We hear him moaning, raving, ranting;

He pants, he shakes in every limb,

The light of day's obscured for him.

"Here, slaves!" he splutters, in a flurry.

"The maid is lost! She's disappeared!

Be off with you, you idlers, hurry!

If she's not found, with this my beard,

I jest not, I will have you strangled.

Beware!"

But let us leave the angered

Dwarf, reader, and I'll tell you where

Our maid has gone.... All night she pondered

Her fate, of danger well aware,

But as she wept she ... smiled. You'll wonder

Why so.... She'd met the dwarf, and he,

Despite the beard that she so hated,

Seemed a mere clown, and, you'll agree,

That fear and laughter are ill-mated.

Ludmila rises as the dawn

Is born, and morning's rays creep nearer,

Her sleepy gaze unconscious drawn

Toward a lofty, shining mirror.

Instinctively she lifts her tresses

From lily shoulders, o'er them passes,

As habit tells her to, her hands

And plaits the silky, golden strands.

The garments that she has been given

Lie in a corner. With a sigh

She starts to dress, is newly driven

To quiet tears, but keeps an eye

Upon the faithful glass wherein

She sees herself. A sudden whim

To put the dwarfs hat on now seizes