A Double Story | Page 5

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