“It is a fool’s trick,” answered the stranger at last, “to put off what you must do at last. If I had but the time, I would pay you for your tune with a better one than you ever heard.” “Take the harp, then, boor!” said the minstrel, with a laugh and a jest. The stranger took it, and drew from it such music as made all heads turn toward him at once. Then he began to sing, sometimes by himself, and sometimes his comrades, “_more Girviorum tripliciter canentes_” joined their voices in a three-man-glee. In vain the minstrel, jealous for his own credit, tried to snatch the harp away. The stranger sang on, till all hearts were softened; and the Princess, taking the rich shawl from her shoulders, threw it over those of the stranger, saying that it was a gift too poor for such a scald. “Scald!” roared the bridegroom (now well in his cups) from the head of the table; “ask what thou wilt, short of my bride and my kingdom, and it is thine.” “Give me, then, Hannibal Grylls, King of Marazion, the Danes who came from Ranald, of Waterford.” “You shall have them! Pity that you have asked for nothing better than such tarry ruffians!” A few minutes after, the minstrel, bursting with jealousy and rage, was whispering in Hannibal’s ear. The hot old Punic [Footnote: Hannibal, still a common name in Cornwall, is held--and not unlikely--to have been introduced there by the ancient Phoenician colonists.] blood flushed up in his cheeks, and his thin Punic lips curved into a snaky smile. Perhaps the old Punic treachery in his heart; for all that he was heard to reply was, “We must not disturb the good-fellowship of a Cornish wedding.” The stranger, nevertheless, and the Princess likewise, had seen that bitter smile. Men drank hard and long that night; and when daylight came, the strangers were gone. In the morning the marriage ceremony was performed; and then began the pageant of leading home the bride. The minstrels went first, harping and piping; then King Hannibal, carrying his bride behind him on a pillion; and after them a string of servants and men-at-arms, leading country ponies laden with the bride’s dower. Along with them, unarmed, sulky, and suspicious, walked the forty Danes, who were informed that they should go to Marazion, and there be shipped off for Ireland. Now, as all men know, those parts of Cornwall, flat and open furze-downs aloft, are cut, for many miles inland, by long branches of tide river, walled in by woods and rocks, which rivers join at last in the great basin of Falmouth harbor; and by crossing one or more of these, the bridal party would save many a mile on their road towards the west.