The maid stopped, clasped her hands pitifully, and burst into tears.
"It is all your fault," she cried, looking up at the keeper of the prison.
Peter ran down the steps and took her by the hand.
"Do not weep, sweet maid," he said, "I will buy thee a pitcher ten times better, and fill it with the best of white wine or the choicest oil, only do not cry your pretty eyes all red."
The girl stole a shy glance at Black Peter.
"Are you of the servants of the prince?" said she, bashfully looking at the orange facing of his tunic.
Black Peter erected himself a little and squared out his chest. It was the first time that his grim prison uniform had been so distinguished.
"I am indeed the keeper of this castle of the prince," he said, with dignity.
"It is a fine castle, in truth," said the maid, looking at it up and down and crossways, with blue, wide-open, most ingenuous eyes.
"You come from the country, perhaps?" asked Peter. For such innocence was wellnigh impossible to any maid of the city.