That night the lad stayed awake again and listened, and presently the Troll and the woman began to talk things over again.
“I tell you he’s a dangerous one,” said the woman, “and I’m sure I don’t see how you’re ever to get rid of him.”
“I have a brother,” said the Troll, “and he has a walled-in garden, and in the garden are twelve fierce lions. If we could find some excuse for getting the lad there, they would very quickly tear him to pieces.”
“Then I will find the excuse,” said the woman. “To-morrow I will say that I am very poorly, and that nothing in the world will cure me except a few drops of lions’ milk. Then you must tell about the lions in your brother’s garden, and I’ll beg and entreat him until he’ll agree to go off there to get some for me.”
This plan pleased the Troll, and it was settled between them that as she said so they would do.
The next morning the woman did not get up to cook the breakfast, but lay in bed, moaning.
“What ails you, mother?” asked the lad.
“Oh I’m ill. I’m very ill,” replied the woman.
“I’m sorry for that,” said her son, “but I’m sure I don’t know what would make you better.”
“If I had but a few drops of lions’ milk, that would cure me,” groaned the woman.