“It must be a fine thing to be a prince,” thought the weaver.
Good luck befriended him, for the queen and her daughter bought all his beautiful woven stuffs, and he left the palace with his pockets full of gold. On his way home he again saw the prince, who was watering his horse at a roadside trough.
“Are you not the poor weaver who trudged past me under the palace gateway but an hour ago?” asked the prince.
“I was poor enough then,” replied the weaver, “but I am rich now, for the queen and the princess her daughter were graciously pleased to buy my whole store of stuffs.”
“Then you had better fortune than I,” returned the prince, “for I have been courting the princess this year and more, but she will have none of me. She is so cold and listless that she cares for no man’s addresses.”
“Alas, we are then brothers in misfortune,” quoth the weaver, “for I too love a maid who does not love me in return.” And with that they parted, and the weaver went home, only to find that Micheline had once more disappeared, he knew not whither. But the prince mounted his good steed and rode forth into the world, to seek adventures and forget his sorrow.
He soon came to a dense wood, and when night fell, seeing a great castle before him, he knocked at the gates and asked for shelter. Now in this castle lived a mighty magician, who received the prince with all hospitality, and bade him sit down with him to supper. But as the prince sat at table, he often turned his head and listened intently, for it seemed to him that ever and anon he caught a sound like the ticking of innumerable clocks.
“What may that be?” he asked at length.
“It is the beating of many hearts,” replied the magician, “for I have the hearts of all men in my keeping.”
“Is the cold, proud heart of my dear princess amongst them?” asked the prince.