Elisa went, but the king and arch-bishop followed her. They saw her disappear at the wrought iron gate of the cemetery, and when they came closer to the gravestones, they saw the vampires, as Elisa had seen them. The king turned away because he thought she was among them—his wife whose head had rested against his breast this very night!
“The people must judge her,” he said, and the people judged that she should be burned in the red flames.
From the splendid royal chambers she was led into a dark, damp hole, where the wind whistled through the barred windows. Instead of velvet and silk they gave her the bundle of nettles she had gathered; she could rest her head on those. The hard, burning shirts she had knit were to be her bedding, but they couldn’t have given her anything dearer to her. She started her work again and prayed to God while outside the street urchins sang mocking ditties about her, and not a soul consoled her with a friendly word.
Toward evening a swan wing whistled right by the window grate. It was the youngest brother who had found his sister, and she sobbed aloud in joy, even though she knew that the approaching night could be the last she would live. But now the work was almost done, and her brothers were here.
The arch-bishop came to spend the last hours with her, as he had promised the king he would do, but she shook her head and asked him to leave with expressions and gestures. She had to finish her work this night, or everything would be to no avail—everything: pain, tears and the sleepless nights. The arch-bishop went away with harsh words for her, but poor Elisa knew that she was innocent and continued her work.
Little mice ran around on the floor, and pulled the nettles over to her feet, to help a little. By the barred window the thrush sat and sang all night long, as merrily as he could, so she wouldn’t lose her courage.
It was an hour before dawn when the eleven brothers stood by the gate to the castle and asked to see the king, but they were told that they couldn’t because it was still night. The king was sleeping, and they didn’t dare wake him. They begged, and they threatened. The guards came, and even the king himself appeared and asked what this meant. At that moment the sun came up, and there were no brothers to be seen, but over the castle flew eleven wild swans.
All the people in the town streamed out of the gates. They wanted to see the witch burn. A miserable horse pulled the cart she was sitting in. They had given her a smock of coarse sackcloth, and her lovely long hair hung loosely around her beautiful head. Her cheeks were deathly pale, and her lips moved slowly while her fingers twined the green flax. Even on her way to her death she did not stop the work she had started. Ten shirts lay by her feet, and she was knitting the eleventh. The mob insulted her.
“Look at the witch! See how she’s mumbling. And she doesn’t have her hymnal in her hands! She is sitting with her magic things. Let’s tear them into a thousand pieces!”
And the crowd approached her and wanted to tear her things apart, but then eleven white swans flew down and sat around her on the cart and flapped with their huge wings. The mob fell back terrified.
“It’s a sign from heaven! She must be innocent!” many whispered, but they didn’t dare say it aloud.
As the executioner grabbed her hand, she hastily threw the eleven shirts over the swans. There stood eleven handsome princes, but the youngest one had a swan’s wing instead of one arm, since there was a sleeve missing in the shirt. She hadn’t been able to finish it.
“Now I dare speak!” she said, “I am innocent!”
And the people who saw what had happened bowed down before her as if for a saint, but she sank lifeless into the arms of her brothers. The tension, terror, and pain had affected her this way.
“Yes, she’s innocent!” said the eldest brother, and he told them everything that had happened. While he was speaking, the people could smell the scent as of a million roses because all of the logs in the bonfire had sprouted roots and branches. There was a fragrant hedge standing there, big and tall with red roses. At the top was a flower, white and shining that lit up like a star. The king picked it and set it on Elisa’s breast, and she awoke with peace and happiness in her heart.
Then all the church bells rang by themselves, birds came flying in big flocks, and the bridal procession that led back to the castle was like no other seen before by any king.
NOTE
1. A mirage (an optical phenomenon, often characterized by distortion) that appears near an object, often at sea; named after the sorceress Morgan le Fay, sister to King Arthur, who was said to be able to change her shape.
THE SWINEHERD
ONCE UPON A TIME there was a poor prince. He had a kingdom that was quite small, but it was big enough so he could afford to get married, and that’s what he wanted to do.
Now it was pretty fresh of him to ask the emperor’s daughter, “Do you want to marry me?” But he dared it because his name was known far and wide, and there were hundreds of princesses who would have accepted him, but we’ll see if she does.
Now listen to what happened.
On the grave of the prince’s father there grew a rose tree, and a lovely rose tree it was! It only flowered every five years and then only with a single rose, but it was a rose that smelled so sweet that when you smelled it, you forgot all your sorrows and worries. The prince also had a nightingale that could sing as if all the most beautiful melodies sat in its little throat. That rose and that nightingale were to be given to the princess, and so they were both placed in big silver cases and were sent to her.
The emperor had the cases brought into the big room where the princess was playing house with her chambermaids, and when she saw the big cases with the gifts inside, she clapped her hands in joy.
“If only it’s a little pussycat!” she said, but then the rose tree with the lovely rose was unveiled.
“Oh, how beautifully it’s made,” said all the chambermaids.
“It’s more than beautiful,” the emperor said. “It’s neat!”
But the princess felt it and then was ready to cry.
“Oh yuck, pappa!” she said. “It’s not artificial, it’s
