Inside this chariot sits a royally dressed person, who has a noble countenance, and who wears a crown. By his side is a sprightly young maiden, with sparkling black eyes and a merry face. Upon her head is a red velvet cap and plume, from beneath which hang long braids of shining hair. She also wears a velvet jacket, with scarlet facings.
This bright-eyed maiden is Bertha. She has persuaded her father to make inquiries concerning the good King Brondé, and they are now on their way to his kingdom with trains of armed attendants.
Who can describe the raptures of the Lily Queen as she held in her arms one who had, not so very long before, embraced her darling child?—one who could relate all that happened to her after the day when they were parted. Then came endless questions.
Where was Rosebud now? Was she well? Was she sorrowful? Was she in distress? And, above all, could Bertha guide them to her?
No. Not directly. Bertha was ignorant of both the name and the situation of that little village by the shore.
Did she know of Silver Lake?
O yes! Certainly, she knew of Silver Lake.
“Come,” said she, “to the top of yonder hill, which looms so darkly against the sunset brightness.”
All therefore proceeded to the top of this broad hill, and there, far below, they beheld a sheet of water, so smooth, so silvery, and so fair, that it seemed a round piece of silver, just dropped from the sky.