“You wouldn’t like it. It makes my head ache. It’s so heavy. I’d much rather have a staff like that crooked one of yours.”
“It’s awfully heavy,” sighed the shepherd.
“Heavy?” exclaimed Olaf the Fair. “I don’t see how a heavy thing in your hand could matter. Push it through. I want to hold it.”
“Fetch me your crown, then, and we’ll exchange.”
Olaf the Fair knew that it was dangerous to return to his room to fetch the crown. Supposing the mastiff should bark and awaken the man. But he longed to handle the shepherd’s staff.
“All right, I’ll fetch it,” he said and tiptoed up the stairs. Stealthily he stepped across the sleeping man, and the dog, recognising his master’s scent, made no sound. Olaf seized the crown and hastened back to the moon-flooded window.
“Here it is,” he said, pushing the crown through the bars that were just wide enough to let it through. “Try it on, and give me your staff.”
Exultantly, the shepherd placed the gleaming crown on his dark head while the king grabbed at the tall crook.
“It isn’t a bit heavy! I can’t feel it!” they both exclaimed.
Then for a few minutes they chattered, comparing one another’s days: the little king complaining of confinement and of being always in a crowd, the little shepherd complaining of having to stay out of doors and be all alone.