Esben got his sack of malt; then he took his little white stick, set himself upon it, and said,
Fly quick, my little stick, Carry me across the stream.
Off went the stick with him, and very soon he was again in the witch’s courtyard. There he emptied out the malt, and next moment came the boar, which had every second bristle of gold and of silver. Esben at once put it into his sack and hurried off before the witch should catch sight of him; but the next moment she came running, and shouted after him, ‘Hey! is that you, Esben?’
‘Ye—e—s!’
‘Is it you that has taken my pretty boar?’
‘Ye—e—s!’
‘It was also you that took my dove?’
‘Ye—e—s!’
‘And it was you that made me kill my eleven daughters?’
‘Ye—e—s!’