovered herself, and said: 'What a fool you must think me,

Hal! It wur all through talkin' about the Romany Sap. At fust I

thought it wur the Romany Sap itself, an' it wur only a poor little

effet arter all. There ain't a-many things made o' flesh and blood as

can make Sinfi Lovell show the white feather; but I know you'll think

the wuss o' me arter this, Hal. But while the pictur were a-showin' I

heard my dear mammy's whisper: "Little Sinfi, little Sinfi, beware o'

Gorgios! This is the one."'

V

By the time we reached the encampment it was quite dark. Panuel, and

indeed most of the Gypsies, had turned into the tents for the night;

but both Videy Lovell and Rhona Boswell were moving about as briskly

as though the time was early morning, one with guile expressed in

every feature, the other shedding that aura of frankness and sweet

winsomeness which enslaved Percy Aylwin, and no wonder.

Rhona was in a specially playful mood, and came dancing round us more

like a child of six than a young woman with a Romany Rye for a lover.

But neither Sinfi nor I was in the mood for frolic. My living-waggon,

which still went about wherever the Lovells went, had been carefully

prepared for me by Rhona, and I at once went into it, not with the

idea of getting much sleep, but in order to be alone with my

thoughts. What was I to think of my experiences of that evening? Was

I really to take the spectacle that had seemed to fall upon my eyes

when listening to Sinfi's crwth, or rather when listening to her

song, as evidence that Winifred was alive? Oh, if I could, if I

could! Was I really to accept as true this fantastic superstition

about the crwth and the spirits of Snowdon and the 'living mullo'?

That was too monstrous a thought even for me to entertain.

Notwithstanding all that had passed in the long and dire struggle

between my reason and the mysticism inherited with the blood of two

lines of superstitious ancestors, which circumstances had conspired

to foster, my reason had only been baffled and thwarted; it had not

really been slain.

What, then, could be the explanation of the spectacle that had seemed

to fall upon my eyes? 'It is hallucination,' I said, 'and it is the

result of two very powerful causes--my own strong imagination,

excited to a state of feverish exaltation by the long strain of my

suffering, and that power in Sinfi which D'Arcy had described as her

"half-unconscious power as a mesmerist." At a moment when my will,

weakened by sorrow and pain, lay prostrate beneath my own fevered

imagination, Sinfi's voice, so full of intense belief in her own

hallucination, had leapt, as it were, into my consciousness and

enslaved my imagination, which in turn had enslaved my will and my

senses.'

For hours I argued this point with myself, and I ended by coming

to the conclusion that it was 'my mind's eye' alone that saw the

picture of Winifred.

But there was also another question to confront. What was the cause

of Sinfi's astonishing emotion after the vision vanished? Such a

mingling of warring passions I had never seen before. I tried to

account for it. I thought about it for hours, and finally fell

asleep without finding any solution of the enigma.

I had no conversation of a private nature with Sinfi until the next

evening, when the camp was on the move.

'You had no sleep last night, Sinfi; I can see it by the dark circles

round your eyes.'

'That's nuther here nor there, brother,' she said.

I found to my surprise that the Gypsies were preparing to remove the

camp to a place not far from Bettws y Coed. I suggested to Sinfi that

we two should return to the bungalow. But she told me that her stay

there had come to an end. The firmness with which she made this

announcement made me sure that there was no appeal.

'Then,' said I, 'my living-waggon will come into use again. The

camping place is near some of the best trout streams in the

neighbourhood, and I sadly want some trout-fishing.'

'We part company to-day, brother,' she said. 'We can't be pals no

more--never no more.'

'Sister, I will not be parted from you: I shall follow you.'

'Reia--Hal Aylwin--you knows very well that any man, Gorgio or

Romany, as followed Sinfi Lovell when she told him not, 'ud ketch

a body-blow as wouldn't leave him three hull ribs, nor a ounce o'

wind to bless hisself with.'

'But I am now one of the Lovells, and I shall go with you. I am a

Romany myself--I mean I am becoming more and more of a Romany every

day and every hour. The blood of Fenella Stanley is in us both.'

She looked at me, evidently astonished at the earnestness and the

energy of my tone. Indeed at that moment I felt an alien among

Gorgios.

'I am now one of the Lovells,' I said, 'and I shall go with you.'

'We part company to-night, brother, fare ye well,' she said.

As she stood delivering this speech--her head erect, her eyes

flashing angrily at me, her brown fists tightly clenched, I knew that

further resistance would be futile.

'But now I wants to be left alone,' she said.

She bent her head forward in a listening attitude, and I heard her

murmur, 'I knowed it 'ud come ag'in. A Romany sperrit likes to come

up in the evenin' and smell the heather an' see the shinin' stars

come out.'

While she was speaking, she began to move off between the trees. But

she turned, took hold of both my hands, and gazed into my eyes. Then

she moved away again, and I was beginning to follow her. She turned

and said: 'Don't follow me. There ain't no place for ye among the

Romanies. Go the ways o' the Gorgios, Hal Aylwin, an' let Sinfi

Lovell go hern.'

As I leaned against a tree and watched Sinfi striding through the

grass till she passed out of sight, the entire panorama of my life

passed before me.

'She has left me with a blessing after all,' I said; 'my poor Sinfi

has taught me the lesson that he who would fain be cured of the

disease of a wasting sorrow must burn to ashes Memory. He must flee

Memory and never look back.'