she hobbled toward the door. A moment later she dragged forth the trembling Goosegirl.
The Fiddler was amazed. Such beauty! Such pride! She was fit to sit upon a throne!
"Who are you, maiden?" he asked. "And how came you here?"
Slowly and sadly the words fell from the Goosegirl's lips. She knew not who she was. The Witch had told her to call her "Grandmother." More than that she could not say.
The Fiddler's eyes traveled from the Goosegirl to the hideous Witch and back again. This fair maid kin to that foul creature! No, no, it was not possible.
As if divining his thought, the Witch wagged her head maliciously and sneered:
"No, she is no kin of mine. But worse, far worse. You may know all. A hangman's daughter is she; that's it, a hangman's daughter."
"It is not true," shouted the Fiddler. Then turning to the weeping Goosegirl, he cried:
"Believe her not. Look at your hands, girl, your white, white hands, and your hair, your golden hair. There's nobility
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