‘A mass is a mass,’ answered Pret’ Olivo; ‘it will be neither longer nor shorter.’
As he went out, however, he told his servant to heap up a lot of wood on the hearth and set fire to it. Death went to sit down on a bench in the far corner of the chimney, and by-and-by the wood blazed up and she couldn’t get away any more. In vain she called to the servant to come and moderate the fire. ‘Master told me to heap it up, not to moderate it,’ answered the servant; and so there was no help. Death continued calling in desperation, and nobody came. It was impossible with her dry bones to pass the blaze, so there she had to stay.
‘Oh, dear! oh, dear! what can I do?’ she kept saying; ‘all this time everybody is stopped dying! Pret’ Olivo! Pret’ Olivo! come here.’
At last Pret’ Olivo came in.
‘What do you mean by keeping me here like this?’ said Death; ‘I told you I had so much to do.’
‘Oh, you want to go, do you?’ said Pret’ Olivo, quietly.
‘Of course I do. Tell some one to clear away those burning logs, and let me out.’
‘Will you promise me to leave me alone for another hundred years if I do?’
‘Yes, yes; anything you like. I shall be very glad to keep away from this place for a hundred years.’
Then he let her go, and she set off running with those long thin legs of hers.