“I come that I may see the colours of the sky—red, blue, and gold,” answered the Princess. “Look, there are no such colours to be seen anywhere, unless, indeed, it be in this bead which I wear here on my golden cord.
“What is that bead, and where did it come from?” asked Hildebrandt.
“It came from over the sea, where it shall never return again,” answered the Princess. And again her eyes began to sparkle with eagerness, and she could scarcely conceal her mirth. “Lift the cord off my neck and look at it near, and tell me if you ever saw one like it.”
Hildebrandt put out his hands and took hold of the cord, but no sooner were his fingers closed around it than he vanished, and a new bright bead was slung next to the first one on Fiorimonde’s chain, and this one was even more beautiful than the other.
The Princess gave a long low laugh, quite terrible to hear.
“Oh, my sweet necklace,” cried she, “how beautiful you are growing! I think I love you more than anything in the world besides.” Then she went softly back to bed, without anyone hearing her, and fell sound asleep, and slept till Yolande came to tell her it was time for her to get up and dress for the wedding.
The Princess was dressed in gorgeous clothes, and only Yolande noticed that beneath her satin gown, she wore the golden cord, but now there were two beads upon it instead of one. Scarcely was she ready when the King burst into her room in a towering rage.
“My daughter,” cried he, “there is a plot against us. Lay aside your bridal attire and think no more of Prince Hildebrandt, for he too has disappeared, and is nowhere to be found.”
At this the Princess wept, and entreated that Hildebrandt should be sought for far and near, but she laughed to herself, and said, “Search where you will, yet you shall not find him;” and so again a great search was made, and when no trace of the Prince was found, all the palace was in an uproar.
The Princess again put off her bride’s dress and clad herself in black, and sat alone, and pretended to weep, but Yolande, who watched her, shook her head, and said, “More will come and go before the wicked Princess has done her worst.”
A month passed, in which Fiorimonde pretended to mourn for Hildebrandt, then she went to the King and said,
“Sire, I pray that you will not let people say that when any bridegroom comes to marry me, as soon as he has seen me he flies rather than be my husband. I beg that suitors may be summoned from far and near that I may not be left alone unwed.”
The King agreed, and envoys were sent all the world over to bid any who would come and be the husband of Princess Fiorimonde. And come they did, kings and princes from south and north, east and west—King Adrian, Prince Sigbert, Prince Algar, and many more—but though all went well till the wedding morning, when it was time to go to church, no bridegroom was to be found. The old King was sadly frightened, and would fain have given up all hope of finding a husband for the Princess, but now she implored him, with tears in her eyes, not to let her be disgraced in this way. And so suitor after suitor continued to come, and now it was known, far and wide, that whoever came to ask for the hand of Princess Fiorimonde vanished, and was seen no more of men. The courtiers were afraid and whispered under their breath, “It is not all right, it cannot be;” but only Yolande noticed how the beads came upon the golden thread, till it was well-nigh covered, yet there always was room for one bead more.
So the years passed, and every year Princess Fiorimonde grew lovelier and lovelier, so that no one who saw her could guess how wicked she was.
In a far off country lived a young prince whose name was Florestan. He had a dear friend named Gervaise, whom he loved better than anyone in the world. Gervaise was tall, and broad, and stout of limb, and he loved Prince Florestan so well, that he would gladly have died to serve him.
It chanced that Prince Florestan saw a portrait of Princess Fiorimonde, and at once swore he would go to her father’s court, and beg that he might have her for his wife, and Gervaise in vain tried to dissuade him.
“There is an evil fate about the Princess Fiorimonde,” quoth he; “many have gone to marry her, but where are they now?”
“I don’t know or care,” answered Florestan, “but this is sure, that I will wed her and return here, and bring my bride with me.”
So he set out for Fiorimonde’s home, and Gervaise went with him with a heavy heart.
When they reached the court, the old King received them and welcomed them warmly, and he said to his courtiers, “Here is a fine young prince to whom we would gladly see our daughter wed. Let us hope that this time all will be well.” But now Fiorimonde had grown so bold, that she scarcely tried to conceal her mirth.
“I will gladly marry him tomorrow, if he comes to the church,” she said; “but if he is not there, what can I do,” and she laughed long and merrily, till those who heard her shuddered.
When the Princess’s ladies came to tell her that Prince Florestan was arrived, she was in the garden, lying on the marble edge of a fountain, feeding the gold fish who swam in the water.
“Bid him come to me,” she said, “for I will not go any more in state to meet any suitors, neither will I put on grand attire for
