At that moment he perceived a long golden streak rising and falling with the waves.  It was a lock of her hair, her wonderful silken hair.  With mighty strokes he sped towards it, reached it, grasped it, then his trembling hands felt her body and lifted her up.  She breathed, she lived, and it depended on him to save her from the evil spirit, from death.  With one arm he held her to him, with the other he parted the waters; but the lake seemed to turn to a mighty torrent that bore down upon him with its heavy waves.  He struggled, he fought with panting breast, yet in vain, always in vain.  He felt that his strength was being exhausted.  If no one came to his aid, he was lost; he raised his head to look for help.

He saw his brother’s gondola sailing as peacefully and undisturbed from storm or accident as a swan in the moonlight, and the bitter thought passed through his mind, that Wendelin was the lucky one, and that he had been born to misfortune.

His arm was struggling with the tide once more, and this time more successfully.  Then Speranza opened her eyes, recognized him, and, kissing him on the forehead, murmured:  “My own love, how good you are!”

From the cliff the duchess called to him:  “George, my best, my only son!” His heart warmed within him, all his bitterness disappeared, and the waves seemed to rock him and the burden in his arms as in a cradle.  The picture of his mother floated before his vision, that of his child, and of his beautiful work, the great indestructible cathedral, which he had erected to the honour of God.  He reflected what sweet joy each new spring had brought him, how he had been blessed in his work, what exquisite delight he derived from all that was beautiful in the world.  No, no, no.  Of all the men on this earth, he, the child destined to misfortune, was the happiest.  Overwhelmed by a feeling of gratitude, he returned his wife’s kiss.  Saved!  She was saved!  He felt firm ground beneath his feet; he lifted her on high; but, just as he laid her in the strong arms that reached down from the cliff to receive her, a high wave caught him and dragged him back into the deep, and the waters closed over him.

The next morning a fisherman found his body.  George’s wife and mother were saved.  The wise men of the land said that the ill-starred child had perished, as they had foreseen, and the people echoed their words.

In the mausoleum of the Greylocks only two places remained empty, and these had to be kept for Wendelin the Lucky and his queen, consequently the ill-omened son might not even rest in the grave of his fathers, and George was buried on a green hillside, whence there was a beautiful view of the lake and distant landscape.

King Wendelin the Lucky and his wife lived to a good old age.  After the king became childish, he ceased to groan and whimper in the night, as he had formerly done.  When he died, he was interred next to Queen Isabella, in the coldest corner of the marble mausoleum, and no ray of sun ever rested on his stone sarcophagus.  His son, Wendelin XVII., visited his father’s grave once a year, on All Saints’ Day, and laid a dry wreath of immortelles on the lid of the coffin.