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;