“Fortune is as good as red gold, but a new charming story would be better
still,” thought the man; but he could not find it here.
And the sun went down, round and large; the meadow was covered with
vapor. The Moor-woman was at her brewing.
It was evening. He stood alone in his room, and looked out upon the sea,
over the meadow, over moor and coast. The moon shone bright, a mist was
over the meadow, making it look like a great lake; and, indeed, it was once
so, as the legend tells-and in the moonlight the eye realizes these myths.
Then the man thought of what he had been reading in the town, that
William Tell and Holger Danske never really lived, but yet live in popular
story, like the lake yonder, a living evidence for such myths. Yes, Holger
Danske will return again!
As he stood thus and thought, something beat quite strongly against the
window. Was it a bird, a bat or an owl? Those are not let in, even when they
knock. The window flew open of itself, and an old woman looked in at the
man.
“What’s your pleasure?” said he. “Who are you? You’re looking in at the
first floor window. Are you standing on a ladder?”
“You have a four-leaved shamrock in your pocket,” she replied. “Indeed,
you have seven, and one of them is a six-leaved one.”
“Who are you?” asked the man again.
“The Moor-woman,” she replied. “The Moor-woman who brews. I was at
it. The bung was in the cask, but one of the little moor-imps pulled it out in
his mischief, and flung it up into the yard, where it beat against the window;
and now the beer’s running out of the cask, and that won’t do good to
anybody.”
“Pray tell me some more!” said the man.
“Yes, wait a little,” answered the Moor-woman. “I’ve something else to
do just now.” And she was gone.
