But this the princess could not endure, for she had never yet seen a man whom she was willing to marry. Nevertheless, she feared her father’s anger, for she knew that he always kept his word; so that very night she slipped down the back stairs of the palace, opened the back door, and ran away out into the wide world.
She wandered for many days, over mountain and moor, through fen and through forest, until she came to a fair city. Here all the bells were ringing, and the people shouting and flinging caps into the air; for their old king was dead, and they were just about to crown a new one. The new king was a stranger, who had come to the town only the day before; but as soon as he heard of the old monarch’s death, he told the people that he was a king himself, and as he happened to be without a kingdom at that moment, he would be quite willing to rule over them. The people joyfully assented, for the late king had left no heir; and now all the preparations had been completed. The crown had been polished up, and a new tip put on the sceptre, as the old king had quite spoiled it by poking the fire with it for upwards of forty years.
When the people saw the beautiful princess, they welcomed her with many bows, and insisted on leading her before the new king.
“Who knows but that they may be related?” said everybody. “They both came from the same direction, and both are strangers.”
Accordingly the princess was led to the market-place, where the king was sitting in royal state. He had a fat, red, shining face, and did not look like the kings whom she had been in the habit of seeing; but nevertheless the princess made a graceful courtesy, and then waited to hear what he would say.
The new king seemed rather embarrassed when he saw that it was a princess who appeared before him; but he smiled graciously, and said, in a smooth oily voice,—
“I trust your ’Ighness is quite well. And ’ow did yer ’Ighness leave yer pa and ma?”
At these words the princess raised her head and looked fixedly at the red-faced king; then she replied, with scornful distinctness,—