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Cries of joy and of triumph roused her again; the knight had successfully accomplished the task. Quite overcome, she rushes to meet him, and in her intense excitement and the depth of her passion, she forgets that all eyes are upon her, and breathlessly cries out: “My hand is yours.”
But he draws himself up to his full height, and, haughtily and harshly he replies with a withering smile:—
“Have I ever asked you for your hand? I only came to avenge my two brothers, whom you have killed, and I have done it, for I do not love you, and you love me! Very well! Now you can die of your love, or of your shame, as you like it! Farewell, I am going back to Margaret, my darling, my wife!”
The same evening the wretched lady had herself hoisted up to the top of the tower, from whence she wished, as she said, to watch the setting sun.
But before the sun had sunk below the horizon, she had rejoined her victims at the foot of the ruined old tower.
Thus the Kynast obtained possession of his betrothed.
The story might furnish an admirable plot for a grand opera. But, upon reflection, I think it would suit a circus better, for there are in it three first-class parts for horses.