Pengrych gazed into the still waters, beyond his own reflection, and there he saw the most beautiful young woman dancing gracefully before him.  Gradually, the image began to recede and fade.  The enraptured youth plunged into the lake waters but to no avail: The beauty vanished.  The now bedraggled Pengrych tried to question the old woman, but she only revealed that the girl was her daughter before she too vanished.

A desperate plan.  Day after day, Pengrych returned to the same place in hope of catching sight of the girl.  His thoughts were only of her.  His vanity was now completely forgotten.  He grew more and more disconsolate.  Then one day the old woman reappeared.  Pengrych swore he’d do anything, if he were only allowed to see her daughter once more.  Finally the old woman was moved by his sincere pleas and said, “It is well.”  Then she led him into the dark hills above the lake and pointed to an old and ruined druidic circle.

“Curlyhead, hast thou heard of yon fearful spot? ” asked the woman.  “There the unearthly be.  It has been five hundred years since that circle of ghastly stone imprisoned my hopes, my joy—do not interrupt—I was maddened by the dark arts.  The sprites captured my daughter for a sacrifice to their god.  White-robed priests led her away, a crown of hope upon her brow, to the stone of sacrifice. But then, at the moment of sacrifice, a thunderbolt and earthquake smashed the circle.  Oh, such ghastly shrieks of despair, such howls of agony.  The stones of the temple were broken, all save the altar stone—now empty—where they had laid my child.

“Since that time, some secret influence leads me every third night to the sacred ring.  There, in the ruins of the circle, I see my child: happy, blooming, dancing gaily with beings who are not the sons of men.  But I must reveal no more.”

“I will rescue the maiden,” declared Pengrych.

“Vain boy.  Braggart,” the old one sniffed.

“By the beard of my father,” swore Pengrych, “I will rescue this maiden from her captors.”

“Humph!” said the old one skeptically.  “But this night, perchance, it may be done—if brawny fist can affect aught, and if there be brains enough behind that frazzled scalp.”