But the farmer's son would go his own way, and that was with Limping
Tim, and across the downs.
So they started, and the fiddler had his fiddle in his hand, and a
bundle of marketings under his arm, and he sang snatches of strange
songs, the like of which the lad had never heard before. And the moon
drew out their shadows over the short grass till they were as long as
the great stones of Stonehenge.
At last they turned the hill, and the fairy ring looked dark under the
moon, and the farmer's son blessed himself that they were passing it
quietly, when Limping Tim suddenly pulled his cloak from his back, and
handing it to his companion, cried, "Hold this for a moment, will you?
I'm wanted. They're calling for me."
"I hear nothing," said the farmer's son. But before he had got the
words out of his mouth, the fiddler had completely disappeared. He
shouted aloud, but in vain, and had begun to think of proceeding on
his way, when the fiddler's voice cried, "Catch!" and there came,
flying at him from the direction of the fairy ring, the bundle of
marketings which the fiddler had been carrying.
"It's in my way," he then heard the fiddler cry. "Ah, this is dancing!
Come in, my lad, come in!"
But the farmer's son was not totally without prudence, and he took
good care to keep at a safe distance from the fairy ring.
"Come back, Tim! Come back!" he shouted, and, receiving no answer, he
adjured his friend to break the bonds that withheld him, and return to
the right way, as wisely as one man can counsel another.
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