“Tighten, scarf,” said the bride.
That moment the queen thought that her head was in the sky, and the lower half of her body down deep in the earth.
“Oh, my grief and my woe!” cried the queen.
“Answer my question in truth, and the scarf will stop squeezing you. Who was Ur’s father?”
“The gardener,” said the queen.
“Whose son is Arthur?”
“The king’s son.”
“Tighten, scarf,” said the bride.
If the queen suffered before, she suffered twice as much this time, and screamed for help.
“Answer me truly, and you’ll be without pain; if not, death will be on you this minute. Whose son is Arthur?”