"Yes, it is," said she.
"But it isn't sharp," said the lad. "Just let me sharpen it for you, and then you'll find it easier work to kill me."
So she let him have the knife, and he began to rub and sharpen it on the whetstone.
"Just let me try it on one of your hair plaits; I think it's about right now."
So he got leave to do that; but at the same time that he grasped the plait of hair he pulled back her head, and at one gash cut off the Troll's daughter's head; and half of her he roasted and half of her he boiled, and served it all up.
After that he dressed himself in her clothes, and sat away in the corner.
So when the Troll came home with his guests, he called out to his daughter—for he thought all the time it was his daughter—to come and take a snack.
"No, thank you," said the lad, "I don't care for food. I'm so sad and downcast."
"Oh! " said the Troll, "if that's all, you know the cure; take the harp, and play a tune on it."
"Yes!" said the lad; "but where has it got to; I can't find it."
"Why, you know well enough," said the Troll; "you used it last; where should it be but over the door yonder?"
The lad did not wait to be told twice; he took down the harp, and went in and out playing tunes; but, all at once he shoved off the kneading-trough, jumped into it, and rowed off, so that the foam flew around the trough.
After a while the Troll thought his daughter was a long while gone, and went out to see what ailed her; and then he saw the lad in the trough, far, far out on the lake.
