On, on they went, far out into the sand hills, in an opposite direction from his own home.
Paul’s arm began to ache very much, carrying the heavy basket, but he was feeling so manly, that he did not like to complain; but at last he became so tired, that it was no use—he could not bear it any longer, and great tears filled his eyes and covered his rosy cheeks.
All the way the old woman had been muttering to herself in Spanish, but Paul could not understand that.
“I am so tired,” he said, resting the basket upon the ground.
“Oh, it is not far! not far! and I will give you the bright crimson tuft—think of that,” replied the old woman.
So Paul took up the basket, and again they went on a long, long way, and turned so many corners, he feared he could never find his way back, but still the thought of the crimson tuft allured him.
“I must have it,” he said; “that would be a real pleasure.”
At last, when he was just ready to fall down with fatigue, they came to a great iron-barred gate, and the old woman rung the bell very loudly.
In a moment a great rough voice called, in Spanish, as through a trumpet, “Who rings at the gate?”
Very soon the gate was opened by a curious-looking dwarf, who started and grinned fearfully when he saw Paul.