Dobrunka knew that whatever the old hermit said was for her good, so she rested as he ordered.
On the third morning the hermit called the boy and gave him a golden spindle.
“Go to the palace again,” he said, “and today offer this spindle for sale. If any one asks you what you want for the spindle, say two hands. Don’t accept anything else.”
The boy took the golden spindle and when he reached the palace and sat down in the courtyard near the gate, Zloboha ran up to him at once.
“What do you want for that spindle?” she asked.
“Two hands,” the boy said.
“It’s a strange thing you won’t sell anything for money.”
“I have to ask what my father tells me to ask.”
Zloboha was in a quandary. She wanted the golden spindle, for it was very beautiful. It would go well with the spinning wheel and would be something to be proud of. Yet she didn’t want to be left without anything that had belonged to Dobrunka.
“But really, mother,” she whined, “I don’t see why I have to keep something of Dobrunka’s so that Dobromil will love me as he loved her. I’m sure I’m as pretty as Dobrunka ever was.”