In crossing the pass between the peaks of VÎrful cu Dor and Furnica, on the other side of the Bucegi, you come upon the Jalomitza river. One of the springs which feed it rises hard by, in a vast stalactite cave, at the entrance of which stands a small cloister. From time immemorial it has always been said that there is no ending to this cave, and that a man who once went in there has never been seen again to this day.

The cave was once inhabited by a terrible enchanter, of whom it was told that he carried off all the fairest maidens round about—carried them off out of the fields, from their parents’ cottages, yes, even from before the marriage-altar. They all followed him, without resistance, but no one ever saw them more. Many a bold youth had sworn to go and free them, and had even marched bravely into the cave and called the enchanter by name: “Bucur! Bucur!” but not one had ever caught a glimpse either of Bucur or of the maidens.

But in the pretty village of Rucar, at the foot of the Bucegi, there dwelt a beautiful maiden, named Jalomitza, who had been rash enough to say that she engaged never to follow the enchanter, no matter in what shape he might appear before her, or with what promises he might try to entice her.

“And though he should even drag me into his cave,” she said, “I would still get forth again.”

This was a very daring speech, and the old folks shook their heads at it, and shrugged their shoulders, saying: “If he were really to come, she would yet go with him gladly, just like all the others.”

A short time passed, during which no one appeared, and nothing happened, to try the young girl’s courage. She was a joy for all men to look upon, with her red cheeks, her fresh, cool lips, her waving auburn hair, and her great blue eyes. Her nose was delicately cut, with transparent nostrils, only the tip had just a little impudent, upward turn. Her throat rose snow-white from her richly embroidered shift, and upon her forehead, temples, and neck the pretty reddish locks curled in wild abundance, escaping from the plaits and rebelliously defying all the efforts of the comb. When Jalomitza loosened her plaits she was as though clothed from head to foot in a golden mantle, of which she could not see the half in her little mirror when she was decking herself on a Sunday for the Hora.

There was one in the village who was for ever running after her, to the well, in the fields, and at the dance. But she did not care to have much to do with poor Coman, and yet he was a fine lad, and rich. He owned broad meadows, with horses, cows, buffaloes, and sheep, and wore a fine, embroidered white leather jerkin, and a long white cloak lined with red, and richly adorned with gold and coloured threads. Many a maiden looked round after Coman, but Jalomitza never did. She thought only of the enchanter Bucur, and of how she would strive with him and avenge all the poor maidens who had fallen into his clutches.

One beautiful Sunday afternoon, when the heated dancers were standing still to rest for a moment, there was heard close by the sweetest sound of flute-playing—so sweet that every heart in that gay young throng beat high with delight. All turned curiously to see who the player was, and there stood a handsome young shepherd, leaning against a tree, with his feet crossed, as quietly as though he had been there for ever—and yet no one had seen him come, and no one knew him. He played on and on, as if he were alone in the world; only once he raised his eyes and looked at Jalomitza, who had drawn quite near, and was listening to those heavenly melodies with parted lips and quivering nostrils.

After a while he looked at her again, and presently a third time.

Then Coman whispered to her from behind: “Come away, Jalomitza; yon is an impudent fellow!”

An impatient motion of the girl’s shoulders and elbows was the only reply.

“Jalomitza!” whispered the jealous lover once more, “art thou not ashamed to let thyself be stared at thus?”

Again she made no answer, but turned her back upon him.

“Jalomitza, I tell thee, yon shepherd is no other than Bucur, the enchanter!”

Just at that moment the shepherd, without leaving off his playing, nodded his head, and Jalomitza’s heart turned cold and her throat dry.

“What dost thou know about it?” she rejoined defiantly, yet her voice trembled a little.

“I know it, I can feel it! I feel it because I love thee—and because I love thee I see, too, that he has taken thy fancy, and that thou wilt fall a prey to him, as all the others have.”

“I! Never—I swear it!” cried Jalomitza, and turned deadly pale.

“Here is my flute; do thou play for us a while,” the shepherd now called out, handing his flute to Coman.

Without knowing what he did, Coman grasped the flute and began to play, and he played more beautifully than he had ever done in his life; but he presently perceived, to his horror, that he could not leave off. He improvised new Horas, such as he had never heard before—Brius, Kindias, he played them all, and could see, as he did so, that the stranger was always dancing with Jalomitza. Then he began to play a Doina, and the air was so passing sad that tears stood in all the women’s eyes, and Jalomitza implored him to stop. But he played on and on, looking round with terror in his glance, for the flute would not be silent. Evening closed in; the people, in twos and threes, began to turn homewards, and still Coman blew upon the flute, and Jalomitza stood beside him as though spell-bound. The strange shepherd had disappeared.

“Leave off, Coman,” said she; “thou art breaking my heart. Thou knowest I do not love thee; but I have sworn to thee never to belong to that other. Leave off, Coman; be sensible!”

