When Jean saw her, his face became as red as a drop of blood, and he
could scarcely utter a word. The princess looked exactly like the beautiful
lady with the golden crown, of whom he had dreamed on the night his
father died. She appeared to him so lovely that he could not help loving her.
“It could not be true,” he thought, “that she was really a wicked witch,
who ordered people to be hanged or beheaded, if they could not guess her
thoughts. Every one has permission to go and ask her hand, even the
poorest beggar. I shall pay a visit to the palace,” he said; “I must go, for I
cannot help myself.”
Then they all advised him not to attempt it; for he would be sure to share
the same fate as the rest. His fellow-traveller also tried to persuade him
against it; but Jean seemed quite sure of success. He brushed his shoes and
his coat, washed his face and his hands, combed his soft flaxen hair, and
then went out alone into the town, and walked to the palace.
