be whispered at the court that she herself had all the instincts of an ogress, and that when she saw any little children passing by she had to hold herself back to keep from rushing at them. So the prince thought it best not to tell her anything at all. For two years he continued seeing his beloved princess in secret, and he loved her always more and more. The air of mystery about it all made him fall in love with her afresh each time he saw her, and homely joys did not lessen the warmth of his passion.
So when the king his father was dead, and he saw himself master, he declared his marriage publicly, and went in full state to visit the queen his wife in her castle. It was with all possible pomp and ceremony that he now made his entry into what was, after all, the old capital of the country.
Some time after he had become king, the prince went to make war upon his neighbour, the Emperor Cantalabutte. He left the management of the kingdom in the hands of the queen his mother, and told her to be kind to the young queen, whom he loved all the more since she had brought him two pretty children—a girl and a boy—whom he called Dawn and Day, because they were so beautiful. The king was to be away at the war all the summer, and no sooner had he gone than the queen-mother sent her daughter-in-law and the children to a country house in the woods, where she could more easily satisfy her horrible craving. She went there herself some days afterwards, and said one evening to her steward: “Master Simon, to-morrow I mean to eat little Dawn for my dinner.” “Oh, madam!” says the steward. “I wish it,” replies the queen-mother, in the tones of an ogress, hungry for fresh young victims.
The poor man, seeing that it would be no use trying to thwart an ogress, took his big knife and went up to little Dawn’s room. She was just four years old, and she ran to him, laughing and skipping, and threw her arms round his