But Coman played on, now merrily, as though he would have laughed, and now in so sad and melting a strain, that the nightingale made answer from the depths of the dewy valley. Nearer and nearer drew the nightingale; Jalomitza could see it in the moonlight, how it came and settled above Coman’s head, and sang with the flute. Then it flew off, still uttering its sweet, entrancing note, and Jalomitza followed it the whole night through, without knowing whither she went. Coman too, with his flute, followed the wonderful bird through the dewy valley, along by the edge of the stream.

Morning broke, and Jalomitza smote her hands upon her head in terror: “Where am I? I am far away from home, and this place is strange to me. Coman, where are we? I am affrighted! That bird was Bucur!”

Coman gave no answer, but only played a merry dance. Then a horse came galloping towards them over the meadow, and circled about the maiden, offering her his back to mount, and rubbing his head against her.

“Ah me!” she cried, “I know the dread one again! If I were but a bird and could flee away!”

She had scarcely said this before she was flying away in the shape of a dove, far away into the dewy morning.

But thereupon the horse was changed into a hawk, that shot down upon her from a giddy height, and bore her away in his talons toward the mountains.

“Ah, would I were a flower down in the meadow!” thought the terrified maiden; and the next instant she was growing beside the stream, a blue forget-me-not; but then the hawk became a butterfly, and circled about the flower, settling upon it, and swinging with it to and fro.

“Oh, were I rather a trout in the stream!” thought Jalomitza; and in a moment she became a trout, but the butterfly turned into a net, caught her, and lifted her up into the air, till she was like to die.

“I would I were a lizard!” thought the poor maid as she lay dying in the net; and lo! in the twinkling of an eye she was gliding as quick as thought among the grass and flowers, and fancying she was hidden beneath every stone and leaf. But from under the nearest stone a snake crawled forth, and held her spell-bound beneath his dreadful eyes, so that she could not move. They tarried a long while thus, and the little lizard’s heart beat to bursting against her sides.

“Would I had become a nun! I should have been safe in the cloister!” she thought; and in a moment the lofty dome of a church rose above her head, she saw tapers burning, and heard the voices of many hundreds of nuns re-echoing in a mighty wave of song. Jalomitza knelt, in the guise of a nun, before the picture of one of the saints; her heart was still throbbing with fear, and she rejoiced to think that she was hidden in this sanctuary. She raised her eyes in thanksgiving to the picture above her—and behold! Bucur’s eyes were gazing at her from out its face, and cast such a spell upon her that she could not quit the spot, even when the church grew empty. Night fell; the eyes began to shine and glitter, and Jalomitza’s tears fell ceaselessly down on the stones where she knelt.

“Ah me!” she cried, “even in this holy place I find no rest from thee! Would I were a cloud!” As she spoke the vaulted roof above her changed to the blue vault of heaven, and she was floating as a cloud through its boundless heights. But her persecutor turned into the wind, and hunted her from south to north, and from east to west, over the whole earth.

“I had better have been a grain of sand,” said the little cloud to itself at last. Then it sank to earth, and fell, in the form of a tiny grain of golden sand, into the RÎul Doamnei. But Bucur became a peasant, wading with naked feet in the river to seek for gold, and he fished up the little grain of sand out of the depths. It slipped hastily through his fingers, and turned into a doe, that fled away toward the woodland thickets. But before the doe could reach the shelter of the forest, Bucur became an eagle, shot down upon her from above, and once more bore her off in his talons toward his eyrie in the Bucegi Mountain. Hardly had he loosed his grasp of her before she fell, as a dewdrop, into the cup of a gentian blossom. But he became a sunbeam, and glanced down upon her to drink her up. Then at last, in the shape of a wild goat, she dashed, without knowing whither she went, straight towards his cave. Laughing, he pursued her in the guise of a hunter, and murmured: “I have thee now.” She ran into the cave, ever deeper and deeper, and on a sudden perceived that all the stones round about were beautiful maidens, from whose eyes tears dropped unceasingly down.

“Oh, flee, flee from hence!” a hundred voices called to her. “Thou unhappy maid! If once he kisses thee, thou wilt turn to stone like us!”

At that moment an arrow flew through the whole length of the cave, and struck the little goat as she fled. In deadly anguish she cried: “Oh, would I were a stream! then I could flow away from him.” Instantly she felt herself rushing out of the cave as a foaming mountain torrent; the enchanter uttered a terrible curse, turned into rock, and caught in his arms the little stream, that still kept on ever escaping him. Just then Coman reached the cave, and recognising his Jalomitza by her voice, as she uttered a heartrending cry of “Coman, Coman!” he gathered up all his remaining strength, and hurled his flute against the rock, in the outlines of which he could discern Bucur’s cruel grin. And now the spell was broken. Bucur could no more change his shape again than Jalomitza hers, and so she flows on to this day, away over his stony, immovable arms. But Coman built a little church before the cave, and became a monk, dwelling there in holiness, and gazing upon his fair beloved, unto his life’s end.