_Charles._ Thou darest So call my child, insulting her as me. It was the Princess Emma.
_Ernst._ Nay, my Lord, Although methinks there was some likeness, still She came without attendants, her hair dishevelled, Her garments torn; besides I've proof. But patience! We sought good Father Hildebold, mistook The way, took council, agreed 'twas well to wait Developments, so found an ancient friend And visited the elephant, a beast Of weirdest size, whose arm-like nose, whose trunk, Was sucking from a bucket, then mouthwards curved And poured the flow until we heard the water Gushing through his mighty stomach. O—
_Charles._ Away with rounding O's. Keep straight thy tale.
_Ernst._ 'Twas late one night when we crept back, the place Was still, no movement, deserted; ay and more; The hut was vacant, our belongings gone. A light though strangely gleamed, a moon ray or— We plucked it, troth a goblin stone; 'twas left As pay; but could it pay for goods endeared By use? No, no, a thousand times. We wept; So passed the hours till ruthless day affirmed Our loss. Provisions, tools, utensils, all Were gone, and e'en some garnered seeds. If such Could happen, why not worse? Our lives? We'd find A safe asylum, work elsewhere, poor Guta! And now my proofs: the goblin stone, this bit Of beldame finery, a scrap, the cross Had kept. [_He unwraps his treasures._]
_Charles._ Why Ernst, thou hast a royal stone. 'Tis worth a noble's ransom, and thou dost cry For peasant chattels, a royal stone indeed! It must have slipped my crown that night six years Ago. What corners have been swept for it. What countries searched for them; who left it here. And this frayed scrap is holy silk; I feel Its texture. Where? O where can they have gone?
_Ernst._ Those thickets yonder hide the secret. Fierce Carousing, banqueting from golden plate Or grave-yard bones, who knows? No mortal has Retraced his steps though more than they have dared The bosky growth. Far, far within are dwarfs, Wild women of the hills and mystic stags That lure to doom. O Sire, return! it is Not safe to meddle, nor speak where trees have ears.
What's that? a rustling breath that warns.
_Charles._ More like A prying zephyr. The woodman's axe will fell This mystery. I'll give prompt orders—yet A pause—to think, prepare myself for what? Hope fanned afresh? or chilled to ash? So leave me Ernst, and thou Count Albert, a moment's rest Before we prize the lock. I would be strong.