Once upon a time when trees were bursting into leaf, this district was full of sheep. Flock after flock passed through, handled by sturdy shepherds, well known in their own neighbourhood. Then one spring-tide a stranger showed his face, beautiful as a god, wearing upon his shoulders a cloak as white as snow. Everyone wondered, “Who may he be, and from where does he come?”

Many tales passed round until the mystery began to unravel itself. In the valley of the Tempe, so runs the story, where he had wandered with the sheep, he fell in love with the beautiful Virghea. Mad with love, when the family made the winter-move, he followed her to the mountains. He came with a comrade and wandered about till he settled his sheep-fold here, in these parts.

Ah! Where had the fame of this Virghea of Gramuste not reached! All the beauties of nature seemed to have bestowed some gift upon her. The blue of heaven was the colour of her eyes. The shadow of the woods was the mystery of their liquid depths, and the setting sun was the gold of her soft hair. The springs were the tone of her silvery laugh. Attracted by such charms every youth fell at the feet of Virghea. But she did not care, and only when her eyes rested on the shepherd did her youthful being fill with a burning desire.

Now day after day from the high ground about the sheep-fold could be heard the sound of a flute, and heard in the stillness of the dusk it roused strange longings in the girl's breast. Then she would steal out of the house, and the shepherd himself would come down towards Gramuste.

About this time, there broke loose such a storm as had never been seen before. The peaks began to rattle as though the mountains were changing places, striking each other with noise like thunder. Thus it continued for three days. Only on the fourth day, late in the evening, could the shepherd leave the fold. He had taken only a few steps when a sight met his eyes by the side of the pool! A big fire, and round it a shadowy form. And suddenly the phantom spoke with its hand pointing to the spit which he held above the heap of burning coals. The phantom said, “The heart of the Spirit of Deniscu...”