Irma started when she heard the King mentioned.

“Yes, I’ll go to the King, to the King! to the King!” cried the old man overhead, as if he knew that the word tortured Irma.

She heard him close the window and move a chair.  The old man went to bed.

Irma looked out into the dark night.  Not a star was to be seen.  There was no light anywhere; nothing was heard but the roaring of the mountain stream and the rustling of the trees.  The night seemed like a dark abyss.

“Are you still awake?” asked a soft voice without.  It was the grandmother.

“I was once a servant at this farm,” said she.  “That was forty years ago; and now I’m the mother of the freeholder’s wife, and almost the head one on the farm.  But I keep thinking of you all the time.  I keep trying to think how it is in your heart.  I’ve something to tell you.  Come out again.  I’ll take you where it’ll do you good to be.  Come!”

Irma went out into the dark night with the old woman.  How different this guide from the one she had had the day before!

The old woman led her to the fountain.  She had brought a cup with her and gave it to Irma.  “Come, drink; good cold water’s the best.  Water comforts the body; it cools and quiets us; it’s like bathing one’s soul.  I know what sorrow is too.  One’s insides burn as if they were afire.”

Irma drank some of the water of the mountain spring.  It seemed like a healing dew, whose influence was diffused through her whole frame.

The grandmother led her back to her room and said, “You’ve still got the shirt on that you wore at the palace.  You’ll never stop thinking of that place till you’ve burned that shirt.”

The old woman would listen to no denial, and Irma was as docile as a little child.  The grandmother hurried to get a coarse shirt for her, and after Irma had put it on, brought wood and a light and burnt the other at the open fire.  Irma was also obliged to cut off her long nails and throw them into the fire.  Then Beate disappeared for a few moments, and returned with Irma’s riding-habit.  “You must have been shot; for there are balls in this,” said she, spreading out the long blue habit.

A smile passed over Irma’s face, as she felt the balls that had been sewed into the lower part of the habit, so that it might hang more gracefully.  Beate had also brought something very useful,—­a deerskin.  “Hansei sends you this,” said she.  “He thinks that maybe you’re used to having something soft for your feet to rest on.  He shot the deer himself.”

Irma appreciated the kindness of the man who could show such affection to one who was both a stranger and a mystery to him.

The grandmother remained at Irma’s bedside until she fell asleep.  Then she breathed thrice on the sleeper and left the room.

It was late at night when Irma awoke.

“To the King! to the King! to the King!” The words had been uttered thrice in a loud voice.  Was it hers, or that of the man overhead?  Irma pressed her hand to her forehead and felt the bandage.  Was it sea-grass that had gathered there?  Was she lying alive at the bottom of the lake?  Gradually all that had happened became clear to her.