Death is unavoidable, destruction near; his terrible hands touch his corselet; but Gromvál, seizing his leg like an oak, makes him totter, and brings him to his fall.
The giant falls like a crumbling tower, and shakes all the castle with his terrible cry; the walls recede, the battlements fall; he is prostrate on the ground, and has dug a grave in the damp earth.
Grasping his throat with his mighty hand, Gromvál thrusts his sword into his jaws; the giant’s teeth gnash against the steel; he roars and groans, and writhes in convulsions.
Black foam and crimson blood lash and gush from his mouth; furious with suffering, battling with death, he digs the earth with his feet, trembles, lies in the agony of death.
Mingling in a boiling stream the giant’s blood wells up; a gentle vapour, rising from it in a cloud, forms the outline of fair Rognyéda.
The roses in her cheeks, the charm in her eyes, the crimson lips beckon for a kiss; her hair, falling like velvet over her shoulders, veils her swan’s breast.
Gromvál marvels at this miracle: does he see a vision or a real being? Approaching her with hope and hesitation, he presses not a dream, but Rognyéda to his breast.
Filled with passionate rapture, Gromvál addresses his love with tender words: “Long, oh, long have I sought you, Rognyéda, and have, like a shadow, wandered over the wide world!”
Drawing a deep breath, she says: “The evil magician, the cunning Zlomár, impelled by his despicable passion, brought me to this enchanted castle.
“Here he touched me with his magic wand, and deprived me of memory and feelings. Falling immediately into a mysterious trance, I have ever since been shrouded in deepest darkness.”