"Most dear and kind lady, think first that the heavens have preserved thee from the giant's rage ; then thou hast been delivered by my means from servitude, and lastly, remaining as thou dost in thy natural shape, thou mayst live to be the means of thy sisters' transformation. Dry then thine eyes, I pray thee."

After the woeful Thracian lady was comforted by the noble Christian champion, they resolved to travel to her father's Court, there to relate what happened to her sisters in the castle, likewise the overcoming of the giant, and her own safe delivery by the prowess of the Christian Knight. So, taking the keys of the castle, which were of a wonderful weight, they locked up the gates, and paced hand-in-hand down the steep mountain till they approached the Thracian Court, which was distant about ten miles. Coming to her father's castle, they heard a solemn sound of bells ringing a funeral knell. The cause of this they demanded of the porter, who answered them :

"Fair lady and most renowned knight, the cause of this ringing is for the loss of the King's seven daughters. The number of the bells are seven, called after the names of the seven princesses. Never have they ceased their doleful melody since the departure of the unhappy ladies, nor ever will until news be heard of their safe return."

"Then now their task is ended," said Rosalinde, "for we bring news of the seven princesses' abode."

At these words the porter ran in all haste to the steeple, and caused the bells to cease, whereat the King of Thracia, hearing the bells cease their wonted sound, suddenly started up, and like a man amazed ran to the Palace gate, where he found his daughter Rosalinde, in company of a strange Knight. His joy was so excessive that he swooned on his daughter's bosom. Then recovering, he brought them into his princely hall, and gave them honourable entertainment in the presence of the whole Court. But their joy was presently damped by Rosalinde's tale of her sisters. The good old King, when he heard how his daughters lived in the shape of milk-white swans, rent his locks of silver hair, tore his rich garments and clad his aged limbs in a dismal black mantle. He also commanded that his champions should wear, instead of glittering armour, raiment blacker than darkest night, and all the courtly ladies and Thracian maidens sad and heavy-coloured ornaments. Next morning, with a melancholy train, he set out on a pilgrimage to the giant's castle, there to mourn over the fate of his unhappy daughters.

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