SWANWHITE. Poor little prince!—My mother, too, has gone to God in heaven, and she's an angel now. Sometimes in the nights I see her—do you also see yours?
PRINCE. No-o.
SWANWHITE. And have you got a stepmother?
PRINCE. Not yet. So little time has passed since she was laid to rest.
SWANWHITE. Don't be so sad! There's nothing but will wear away in time, you see. Now I'll give you a flag to gladden you again—Oh, no, that's right—this one I sewed for the young king. But now I'll sew another one for you!—This is the king's, with seven flaming fires—you shall have one with seven red roses on it—but first of all you have to hold this skein of yarn for me. [She takes from the chest a skein of rose-coloured yarn and hands it to the PRINCE] One, two, three, and now you'll see!—Your hands are trembling—that won't do!—Perhaps you want a hair of mine among the yarn?—Pull one yourself!
PRINCE. Oh, no, I couldn't——
SWANWHITE. I'll do it, then, myself. [She pulls a hair from her head and winds it into the ball of yarn] What is your name?
PRINCE. You shouldn't ask.
SWANWHITE. Why not?
PRINCE. The duke has told you—hasn't he?