Wherever they alighted by the way, Hansei would tell the folk at the inn:
"This is my wife: she's been nurse to the crown prince, and now, thank God, we're well to do."
He had become boastful, but Walpurga remained silent in the presence of others. It was only when they were in the wagon that she became talkative. She asked many questions and Hansei had much to relate, but she heard little of what was said. She was forever thinking of her child, which seemed to be dancing on the mountain peaks; just like the moon which stood in the sky in broad daylight, it ever seemed to move along with them.
"And has it blue eyes?" asked she suddenly, while Hansei was giving her a circumstantial account of the cow that was again giving milk.
"I don't know what color the calf's eyes are," said Hansei, laughing.
"Oh, don't think hard of me. I can't think of anything but our child. If we traveled as fast as my thoughts, we'd be home in a twinkling, as tailor Schneck says."
She smiled and checked herself and, soon after, continued: "Oh, how could I ever have stayed away from you so long? It isn't true. I've always been at home and now I'm coming. I'm coming to you, my child. Didn't you hear some one cry, Hansei?" said she, looking round. "I hear some one crying; it sounds like a child."
"Do be quiet. You're enough to frighten one out of his senses."
Walpurga would often look back, for it seemed to her as if she could hear a child crying.
In the city a child was crying, and those who were about it could not quiet it. Their diamonds, their gold, their soldiers, were all of no avail. Behind her and before her, Walpurga heard nothing but the crying of a child.