VII.
In the morn, the Cook called Luralai.
"Thou wilt answer me, and tell no lie:
Art thou versed in witchcraft, Thousand-furs?
For it seems thy soup the court prefers.
Tell me, didst thou not perform a spell
For to make its flavour taste so well?"
"Nay," said Lura, "I've no witch's art,
'Tis a recipe I've learned by heart."
"Aye," the Cook said, "But now explicate
Some gold trinket in the Prince's plate?"
Lura shook her head. "That I cannot.
Mayhap something fell into the pot."
"Never mind. – Tonight you shall repeat
That same stew the court so liked to eat."
So once more, as evening drew on near
Lura did the royal soup prepare,
But, into the dish for Faravel,
A spindle made of gold she cast as well.
Then she begged the Cook, "Do let me see
All the splendid jewels and finery!"
"Aye," laughed he, "but care to not be seen:
Thou couldst be mistaken for a Queen!"
To her quarters Luralai did race,
Thence to wash her sooty hands and face.
Next she drew a little leathern bag
(Well-disguised to look like some old rag)
From that bag she drew her silver box,
With a silver key she loosed its locks,
From that box a walnut shell she took,
This she cracked and opened. – Then she shook
From that husk her shining silver dress.
… Thousand-Furs once more becomes: Princess.