He fled on. The magician came to the door of his hut, and seeing the man, cried to him, mockingly—
“You have to ride for seven years yet, flying over this village. You shall go on suffering, and shall not die.”
“O my father,” said the man, “if I ever offended you, forgive me! Look! my lips are quite hard; my face, my hands, look at them! I am nothing but bone. Have pity upon me.”
The magician muttered a few words, and the man stopped in his course. He stayed in one place, but did not yet stand on the ground.
“Well, you ask me to pity you,” said the magician. “And what do you mean to give me if I put a stop to your torment?”
“All you wish,” said the peasant, and he clasped his hands, and knelt down in the air.
“Will you give me your sweetheart,” asked the magician, “so that I may have her for my wife? If you will give her up, you shall come to earth again.”
The man thought for a moment, and said to himself—
“If I once get on the earth again, I may see if I cannot do something.”
So he said to the magician—