In a light cloud of fragrant vapours, as if a fresh breeze were blowing and a swan gently gliding high up in the air, a sorceress softly descends into the hall.
Purer than the lily is her garment; her girdle shines on her waist like hyacinth; like the twinkle of the gold-gleaming eastern star, merriment beams in her eyes.
With a pleasant voice Dobráda speaks: “Sad knight, submit to your fate! Zlomár is no longer; fate has for ever cleared the world from that wrongdoer.
“Into the abyss of hell he has been hurled for ever; the jaws of Gehenna have swallowed him; with the gurgling of the lava and the roar of the fire, the abyss alone will hear his howl and groan.
“Death, transgressing the law of nature, has not deprived the magician’s body of feeling: the shades of persons by him destroyed nightly torment him here in the castle.
“Knight, hasten to your Rognyéda! To the south of the forest, in a sandy plain, in a steel prison of Zlomár’s castle, two winged Zilants watch her.
“Accept this magic horn from me; it has the power to close the jaws of monsters. But listen! You cannot save Rognyéda without shedding her blood,—thus the fates have decreed.”
The magic strings sound again; the cloud is wafted upwards with Dobráda. Struck dumb by this speech, and beside himself, Gromvál, like a statue of stone, follows her with his glances.
Holding the emerald horn in his hand, in bitter resentment, the hero exclaims: “Ill-starred gift of the faithless sorceress, you promise happiness to me by the death of Rognyéda!
“No! I tremble at the very thought, and my heart flies a sacrifice to her. But, Gromvál, obey the dictum of fate, and hasten to destroy Zlomár’s sorcery.