While the King’s son had gone away, a negro servant came to the spring to draw water, and saw the reflection of the damsel in the watery mirror. “Why, thou art something like a damsel,” said she to herself, “and ever so much lovelier than thy mistress; so she ought to fetch water for me, not I for her.” With that she broke the pitcher in two, went home, and when her mistress asked where the pitcher of water was, she replied: “I am much more beautiful than thou, so thou must fetch water for me, not I for thee.” Her mistress took up a mirror, held it before her, and said: “Methinks thou must have taken leave of thy senses; look at this mirror!” The Moor looked into the mirror, and saw that she was as coal-black as ever. Without another word she took up the pitcher, went again to the spring, and seeing the damsel’s face in the mirror, again fancied that it was hers.
“I’m right, after all,” she cried; “I’m ever so much more beautiful than my mistress.” So she broke the pitcher to pieces again, and went home. Again her mistress asked her why she had not drawn water. “Because I am ever so much more beautiful than thou, so thou must draw water for me,” replied she.
“Thou art downright crazy,” replied her mistress, drew out a mirror, and showed it to her; and when the Moor-girl saw her face in it, she took up another pitcher and went to the fountain for the third time. The damsel’s face again appeared in the water, but just as she was about to break the pitcher again, the damsel called to her from the tree: “Break not thy pitchers, ’tis my face thou dost see in the water, and thou wilt see thine own there also.”
The Moor-girl looked up, and when she saw the wondrously beautiful shape of the damsel in the tree, she climbed up beside her and spake coaxing words to her: “Oh, my little golden damsel, thou wilt get the cramp from crouching there so long; come, rest thy head!” And with that she laid the damsel’s head on her breast, felt in her bosom, drew out a needle, pricked the damsel with it in the skull, and in an instant the Orange-Damsel was changed into a bird, and pr-r-r-r-r! she was gone, leaving the Moor all alone in the tree.
Now when the King’s son came back with his fine coach and beautiful raiment, looked up into the tree, and saw the black face, he asked the girl what had happened to her. “A nice question!” replied the Moor-girl. “Why, thou didst leave me here all day, and wentest away, so of course the sun has tanned me black.” What could the poor King’s son do? He made the black damsel sit in the coach, and took her straight home to his father’s house.
In the palace of the Padishah they were all waiting, full of eagerness, to behold the Peri-Bride, and when they saw the Moorish damsel they said to the King’s son: “However couldst thou lose thy heart to a black maid?”
“She is not a black maid,” said the King’s son. “I left her at the top of a tree, and she was blackened there by the rays of the sun. If only you let her rest a bit she’ll soon grow white again.” And with that he led her into her chamber, and waited for her to grow white again.
Now there was a beautiful garden in the palace of the King’s son, and one day the Orange-Bird came flying on to a tree there, and called down to the gardener.
“What dost thou want with me?” asked the gardener.
“What is the King’s son doing?” inquired the bird.