But the princess made the shepherd set her down, and before any one could interfere she had run up the steps of the dais and then the steps of the king’s throne like a squirrel, flung herself upon the king, and begun to smother him with kisses.

All stood astonished, except the three peasants, who did not even see what took place.  The shepherdess kept calling to her Agnes, but she was so ashamed that she did not dare even lift her eyes to meet her mother’s, and the shepherd kept gazing on her in silence.  As for the king, he was so breathless and aghast with astonishment, that he was too feeble to fling the ragged child from him, as he tried to do.  But she left him, and running down the steps of the one throne and up those of the other, began kissing the queen next.  But the queen cried out,—­

“Get away, you great rude child!—­Will nobody take her to the rack?”

Then the princess, hardly knowing what she did for joy that she had come in time, ran down the steps of the throne and the dais, and placing herself between the shepherd and shepherdess, took a hand of each, and stood looking at the king and queen.

Their faces began to change.  At last they began to know her.  But she was so altered—­so lovelily altered, that it was no wonder they should not have known her at the first glance; but it was the fault of the pride and anger and injustice with which their hearts were filled, that they did not know her at the second.

The king gazed and the queen gazed, both half risen from their thrones, and looking as if about to tumble down upon her, if only they could be right sure that the ragged girl was their own child.  A mistake would be such a dreadful thing!

“My darling!” at last shrieked the mother, a little doubtfully.

“My pet of pets?” cried the father, with an interrogative twist of tone.

Another moment, and they were half way down the steps of the dais.

“Stop!” said a voice of command from somewhere in the hall, and, king and queen as they were, they stopped at once half way, then drew themselves up, stared, and began to grow angry again, but durst not go farther.

The wise woman was coming slowly up through the crowd that filled the hall.  Every one made way for her.  She came straight on until she stood in front of the king and queen.

“Miserable man and woman!” she said, in words they alone could hear, “I took your daughter away when she was worthy of such parents; I bring her back, and they are unworthy of her.  That you did not know her when she came to you is a small wonder, for you have been blind in soul all your lives:  now be blind in body until your better eyes are unsealed.”

She threw her cloak open.  It fell to the ground, and the radiance that flashed from her robe of snowy whiteness, from her face of awful beauty, and from her eyes that shone like pools of sunlight, smote them blind.