Legend Land, Vol. 1 | Page 7

bind it with. But as soon
as he started on his work the winds or the waves destroyed it, and the

luckless creature's roars of anger so disturbed the countryside that the
holy St. Petroc was prevailed upon to move him once more, to a wilder
part of the country, and the saint took him to the coast near Helston.
Here Tregeagle was set to the task of carrying all the sand from the
beach below Bareppa across the estuary of the Looe river to Porthleven,
for St. Petroc knew that each tide would sweep the sand back again and
the task could never be completed. But the demons were always
watching Tregeagle, and one of them contrived one day to trip him up
as he was wading across the river. The sand poured from the huge sack
Tregeagle was carrying and dammed up the stream, thus forming the
Looe Pool, which you may see to-day just by Helston, and the Looe
Bar, which separates it from the sea.
Tregeagle's next task he is engaged upon to-day. He was taken to near
the Land's End, and there he is still endeavouring to sweep the sand
from Porthcurnow Cove round the headland of Tol-Peden-Penwith into
Nanjisal Bay, and on many a winter night if you are there you can hear
him howling and roaring at the hopelessness of his task.
These scenes of Tregeagle's labours are all situated amid most glorious
scenery. Dozmary Pool, bleak and lonely amid the Bodmin Moors, the
little chapel on the Roche Rock near St. Austell, and the beautiful Looe
Pool by Helston, that attractive little town on a hillside, which is the
tourist centre for that country full of colour, deep sheltered valleys, and
magnificent coast scenery, the Lizard peninsula.
Porthcurnow, the miserable man's present abode, you will find nestling
amid the grim cliffs near the Land's End. And if you doubt this sad
history of the demon-ridden Tregeagle, go and look at the Looe Bar and
explain if you can how otherwise so strange a place could have been
created.
[Illustration: The Roche Rocks]
[Illustration]

THE LADY OF LLYN-Y-FAN FACH
Not many miles from Llandovery, in the midst of glorious mountain
scenery, is a lovely little lake known as Llyn-y-Fan-Fach, the scene of a
very remarkable occurrence. Once upon a time a simple cowherd,
eating his frugal meal by the edge of the water, observed with
amazement, seated upon the calm surface of the lake, the most beautiful
woman he had ever seen. So great was his admiration for her that he
cried out, and she, turning to him, gave a rapturous smile and silently
disappeared beneath the waters.
The peasant was distracted, for he had fallen deeply in love with the
beautiful lady. He waited until dark, but she did not appear again; but at
daybreak the next morning he returned once more, and was again
rewarded by the sight of his enchantress and another of her alluring
smiles.
Several times more he saw her and each time he besought her to be his
wife, but she only smiled and disappeared, until at length one evening,
just as the sun was setting, the beautiful lady appeared, and this time,
instead of diving beneath the surface, she came to the shore, and, after
some persuasion, consented to marry the youth. But she made one
condition: if ever he should strike her three blows without cause she
would leave him, she said, and their marriage would be at an end.
So the two were married happily and went to live at Esgair Laethdy,
near Myddfai, the maiden bringing with her as dowry a large number of
cattle and horses which she called up from the bottom of the lake.
For years the couple lived in great prosperity and happiness, and three
handsome sons were born to them; then the day arrived when husband
and wife were setting out for a christening, and, being rather late, the
husband slapped his wife merrily on the shoulder, urging her to hurry.
Sadly she reminded him that he had struck her the first of the causeless
blows.
Years passed by, and the couple were at a wedding. In the midst of all
the merry-making the wife burst suddenly into tears. Patting her

sympathetically on the arm, the man inquired the cause of her weeping,
and she, sobbing the harder, reminded him that he had struck her a
second time.
Now that he had only one chance left, the husband was particularly
careful never to forget and strike the third and last blow; but, after a
long while, at a funeral one day, while all were sobbing and weeping,
the beautiful lady suddenly began laughing merrily. Touching her
gently to quiet her, the husband realised that the end had come.
"The last blow