"And when people ask what has become of her?"
"I'll say she's gone to her—her niece."
"Well, I don't mind helping you, as long as I don't get into a scrape myself."
"No, no! How can you get into trouble?"
The priest went off, and soon afterwards the smith went to his uncle's house, and taking a big sack, shoved the cook into it and tied the sack up, put it on his shoulders and trudged off.
"Here," said the uncle, "take this florin to get a glass of wine on the way, and I hope I'll never see her any more—nor," he added to himself—"you either."
It was a warm day, and the cook was heavy. The poor man was in a great perspiration; his throat was parched; the road was dusty and hilly. After an hour's march he stopped at a roadside inn to drink a glass of wine. He quaffed it down at a gulp and then he had another, and again another, so that when he came out everything was rather hazy and blurred. Seeing some carts of hay at the door which were going to the next town, he asked permission to get on top of one of the waggons. The permission was not only granted, but the carter even helped him to hoist his sack on top. The smith, in return, got down and offered the man a glass of wine for his kindness. Then he again got on the cart and went off to sleep. An hour or two afterwards, when he awoke, the sack was gone. Had it slipped down? had it been stolen from him?—he could not tell. He did not ask for it, but he only congratulated himself at having so dexterously got rid of the cook, and at once went back home.
That evening his children had hardly been put to bed when the door was opened, and his uncle, looking pale and scared, came in panting.
"She's back, she's back!" he gasped.
"Who is back?" asked the astonished smith.