“Come out!” she cried through the keyhole; “there is knavery afoot!”
When the youngest brother opened the door she told him all, and when he had hurried on a few clothes he came down to the dining-room to hear what the magpie had discovered.
“I shall be out of this as quick as I can,” he remarked when the bird had finished. “My only grief is that I shall never see you again. I am really very glad you are not my brother’s wife, for I had much rather you were mine.”
“So had I,” said the girl.
So they determined to depart together.
“You are never going to leave me behind!” exclaimed the magpie.
“Well, then, come along,” said the young man, opening the cage door. “When you are tired of flying you can have a lift on my shoulder; I am not going to let my wife trouble herself with your cage.”
“I am not your wife yet,” said the girl, tossing her head.
“That’s easily mended,” replied the youngest brother.
So they crept softly out of the inn and took the road long before the sky showed signs of morning. But at last the east grew grey in the darkness and bars of rose-colour hung over the sea of primrose and gold from which the sun was about to rise. They sat down beside a stream to rest, for they had come a good long distance.