When at length the wise woman again stopped and set her down, she saw around her a bright moonlit night, on a wide heath, solitary and houseless.  Here she felt more frightened than before; nor was her terror assuaged when, looking up, she saw a stern, immovable countenance, with cold eyes fixedly regarding her.  All she knew of the world being derived from nursery-tales, she concluded that the wise woman was an ogress, carrying her home to eat her.

I have already said that the princess was, at this time of her life, such a low-minded creature, that severity had greater influence over her than kindness.  She understood terror better far than tenderness.  When the wise woman looked at her thus, she fell on her knees, and held up her hands to her, crying,—­

“Oh, don’t eat me! don’t eat me!”

Now this being the best she could do, it was a sign she was a low creature.  Think of it—­to kick at kindness, and kneel from terror.  But the sternness on the face of the wise woman came from the same heart and the same feeling as the kindness that had shone from it before.  The only thing that could save the princess from her hatefulness, was that she should be made to mind somebody else than her own miserable Somebody.

Without saying a word, the wise woman reached down her hand, took one of Rosamond’s, and, lifting her to her feet, led her along through the moonlight.  Every now and then a gush of obstinacy would well up in the heart of the princess, and she would give a great ill-tempered tug, and pull her hand away; but then the wise woman would gaze down upon her with such a look, that she instantly sought again the hand she had rejected, in pure terror lest she should be eaten upon the spot.  And so they would walk on again; and when the wind blew the folds of the cloak against the princess, she found them soft as her mother’s camel-hair shawl.

After a little while the wise woman began to sing to her, and the princess could not help listening; for the soft wind amongst the low dry bushes of the heath, the rustle of their own steps, and the trailing of the wise woman’s cloak, were the only sounds beside.

And this is the song she sang:—­

        Out in the cold,
        With a thin-worn fold
        Of withered gold
        Around her rolled,
    Hangs in the air the weary moon. 
        She is old, old, old;
        And her bones all cold,
        And her tales all told,
        And her things all sold,
    And she has no breath to croon.

        Like a castaway clout,
        She is quite shut out! 
        She might call and shout,
        But no one about
    Would ever call back, “Who’s there?”
        There is never a hut,
        Not a door to shut,
        Not a footpath or rut,
        Long road or short cut,
    Leading to anywhere!