Now the Tyrant King sat gleefully upon his throne in a pleasant and kindly mood. The object of his long desire knelt bound and tied before him, helpless and at his command, and he relished it. Thus he spoke to Sylvanis in an affable way, with no small degree of praise. He told her of her beauty and her radiance—of how he had watched and adored her from afar. He told her how he longed for her, how he desired her, since first he saw her stand among the lilies of the palace. He told her that from this moment on she would be showered with riches and luxury, for herself and her family, because of how he loved her. And in return, he asked for Sylvanis to be his wife.

Sylvanis refused.

The Tyrant King smiled. He bid Sylvanis to consider where she was and to whom she spoke. He, the King, would have his wish in the end—he, the King, commanded all men. To resist him was a useless gesture; to anger him unwise. In such a mood as he found himself, he might even spare the boy who tried to steal his wildflower away. Who could refuse such an offer of amnesty? How stubborn must she be to shy away from such advances?

But Sylvanis again refused.

The Tyrant King sighed, dejected yet twistedly pleased—no wildflower worth plucking gave in without the roots resisting. With false guise of heavy heart and reluctance, he ordered the pair be thrown in the dungeon, separated, until they might reconsider. Though it pained him, so he claimed, he called for his guards to lock Sylvanis in the east dungeon, and for the boy, whom he did not call by name, to be thrown in the west.

They were taken down into darkness and torchlight and imprisoned—locked away.