' 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 Si