“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.”