So that night the King’s foster-brother took the Queen, and set out in the direction of the waste places and the hills. All the day following they journeyed, till toward evening they came to the head of a valley, where a wind came to them carrying the rich scent of flowers. The Queen lifted her head and took in a deep breath; then she said, “If I have to die, let me die under the scent of those flowers!” They went on till they came to a little garden lying in a curl of the valley. There in the centre of a lawn stood the great bush white with bloom, and a sweet fragrance blew out of it, filling all that space. “If I must die,” said the Queen again, “let me lie down and drink in the scent of those flowers; afterwards I shall not complain.” So the King’s foster-brother gave her leave to go and lie down under the tree, and sat down close at hand to keep watch, so that she should not escape. A small blue bird came and perched upon the bush over her head. “Syringa, Syringa!” cried the bird, and two white blossoms fell off like kisses upon the Queen’s face. She lifted her hands and threw kisses up to the flowers, and more and more they came down and settled upon her face. “Syringa, Syringa!” sang the bird; and, hearing it, the King’s foster-brother’s heart became ready to break for grief. The twilight deepened in the air around. All through the hours the bird sang on, and the flowers dropped down like pale tired moths in the dusk of the summer’s night, till where the Queen lay became white with a mass of blossoms that never stirred. The heart of the King’s foster-brother grew heavier; “What if, after all, she be not wicked but good! To-morrow at sunrise I must kill her.” “Syringa, Syringa!” cried the bird. Towards dawn he saw the tree all blossomless, only a great heap of petals, like a snow-covered grave, showed where the Queen lay; and the song of the bird had stopped. “If she sleeps now,” thought the King’s foster-brother, “it will be merciful.” He drew out his sharp hunting-knife, and went softly up to the spot to carry out the King’s command. So covered was she with blossoms, he could not tell which way lay her head; the heaviness of their dying scent almost made him swoon. Softly with his hand he brushed the petals apart to find a place where he might strike. How deeply they lay! They seemed to be without end here in the centre of all. Presently his hand came upon green grass bent with the weight of blossoms, and dank with dew. He shut his eyes and started away, for the colour and the touch made a strange sorrow in his heart, and he knew that the Queen was not there. He went away to the furthest part of the garden, and returned, and again searched, and still she was not there; only blossoms in a pile, and under them green grass. “Syringa, Syringa!” sang the bird; and now there was a sort of triumph in its note.