not found
therein, then shall ye, the champions of the two usurpers, lose _your_
heads."

"It would be sacrilege to disturb the dead," said the knights. "We
cannot agree to the proposition."

But the people called out, "It is well said; 'tis a fair trial."

The two knights began to remonstrate, but their voices were drowned by
the herd, who wished the matter settled by the disinterment of the body.

When the commotion had ceased a little Hans lifted up his voice, and
said to the multitude, being instructed, as usual, by his spouse, "It is
the pleasure of the Princess Bertha, whom you now see before you, that
she be taken instantly to the presence of the arch-priest of this city,
who has known her well from infancy, and who baptised her. He, as you
all know, citizens, is a man of good repute. Should he recognise the
Princess Bertha, let her have her rights; but if he says it is another
like to her, let the coffin of the supposed defunct be opened publicly,
that all may be satisfied."

"Sacrilege, sacrilege!" cried the knights.

"No, no!" cried the populace; "the stranger knight has well said. It is
most fair. To the arch-priest, to the arch-priest!"

The crowd made room for Hans, and conducted him to the palace of the
arch-priest. When the good man saw this great crowd in front of his
palace he came out to demand the reason, and was informed that the
Princess Bertha, whom all believed to be dead, had returned to the city
with a champion who was ready to maintain her right to the crown,
provided that the arch-priest himself, who knew her well, should testify
to her identity.

"Show me this champion," said the priest.

Hans then rode up, and holding in his hand the diminutive princess,
placed her in the hands of the arch-priest.

The crowd pressed hard together while the aged priest took out his
spectacles and examined the tender form minutely.

"In good sooth," he exclaimed, "it is the Princess Bertha and none
other. My fair princess, what treachery has been at work to deprive thee
of thy rights?"

"You know me then, holy father?"

"Know thee, daughter," quoth the old man, tenderly. "Methinks it were
difficult to make a mistake."

"You hear then, O people," cried the little princess, straining her
feeble voice to its utmost pitch, till it resembled the squeaking of a
fife; "you hear that the venerable arch-priest has recognised me."

"Ay, ay, your royal highness; long life to you, and welcome to the
t