But it is not the loveliness of the spot which fascinates the prince; rather is it the exquisite creature who sits by the bubbling spring, a reed from a hand-loom in her hands, from which she strikes mournful sounds, the while she raises her voice in song.

A pink scarf and a blue ribbon are crossed upon her breast, her dark tresses kiss her lovely neck, and as she sits on the only dry stone, her face raised as if in wrapt communion with the heavens, and her feet tucked beneath her to avoid the mud, she seems not a human being, but the very spirit of the place and hour.

The royal wanderer remains spellbound, while she strikes her lyre and sings (with but one trivial alteration) the song of MacMurrough:-- Awake on your hills, on your islands awake, Brave sons of the mountains, the frith and the lake! 'Tis the bugle--but not for the chase is the call; 'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons--but not to the hall.
'Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death, When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath; They call to the dirk, the claymore and the targe, To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.
Be the brand of each Chieftain like Stroke's in his ire! May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire! Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore, Or die like your sires, and endure it no more.
As the fair singer concluded, Stroke, who had been deeply moved, heaved a great sigh, and immediately, as if in echo of it, came a sigh from the opposite side of the dell.

In a second of time three people had learned that a certain lady had two lovers.

She starts to her feet, still carefully avoiding the puddles, but it is not she who speaks.
("Did you hear me ?") ("Ay.") ("You're ready ?") ("Ca' awa'.") Stroke dashes to the girl's side, just in time to pluck her from the arms of a masked man.