"Look at her," says my friend.
The scales fall from my eyes.
"That is Lisbeth," I cried out in delight, "who is going to the mayor's farm."
Scarcely have I mentioned that farm but a fragrance of roasting meat rises up to me. Clouds of smoke roll toward me, dim flames quiver up from it. There is a sound of roasting and frying and the seething fat spurts high. No wonder; there's going to be a wedding. "Would you like to see the executioner's sword?" my friend asks.
A mysterious shudder runs down my limbs.
"I'd like to well enough," I say fearfully.
A rustle, a soft metallic rattle—and we are in a small, bare chamber…. Now it is night again and the moonlight dances on the rough board walls.
"Look there," whispers my friend and points to a plump old chest.
Her laughing face has grown severe and solemn. Her body seems to have grown. Noble and lordly as a judge she stands before me.
I stretch my neck; I peer at the chest.