It was some little time before he found her; and no reply came to his calls; but at last he caught sight of something blue on the ground. It was the Princess’s robe; and there, indeed, she lay motionless—her eyes closed, a sweet smile on her face, the little wounded bird tenderly clasped in her hands.
And now I may tell you that this wounded bird was the friend from whom I had the story; for, as you will hear, he had plenty of opportunity of learning it all.
Orso threw himself on the ground beside the Princess.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, “my carelessness has killed her. How can I ever dare to face the King and Queen? Oh! Winter Spirit, you have indeed deceived me.”
But as he said the words the Princess opened her eyes.
“No, Prince,” she said. “I am not dead. I am not even asleep. It was the strange gladness that seemed to take away my breath for a moment, and I must have sunk down without knowing. But now I feel stronger and happier than ever in my life before, now that I have seen and felt the beautiful snow of my own country, now that I have breathed the winter air I have been longing for always,” and she sprang to her feet, her blue eyes sparkling with delight, looking lovelier than he had ever seen her.
“Orso,” she went on, half shyly, “you have done what I asked you; through you I have seen the snow,” and she held out her hand, which, white though it was, looked pink in comparison with the little flakes which were fluttering down on it.
The Prince was overjoyed, but he hesitated.
“I fear,” he said, “that in reality you should rather thank the poor little bird, or most of all your own kind heart.”
“Poor little bird,” she replied, looking at it as it lay in her other hand. “It is not dead. I will do all I can for it! Let us hasten home, Prince, so that I may bind up its poor wing. My father and mother too will be anxious about me.”