simply translating them, we have not modified
the incidents in the slightest particular.

I.

Once upon a time lived a mighty king, who
had a lovely wife, but no children. The
deficiency vexed him to such a degree as to force
from him a declaration that, if the Evil One
himself gave him a son, the bantling should be
right welcome. Shortly after the utterance of
this conditional promise he was honoured with
a visit by a distinguished foreigner, whom he
entertained hospitably in his castle. In the
course of conversation, the lack of an heir to
the throne was mentioned, and the stranger
made a most liberal offer, saying that the
king should have two children within the course
of a year, if he would present him with one.

Finding that no reasonable objection could
be made to this proposal, the king closed with
it at once, and before a twelvemonth had passed
his queen had blessed him with a pair of twins,
a boy and girl, both as beautiful as the day.
He was so highly delighted, that the contract he
had made nearly faded from his mind. However,
before another twelvemonth was gone his
memory was refreshed by a visit from the
stranger, who asked which of the children he
was to have? The king, with a dismal face,
made the awkward confession that he would
rather not part with either. The boy was necessary
as heir to the throne, and the girl was her
mother's pet; so what was to be done? The
stranger—- who, of course, was the Evil One,
but who clearly made good the proverb, which
states that he is not so black as he is painted—-
was touched by the king's solicitations, and
told him that he would let him have both the
children for five years longer. At the end of
that period, he would assuredly return.

On rolled the five years, and back came the
stranger, to find the king more unwilling than
ever. Hard words were spoken on both sides,
till at last a compromise was effected. The
stranger was not to return until the girl had
completed her sixteenth year, and the king was
then to give her up without resistance.

Years glided dismally away, and the father's
spirits became lower and lower as he approached
the sixteenth anniversary of his daughter's
birthday. His increasing melancholy attracted
the notice of his son, a youth of singular
precocity, who did his best to learn the truth, but
failed in every attempt. At last the boy
bethought himself of his tutor: a priest of
imminent piety: who, as soon as he had heard his
pupil's report, at once proceeded to the royal
sufferer.

"I have sold my daughter to the—— ," was
the brief but pregnant confession of the
melancholy king.

The priest was not courtier enough to dissemble
his opinion that transactions of this kind were
highly improper; but he comforted the mourner
with the assurance that the case was not quite
hopeless. If he only knew the exact time at
which the hateful visitor was expected, he
would be on the spot and prove a match for all
the mysterious strangers in the world.

The specified birthday arrived, and so did the
visitor: but he found the priest at the princess's
chamber door, clad in all the insignia of his holy
office. He durst not enter the room. An
altercation ensued, which ended in the retreat
of the enemy: not, however, without a declaration
that he would bide his time.

As long as the worthy priest lived, the girl
was well protected, and throve exceedingly; but
when at the end of two years he died, she fell
sick, and did not long survive him. While on her
death-bed, she entreated her father not to bury
her at once, but to allow her to lie for a week
in the church, under a strict guard. With this
wish the king complied, and the princess was
laid on a magnificent bier erected in the church,
while a sentinel was placed at the door.

On the very first midnight, a frightful event
occurred. The princess, starting from her coffin,
shrieked aloud: "Where is my abominable
father?" and without more ado seized on the
sentinel and tore him to pieces. In the morning
the church door was open, the princess was
quiet in her coffin, and the remains of the
sentinel lay scattered in various directions.
Intelligence of these awful facts spread far and
wide, and a second sentinel was not easily to be
obtained. Lots, however, were cast for the
appointment of a person to fill up the undesirable
vacancy, and the victim thus selected was a
young soldier who was in the habit of paying
his devotions every evening to an image of the
Holy Virgin. After fervently praying, he
set off for the church, and met on his way an
old woman, who, asking the cause of his melancholy,
and learning the danger with which he
was menaced, urged him to present himself at
the altar of the Madonna when he had entered
the church, and to close the rail behind him.

With this advice he complied, and when
midnight arrived the princess again raised herself
from the coffin. " Four-and-twenty hours have
passed," she said, " since I have drunk human
blood. Where is my abominable father, that I
may tear him to pieces for his dastardly
promise?" Again she raged about the church;
but, not perceiving the sentinel, returned to
her coffin without doing further harm.

The sentinel was terribly frightened, but the
king, convinced that he had got the right man
in the right place, persuaded him to keep guard
another night. Again the young man performed
his habitual devotions, and again he met the old
woman. The incidents that now occurred were
nearly identical with those of the previous night,
only the indicated spot of refuge was the
confessional, and the deceased princess was more
violent than before. It may be taken as a general
rule that, in the popular stories of all nations,
the second of three adventures is generally as
similar as possible to the first.

The king found some difficulty in persuading
the young man to perform the awful duty of
guarding the princess for a third night; but his
entreaties and still more his representation that
the safety of a soul was at stake, ultimately prevailed.