At last, he said one day to his wife, "There is something the matter with the White Stag, and he longs to tell. If I only could know what it is!"
"That is not so difficult," replied his wife. "Just ask old Fischersche, who will be able to tell thee."
Fischersche was, according to some, a wise, good old woman, according to others a witch, who lived in a hut a little out of the village, never leaving it, alone and without friends, avoiding men and shunned by them in return—but only till they got into some trouble; when illness or some accident had befallen them, then they sought out old Fischersche, related their trouble, and found ever help and counsel, or herbs and healing draughts, before which every sickness fled.
To her the herb-gatherer applied, told her what had happened, and begged for an explanation of the matter.
Fischersche bent her ice-grey head and remained a while sunk in thought. At length she said: "It is a wonderful history of the White Stag; my aged grandmother told it me over a hundred years ago, but I cannot now remember it perfectly! I only know that it is an enchanted young noble, the son of an Earl, but how it all hangs together has escaped me. But we will soon learn. I will ask my ravens."
So saying, she opened the windows of the hut, one towards the north, the other to the south, and murmured a few unintelligible words, and uttered one piercing whistle.
Soon the beating of heavy wings was heard, and a hoarse croaking, and a pair of huge primeval ravens flew down, and sat, one on the north, one on the south window, and cried:
"Kra! Kra! Kra—h!
Wir sind da!"
And Fishersche addressed them in a loud voice: "Ye good ravens, ye are as old as the Harz and the primeval forests, and ye know all things; hence ye shall tell me the history of the White Stag."
Then one raven flapped his wings, nodded with his head, opened his bill and cried: