Irma drank some of the water of the mountain spring. It seemed like a healing dew, whose influence was diffused through her whole frame.
The grandmother led her back to her room and said: "You've still got the shirt on that you wore at the palace. You'll never stop thinking of that place till you've burned that shirt."
The old woman would listen to no denial, and Irma was as docile as a little child. The grandmother hurried to get a coarse shirt for her and, after Irma had put it on, brought wood and a light, and burnt the other at the open fire. Irma was also obliged to cut off her long nails and throw them into the fire. Then Beate disappeared for a few moments, and returned with Irma's riding-habit. "You must have been shot; for there are balls in this," said she, spreading out the long, blue habit.
A smile passed over Irma's face, as she felt the balls that had been sewed into the lower part of the habit, so that it might hang more gracefully. Beate had also brought something very useful--a deerskin.
"Hansei sends you this," said she. "He thinks that maybe you're used to having something soft for your feet to rest on. He shot the deer himself."
Irma appreciated the kindness of the man who could show such affection to one who was both a stranger and a mystery to him.
The grandmother remained at Irma's bedside until she fell asleep. Then she breathed thrice on the sleeper and left the room.
It was late at night when Irma awoke.
"To the king! to the king! to the king!" The words had been uttered thrice in a loud voice. Was it hers, or that of the man overhead? Irma pressed her hand to her forehead and felt the bandage. Was it sea grass that had gathered there? Was she lying alive at the bottom of the lake? Gradually all that had happened became clear to her.
Alone, in the dark and silent night, she wept. And these were the first tears she had shed since the terrible events through which she had passed.