She has no hymn-book in her hand. She sitsthere with her ugly sorcery. Let us tear it in a thousand pieces."
  And then they pressed towards her, and would have destroyed thecoats of mail, but at the same moment eleven wild swans flew over her,and alighted on the cart. Then they flapped their large wings, and thecrowd drew on one side in alarm.
  "It is a sign from heaven that she is innocent," whispered many ofthem; but they ventured not to say it aloud.
  As the executioner seized her by the hand, to lift her out ofthe cart, she hastily threw the eleven coats of mail over the swans,and they immediately became eleven handsome princes; but theyoungest had a swan's wing, instead of an arm; for she had not beenable to finish the last sleeve of the coat.
  "Now I may speak," she exclaimed. "I am innocent."
  Then the people, who saw what happened, bowed to her, as beforea saint; but she sank lifeless in her brothers' arms, overcome withsuspense, anguish, and pain.
  "Yes, she is innocent," said the eldest brother; and then herelated all that had taken place; and while he spoke there rose in theair a fragrance as from millions of roses. Every piece of faggot inthe pile had taken root, and threw out branches, and appeared athick hedge, large and high, covered with roses; while above allbloomed a white and shining flower, that glittered like a star. Thisflower the king plucked, and placed in Eliza's bosom, when she awokefrom her swoon, with peace and happiness in her heart. And all thechurch bells rang of themselves, and the birds came in great troops.And a marriage procession returned to the castle, such as no kinghad ever before seen.
  THE END.
  1872
  FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
  THE WILL-O-THE WISP IS IN THE TOWN,
  SAYS THE MOOR WOMAN
  by Hans Christian Andersen
  THERE was a man who once knew many stories, but they had slippedaway from him- so he said. The Story that used to visit him of its ownaccord no longer came and knocked at his door. And why did it comeno longer? It is true enough that for days and years the man had notthought of it, had not expected it to come and knock; and if he hadexpected it, it would certainly not have come; for without there waswar, and within was the care and sorrow that war brings with it.
  The stork and the swallows came back from their long journey,for they thought of no danger; and, behold, when they arrived, thenest was burnt, the habitations of men were burnt, the hedges were allin disorder, and everything seemed gone, and the enemy's horses werestamping in the old graves. Those were hard, gloomy times, but theycame to an end.
  And now they were past and gone- so people said; yet no Story cameand knocked at the door, or gave any tidings of its presence.
  "I suppose it must be dead, or gone away with many otherthings," said the man.
  But the story never dies. And more than a whole year went by,and he longed- oh, so very much!- for the Story.
  "I wonder if the Story will ever come back again and knock?"
  And he remembered it so well in all the various forms in whichit had come to him, sometimes young and charming, like springitself, sometimes as a beautiful maiden, with a wreath of thyme in herhair, and a beechen branch in her hand, and with eyes that gleamedlike deep woodland lakes in the bright sunshine.
  Sometimes it had come to him in the guise of a peddler, and hadopened its box and let silver ribbon come fluttering out, withverses and inscriptions of old remembrances.
  But it was most charming of all when it came as an oldgrandmother, with silvery hair, and such large, sensible eyes. Sheknew so well how to tell about the oldest times, long before theprincesses spun with the golden spindles, and the dragons layoutside the castles, guarding them. She told with such an air oftruth, that black spots danced before the eyes of all who heard her,and the floor became black with human blood; terrible to see and tohear, and yet so entertaining, because such a long time had passedsince it all happened.
  "Will it ever knock at my door again?"