"It is a delusion of the Evil One," said the parson; "there is not a
sound in the air but the distant croaking of some frogs." But when he
too touched the ring, he perceived his mistake.
At this moment the moon shone out, and in the middle of the ring they
saw Limping Tim the fiddler, playing till great drops stood out on his
forehead, and dancing as madly as he played.
"Ah, you rascal!" cried the judge. "Is this where you've been all the
time, and a better man than you as good as hanged for you? But you
shall come home now."
Saying which, he ran in, and seized the fiddler by the arm, but
Limping Tim resisted so stoutly that the sheriff had to go to the
judge's assistance, and even then the fairies so pinched and hindered
them that the sheriff was obliged to call upon the gaoler to put his
arms about his waist, who persuaded the chaplain to add his strength
to the string. But as ill luck would have it, just as they were
getting off, one of the fairies picked up Limping Tim's fiddle, which
had fallen in the scuffle, and began to play. And as he began to play,
every one began to dance--the fiddler, and the judge, and the sheriff,
and the gaoler, and even the chaplain.
"Hangman! hangman!" screamed the judge, as he lifted first one leg and
then the other to the tune, "come down, and catch hold of his
reverence the chaplain. The prisoner is pardoned, and he can lay hold
too."
The hangman knew the judge's voice, and ran towards it; but as they
were now quite within the ring he could see nothing, either of him or
his companions.
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