But suddenly she saw that all the church-goers had gone another way and that she was alone in the street. Nevertheless, the blood-red footprints were there as plain as before. "It is my poor foster sister who is going before me," she thought; and she owned to herself that she had guessed it all the time.
"Alas, my poor foster sister, I thought you went so lightly upon earth that your feet did not touch the ground. But none among the living can know how painful your pilgrimage must be."
The tears started to her eyes, and she sighed: "Could she but find peace in her grave! Woe is me that she must wander here so long, till she has worn her feet to bleeding!"
"Stay, my dear foster sister!" she cried. "Stay, that I may speak to you!"
But as she cried thus, she saw that the footprints fell yet faster in the snow, as though the dead girl were hastening her steps.
"Now she flies from me. She looks no more for help from me," said
Elsalill.
The bloody footprints made her quite frantic, and she cried out: "My dear foster sister, I will do all you ask if only you may find rest in your grave!"
So soon as Elsalill had uttered these words a tall, big woman who had followed her came up and laid a hand on her arm.
"Who may you be, crying and wringing your hands here in the street?" the woman asked. "You call to my mind a little maid who came to me on Friday looking for a place and then ran away from me. Or perhaps you are the same?"
"No, I am not the same," said Elsalill, "but if, as I think, you are the hostess of the Town Cellars, then I know what maid it is you speak of."