He unsheathes his sword, ready to strike, and, groping, goes into the castle. Quiet and gloom lie over all, only through the windows and chinks the whirlwind whistles.
The knight cries out in anger and in grief: “Ferocious wizard, greedy Zlomár! You have compelled Gromvál to wander over the world, you have stolen Rognyéda, his companion!
“Many a kingdom and land have I passed, have struck down mighty knights and monsters, have vanquished giants with my mighty hand, but have not yet found my beloved Rognyéda!
“Where do you dwell, evil Zlomár? In wild mountain fastnesses, in caves, in forests, in murky underground passages, in the depth of the sea do you hide her from my view?
“If I find your habitation, wicked magician, evil sorcerer, I will drag Rognyéda out of her captivity, I will pull out your black heart from your breast.”
The knight grows silent, and sleep comes over him. Fatigue and night make him a bed. Without taking off his armour, in the breastplate and helmet, he kneels down and falls into a deep sleep.
The clouds hurry away, and the storm dies down, the stars grow dim, the east grows light; the morning star awakes, Zimtsérla blooms like a crimson rose, but Gromvál is still asleep.
The sun rolls over the vault of heaven, at noon glows with its heated rays, and the pitch of the pines waters through the bark, but sleep still keeps Gromvál in its embrace.
The forerunner of the night with olive brow glances from the east upon the forest and fields, and from an urn sprinkles dew upon the sward; but sleep still keeps Gromvál in its embrace.
Night, with cypress crown upon its head, in a garment woven of darkness and stars, walks frowning, over stairs, to its throne; but sleep still keeps Gromvál in its embrace.