The prime-minister sat down beside her. “Why do you cry?” said he.
“Because I am afraid of you,” said she.
“And why are you afraid of me?” said he.
“Because of that piece of blue glass. You will rub it again, and then that great red monster will come again to frighten me.”
“I will rub it no more,” said he.
“Oh, but you will,” said she; “I know you will.”
“I will not,” said he.
“But I can’t trust you,” said she “as long as you hold it in your hand.”
“Then I will lay it aside,” said he, and so he did. Yes, he did; and he is not the first man who has thrown aside a piece of good luck for the sake of a pretty face. “Now are you afraid of me?” said he.
“No, I am not,” said she; and she reached out her hand as though to give it to him. But, instead of doing so, she snatched up the piece of blue glass as quick as a flash.