“No, never,” answered Jack.
“Hold your tongue and be reasonable,” said the gipsy, trembling. “What do you want? I’ll do it, whatever it is.”
“But do they never pick out the marks?” continued the parrot. “O Jack! are you sure they never pick out the marks?”
“The marks?” said Jack, considering. “Yes, perhaps they do.”
“Stop!” cried the gipsy, as the old parrot made a peck at the strange letters. “Oh! you’re hurting me. What do you want? I say again, tell me what you want, and you shall have it.”
“We want to get out,” replied the parrot; “you must undo the spell.”
“Then give me my handkerchief,” answered the gipsy, “to bandage my eyes. I dare not say the words with my eyes open. You had no business to steal it. It was woven by human hands, so that nobody can see through it; and if you don’t give it to me, you’ll never get out—no, never!”
“Then,” said the old parrot, tossing his shawl off, “you may have Jack’s handkerchief; it will bandage your eyes just as well. It was woven over the water, as yours was.”
“It won’t do!” cried the gipsy in terror; “give me my own.”
“I tell you,” answered the parrot, “that you shall have Jack’s handkerchief; you can do no harm with that.”