“Indeed he ought,” said the queen.
To this they returned no answer, for they had none ready.
“Why did you not bring her at once to the palace,” pursued the king, “whether you knew her to be a princess or not? My proclamation left nothing to your judgment. It said every child.”
“We heard nothing of the proclamation, sire.”
“You ought to have heard,” said the king. “It is enough that I make proclamations; it is for you to read them. Are they not written in letters of gold upon the brazen gates of this palace?”
“A poor shepherd, your majesty—how often must he leave his flock, and go hundreds of miles to look whether there may not be something in letters of gold upon the brazen gates? We did not know that your majesty had made a proclamation, or even that the princess was lost.”
“You ought to have known,” said the king.
The shepherd held his peace.
“But,” said the queen, taking up the word, “all that is as nothing, when I think how you misused the darling.”
The only ground the queen had for saying thus, was what Agnes had told her as to how the princess was dressed; and her condition seemed to the queen so miserable, that she had imagined all sorts of oppression and cruelty.
But this was more than the shepherdess, who had not yet spoken, could bear.
“She would have been dead, and not buried, long ago, madam, if I had not carried her home in my two arms.”
“Why does she say her two arms?” said the king to himself. “Has she more than two? Is there treason in that?”
“You dressed her in cast-off clothes,” said the queen.
“I dressed her in my own sweet child’s Sunday clothes. And this is what I get for it!” cried the shepherdess, bursting into tears.
“And what did you do with the clothes you took off her? Sell them?”
“Put them in the fire, madam. They were not fit for the poorest child in the mountains. They were so ragged that you could see her skin through them in twenty different places.”
“You cruel woman, to torture a mother’s feelings so!” cried the queen, and in her turn burst into tears.
“And I’m sure,” sobbed the shepherdess, “I took every pains to teach her what it was right for her to know. I taught her to tidy the house and”—
“Tidy the house!” moaned the queen. “My poor wretched offspring!”
“And peel the potatoes, and”—
“Peel the potatoes!” cried the queen. “Oh, horror!”
“And black her master’s boots,” said the shepherdess.
“Black her master’s boots!” shrieked the queen. “Oh, my white-handed princess! Oh, my ruined baby!”
“What I want to know,” said the king, paying no heed to this maternal duel, but patting the top of his sceptre as if it had been the hilt of a sword which he was about to draw, “is, where the princess is now.”
The shepherd made no answer, for he had nothing to say more than he had said already.
“You have murdered her!” shouted the king. “You shall be tortured till you confess the truth; and then you shall be tortured to death, for you are the most abominable wretches in the whole wide world.”
“Who accuses me of crime?” cried the shepherd, indignant.
“I accuse you,” said the king; “but you shall see, face to face, the chief witness to your villany. Officer, bring the girl.”
Silence filled the hall while they waited. The king’s face was swollen with anger. The queen hid hers behind her handkerchief. The shepherd and shepherdess bent their eyes on the ground, wondering. It was with difficulty Rosamond could keep her place, but so wise had she already become that she saw it would be far better to let everything come out before she interfered.
At length the door opened, and in came the officer, followed by Agnes, looking white as death and mean as sin.
The shepherdess gave a shriek, and darted towards her with arms spread wide; the shepherd followed, but not so eagerly.
“My child! my lost darling! my Agnes!” cried the shepherdess.
“Hold them asunder,” shouted the king. “Here is more villany! What! have I a scullery-maid in my house born of such parents? The parents of such a child must be capable of anything. Take all three of them to the rack. Stretch them till their joints are torn asunder, and give them no water. Away with them!”
The soldiers approached to lay hands on them. But, behold! a girl all in rags, with such a radiant countenance that it was right lovely to see, darted between, and careless of the royal presence, flung herself upon the shepherdess, crying—
“Do not touch her. She is my good, kind mistress.”
But the shepherdess could hear or see no one but her Agnes, and pushed her away. Then the princess turned, with the tears in her eyes, to the shepherd, and threw her arms about his neck and pulled down his head and kissed him. And the tall shepherd lifted her to his bosom and kept her there, but his eyes were fixed on his Agnes.
“What is the meaning of this?” cried the king, starting up from his throne. “How did that ragged girl get in here? Take her away with the rest. She is one of them, too.”
But the princess made the shepherd set her down, and before anyone 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
