One firm, strong hand held the bridle of his horse, with the other he pointed, his whip held fast, through the fog towards the dim outline of the great old mountain of Dornburg.
When he spoke it was in French. Bettina could not understand him, but Hans, who, like most Germans of that day, spoke both languages, heard him say:
"Those Prussians have left the heights. They were afraid," then, with a laugh of scorn, he interrupted himself, "afraid of the night," he continued, "and have descended to sleep in the valley. They believe that we shall not take advantage of their slumber." Again he laughed, and so disagreeably that Bettina shivered; "but they are dreadfully mistaken, those old wigs!"
Laughter joined with his, and two horses appeared in his rear and the torches revealed their riders to be French Marshals in uniform.
But the Postmaster was silent, his face darkening.
As for Hans, he muttered under his breath to Bettina:
"Ach Himmel, but hear him. He calls the generals of Frederick the Great, 'old wigs.'"
"Grandfather," Bettina pulled at him to bend down and listen, "is it the Erl King? Will he get me?"
"The Erl King?" The old man was completely puzzled. "The one on the white horse, child, you mean? That, my Bettina, is the Emperor!"
The Emperor! Oh, Heavens! Then, indeed, did Bettina wish that she was home with her mother. Better the Erl King, better the old witch who got Hans and Gretel, better any number of cruel step-mothers: better all the witches, giants and ogres than the dreadful monster everyone called "The Emperor!"