The Troll did not dare to do otherwise than the lad bade him, and the
end of it was that the lad rolled down a great rock, which fell upon
the Troll, and broke one of his thighs.

'Well! you are in a sad plight', said the lad, as he strode down,
lifted up the rock, and set the man free. After that he had to put
him on his back and carry him home; so he ran with him as fast as a
horse, and shook him so that the Troll screamed and screeched as if a
knife were run into him. And when he got home, they had to put the
Troll to bed, and there he lay in a sad pickle.

When the night wore on the Troll began to talk to the old dame again,
and to wonder how ever they could be rid of the lad.

'Well', said the old dame, 'if you can't hit on a plan to get rid of
him, I'm sure I can't.'

'Let me see', said the Troll; 'I've got twelve lions in a garden; if
they could only get hold of the lad they'd soon tear him to pieces.'

So the old dame said it would be easy enough to get him there. She
would sham sick, and say she felt so poorly, nothing would do her any
good but lion's milk. All that the lad lay and listened to; and when
he got up in the morning his mother said she was worse than she
looked, and she thought she should never be right again unless she
could get some lion's milk.

'Then I'm afraid you'll be poorly a long time, mother', said the lad,
'for I'm sure I don't know where any is to be got.'