Like a flash the King's Son remembered his crown. He opened the bundle and took it out.
"Do not sell your crown, O King!" murmured the Goosegirl.
"I will! I must!" replied the King's Son. "It will bring you bread."
He arose hastily, broke the shining crown into pieces, and ran toward the hut.
Rap! Rap! Rap! "Let me in!" he cried impatiently.
"Do you want to break down the door?" replied the Broom-maker, appearing at the window.
"I care not," answered the King's Son. "Here is gold. Now will you give me bread?"
Gold? The greedy eyes of the Broom-maker gave the glittering fragments one glance. Then he called the Wood-cutter. And they whispered, and they searched all through the miserable hut until they found the poisoned bread, the foul-smelling bread, which the Goosegirl had made as the Witch had directed on that bright summer day long, long ago.
With it in their hands they ran to the window. They handed it to the King's Son, and he gave them gold, his golden crown, in its stead.
The King's Son snatched the loaf and ran joyfully toward the mound and fell at the Goosegirl's feet, crying: