It seemed as though Zenza would never get done thanking them. She was in great good-humor, and asked permission to see the prince; but Walpurga refused it and well knew why; for, at home, Zenza was regarded as a witch and, even if it were mere superstition, thought Walpurga, who can know what might happen? She had already become so politic that she availed herself, as an excuse, of the doctor's order that no stranger should be allowed near the person of the crown prince.
Zenza now told them how great a commotion Walpurga's sudden departure had created in their neighborhood. Ever since, the people would talk of nothing else. The folks were all late at church on Sunday, because they had stopped before Walpurga's house and stared at it as if there was something new to be seen, and Hansei had been obliged to show his cow to half the congregation, as if there was something strange about it. But the thoughts of all were of Walpurga; and she also said that it was well known that Walpurga's influence had secured Stasi's betrothed his position as ranger. In spite of Walpurga's protestations that she knew nothing of it, Zenza insisted on her story, and praised her the more for her modesty.
The time passed quickly.
Countess Irma, her face radiant with joy, brought the king's letter of pardon.
Zenza would have fallen on her knees to her and kissed her feet, but Irma held her up and said:
"I've something more for you: take this, so that, besides being free, you may be able to get some pleasure."
She gave her a gold piece.
Old Zenza's eyes sparkled, while she said:
"If the gracious princess should ever want any one who'd go through fire and water to serve her, she need only think of Zenza and Thomas."
She would have said much more, but Walpurga said: