The fact, as is plain, was, that the princess had disappeared in the folds of the wise woman’s cloak.  When she rushed from the room, the wise woman caught her to her bosom and flung the black garment around her.  The princess struggled wildly, for she was in fierce terror, and screamed as loud as choking fright would permit her; but her father, standing in the door, and looking down upon the wise woman, saw never a movement of the cloak, so tight was she held by her captor.  He was indeed aware of a most angry crying, which reminded him of his daughter; but it sounded to him so far away, that he took it for the passion of some child in the street, outside the palace-gates.  Hence, unchallenged, the wise woman carried the princess down the marble stairs, out at the palace-door, down a great flight of steps outside, across a paved court, through the brazen gates, along half-roused streets where people were opening their shops, through the huge gates of the city, and out into the wide road, vanishing northwards; the princess struggling and screaming all the time, and the wise woman holding her tight.  When at length she was too tired to struggle or scream any more, the wise woman unfolded her cloak, and set her down; and the princess saw the light and opened her swollen eyelids.  There was nothing in sight that she had ever seen before.  City and palace had disappeared.  They were upon a wide road going straight on, with a ditch on each side of it, that behind them widened into the great moat surrounding the city.  She cast up a terrified look into the wise woman’s face, that gazed down upon her gravely and kindly.  Now the princess did not in the least understand kindness.  She always took it for a sign either of partiality or fear.  So when the wise woman looked kindly upon her, she rushed at her, butting with her head like a ram:  but the folds of the cloak had closed around the wise woman; and, when the princess ran against it, she found it hard as the cloak of a bronze statue, and fell back upon the road with a great bruise on her head.  The wise woman lifted her again, and put her once more under the cloak, where she fell asleep, and where she awoke again only to find that she was still being carried on and on.

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!

        She is all alone
        Like a dog-picked bone,
        The poor old crone! 
        She fain would groan,
    But she cannot find the breath. 
        She once had a fire;
        But she built it no higher,
        And only sat nigher
        Till she saw it expire;
    And now she is cold as death.

        She never will smile
        All the lonesome while. 
        Oh the mile after mile,
        And never a stile! 
    And never a tree or a stone! 
        She has not a tear: 
        Afar and anear
        It is all so drear,
        But she does not care,
    Her heart is as dry as a bone.

        None to come near her! 
        No one to cheer her! 
        No one to jeer her! 
        No one to hear her! 
    Not a thing to lift and hold! 
        She is always awake,
        But her heart will not break: 
        She can only quake,
        Shiver, and shake: 
    The old woman is very cold.

As strange as the song, was the crooning wailing tune that the wise woman sung.  At the first note almost, you would have thought she wanted to frighten the princess; and so indeed she did.  For when people will be naughty, they have to be frightened, and they are not expected to like it.  The princess grew angry, pulled her hand away, and cried, ­

“You are the ugly old woman.  I hate you!”

Therewith she stood still, expecting the wise woman to stop also, perhaps coax her to go on:  if she did, she was determined not to move a step.  But the wise woman never even looked about:  she kept walking on steadily, the same space as before.  Little Obstinate thought for certain she would turn; for she regarded herself as much too precious to be left behind.  But on and on the wise woman went, until she had vanished away in the dim moonlight.  Then all at once the princess perceived that she was left alone with the moon, looking down on her from the height of her loneliness.  She was horribly frightened, and began to run after the wise woman, calling aloud.  But the song she had just heard came back to the sound of her own running feet, ­

    All all alone,
    Like a dog-picked bone!

and again, ­

        She might call and shout,
        And no one about
    Would ever call back, “Who’s there?”

and she screamed as she ran.  How she wished she knew the old woman’s name, that she might call it after her through the moonlight!

But the wise woman had, in truth, heard the first sound of her running feet, and stopped and turned, waiting.  What with running and crying, however, and a fall or two as she ran, the princess never saw her until she fell right into her arms ­and the same moment into a fresh rage; for as soon as any trouble was over the princess was always ready to begin another.  The wise woman therefore pushed her away, and walked on; while the princess ran scolding and storming after her.  She had to run till, from very fatigue, her rudeness ceased.  Her heart gave way; she burst into tears, and ran on silently weeping.

A minute more and the wise woman stooped, and lifting her in her arms, folded her cloak around her.  Instantly she fell asleep, and slept as soft and as soundly as if she had been in her own bed.  She slept till the moon went down; she slept till the sun rose up; she slept till he climbed the topmost sky; she slept till he went down again, and the poor old moon came peaking and peering out once more:  and all that time the wise woman went walking on and on very fast.  And now they had reached a spot where a few fir-trees came to meet them through the moonlight.

At the same time the princess awaked, and popping her head out between the folds of the wise woman’s cloak ­a very ugly little owlet she looked ­saw that they were entering the wood.  Now there is something awful about every wood, especially in the moonlight; and perhaps a fir-wood is more awful than other woods.  For one thing, it lets a little more light through, rendering the darkness a little more visible, as it were; and then the trees go stretching away up towards the moon, and look as if they cared nothing about the creatures below them ­not like the broad trees with soft wide leaves that, in the darkness even, look sheltering.  So the princess is not to be blamed that she was very much frightened.  She is hardly to be blamed either that, assured the wise woman was an ogress carrying her to her castle to eat her up, she began again to kick and scream violently, as those of my readers who are of the same sort as herself will consider the right and natural thing to do.  The wrong in her was this ­that she had led such a bad life, that she did not know a good woman when she saw her; took her for one like herself, even after she had slept in her arms.

Immediately the wise woman set her down, and, walking on, within a few paces vanished among the trees.  Then the cries of the princess rent the air, but the fir-trees never heeded her; not one of their hard little needles gave a single shiver for all the noise she made.  But there were creatures in the forest who were soon quite as much interested in her cries as the fir-trees were indifferent to them.  They began to hearken and howl and snuff about, and run hither and thither, and grin with their white teeth, and light up the green lamps in their eyes.  In a minute or two a whole army of wolves and hyenas were rushing from all quarters through the pillar like stems of the fir-trees, to the place where she stood calling them, without knowing it.  The noise she made herself, however, prevented her from hearing either their howls or the soft pattering of their many trampling feet as they bounded over the fallen fir needles and cones.

One huge old wolf had outsped the rest ­not that he could run faster, but that from experience he could more exactly judge whence the cries came, and as he shot through the wood, she caught sight at last of his lamping eyes coming swiftly nearer and nearer.  Terror silenced her.  She stood with her mouth open, as if she were going to eat the wolf, but she had no breath to scream with, and her tongue curled up in her mouth like a withered and frozen leaf.  She could do nothing but stare at the coming monster.  And now he was taking a few shorter bounds, measuring the distance for the one final leap that should bring him upon her, when out stepped the wise woman from behind the very tree by which she had set the princess down, caught the wolf by the throat half-way in his last spring, shook him once, and threw him from her dead.  Then she turned towards the princess, who flung herself into her arms, and was instantly lapped in the folds of her cloak.

But now the huge army of wolves and hyenas had rushed like a sea around them, whose waves leaped with hoarse roar and hollow yell up against the wise woman.  But she, like a strong stately vessel, moved unhurt through the midst of them.  Ever as they leaped against her cloak, they dropped and slunk away back through the crowd.  Others ever succeeded, and ever in their turn fell, and drew back confounded.  For some time she walked on attended and assailed on all sides by the howling pack.  Suddenly they turned and swept away, vanishing in the depths of the forest.  She neither slackened nor hastened her step, but went walking on as before.

In a little while she unfolded her cloak, and let the princess look out.  The firs had ceased; and they were on a lofty height of moorland, stony and bare and dry, with tufts of heather and a few small plants here and there.  About the heath, on every side, lay the forest, looking in the moonlight like a cloud; and above the forest, like the shaven crown of a monk, rose the bare moor over which they were walking.  Presently, a little way in front of them, the princess espied a whitewashed cottage, gleaming in the moon.  As they came nearer, she saw that the roof was covered with thatch, over which the moss had grown green.  It was a very simple, humble place, not in the least terrible to look at, and yet, as soon as she saw it, her fear again awoke, and always, as soon as her fear awoke, the trust of the princess fell into a dead sleep.  Foolish and useless as she might by this time have known it, she once more began kicking and screaming, whereupon, yet once more, the wise woman set her down on the heath, a few yards from the back of the cottage, and saying only, “No one ever gets into my house who does not knock at the door, and ask to come in,” disappeared round the corner of the cottage, leaving the princess alone with the moon ­two white faces in the cone of the night.