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Title: The Starlight Wonder Book

Author: Henry Beston

Illustrator: Maurice Day

Release Date: August 23, 2021 [eBook #66124]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STARLIGHT WONDER BOOK ***




THE STARLIGHT WONDER BOOK




[Illustration: _Long and hard fought Thyrza, and presently a great gust
of the gale swept her against the Bell of the Sea_]




  _The_ STARLIGHT WONDER BOOK

  _By_ HENRY B. BESTON


  AUTHOR OF
  _The_ FIRELIGHT FAIRY BOOK

[Illustration]

  WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY MAURICE DAY

  _The_ ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS
  BOSTON




  COPYRIGHT 1923 BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS, INC.


  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




  _To_
  MISS MABEL DAVISON
  MY WAR-TIME GODMOTHER
  _with the_
  HOMAGE
  _and_
  GRATEFUL AFFECTION
  _of_
  H·B·B·


[Illustration]




 CONTENTS


                                               PAGE
 THE BRAVE GRENADIER                              3
 THE PALACE OF THE NIGHT                         21
 THE ENCHANTED BABY                              45
 THE TWO MILLERS                                 69
 THE ADAMANT DOOR                                89
 THE CITY OF THE WINTER SLEEP                   110
 AILEEL AND AILINDA                             131
 THE WONDERFUL TUNE                             151
 THE MAN OF THE WILDWOOD                        174
 THE MAIDEN OF THE MOUNTAIN                     193
 THE BELL OF THE EARTH AND THE BELL OF THE SEA  215
 THE WOOD BEYOND THE WORLD                      239




 ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                    PAGE

 THE BELL OF THE EARTH AND THE BELL OF THE SEA
 _Long and hard fought Thyrza, and presently a great gust of the
 gale swept her against the Bell of the Sea_                Frontispiece

 THE BRAVE GRENADIER
 _Suddenly the soldier’s foot dislodged a piece of clattering stone,
 and the hippodrac awoke_                                             13

 THE PALACE OF THE NIGHT
 _The image in the mirror stood still_                                35

 THE ENCHANTED BABY
 _Over hill, over dale, in a long straight line, fled the Master
 Thief with the golden perambulator_                                  57

 THE TWO MILLERS
 _He lifted a moistened finger to the air. Good heavens, there wasn’t
 a breath of wind!_                                                   85

 THE ADAMANT DOOR
 _Summoning up all his courage, Hugh threw open the adamant door_    105

 THE CITY OF THE WINTER SLEEP
 _The runaway Princess stepped forth into the dark street and, taper
 in hand, hurried to the gate of the city wall_                      117

 AILEEL AND AILINDA
 _And now, all at once, there were cries and shouts of alarm. “Run!
 Run, everybody! The bird! Oh, see the bird!”_                       149

 THE WONDERFUL TUNE
 _“No, I do not agree with you,” shouted the Lord Organist_          171

 THE MAN OF THE WILDWOOD
 _Before him stood the Man of the Wildwood_                          187

 THE MAIDEN OF THE MOUNTAIN
 _For a long moment Leoline, awed yet unafraid, gazed at the Giant
 of the Mountain_                                                    203

 THE BELL OF THE EARTH AND THE BELL OF THE SEA
 _And stowing the Bell of the Earth in the hold of his ship, the
 young Captain sailed eastward and southward through the sea_        229

 THE WOOD BEYOND THE WORLD
 _Fidelia knelt at the edge of the pool, and filled her golden cup
 with the waters of memory_                                          257




THE STARLIGHT WONDER BOOK




THE BRAVE GRENADIER


Once upon a time, during a great battle which was fought through the
night in a tempest of lightning and rain, a brave young grenadier came
upon one of the enemy lying sorely wounded on the field. Taking pity
upon his foeman, the soldier bound up his wounds and carried him from
the battle to the shelter of a little wood. Scarce had the wounded
youth opened his eyes, when amid a blinding flash of lightning and
a peal of tumbling thunder, a green chariot drawn by green dragons
rushed downward through the hurrying clouds and sank to earth at the
soldier’s side. Bidding the dragons be still, a tall, dark, and stately
man wearing a long green mantle descended from the chariot, took the
wounded lad in his arms, and thus addressed the grenadier:--

“Generous friend, to you I owe the life of my youngest son. I am the
Enchanter of the Green Glen. Take you this little green wand in memory
of the great debt I owe you. Whatsoever you strike once with it will
continue to grow larger till you cry ‘stop’; whatsoever you strike
twice with it will grow smaller till you bid the magic cease. Farewell,
brave soldier, and may good fortune walk forever by your side.”

Then, wrapping his wide green mantle about the body of his son, the
Wizard bade his scaly, yellow-eyed dragons be on their way, and
vanished on high in the tempest and the dark.

And now the wars were over and done, and the soldier found himself
mustered out and turned loose to earn his living in the world. Still
clad in his grenadier’s uniform, and wearing his blue greatcoat
buttoned close about him, he slung his knapsack to his shoulder,
fastened it to his belt in front by crossed straps of white leather,
put on his big shiny hat, and turned from the camp over the hills and
far away.

It was the early autumn of the year: great roaring gusts swept by
overhead, singing shrilly through the withered leaves still clinging to
the branches, apples lay red ripe in the frost-nipped grass, and the
country folk were gleaning in the stubble of the fields. On through the
villages went the soldier, hoping to find work for the winter among the
farms; he knocked at this door and at that, but ever in vain. Presently
the mighty summits of the Adamant Mountains, gleaming with new-fallen
snow, rose beyond the bare woods and the lonely fields. Following the
great royal road, the soldier tramped on into the very heart of the
mountain mass.

“Perhaps I shall meet with better luck in the kingdoms beyond the
peaks,” thought the grenadier, as he trudged along. How still it was!
Now the soldier could hear the roaring of the river in the gorge below
the road, now the cry of the eagles circling high above some desolate
crag.

At high noon on the third day, the soldier arrived at the brazen
column which marks the descent of the royal road to the kingdoms beyond
the hills. A biting wind, keen with the smell of snow, blew from the
surrounding peaks, and made the soldier very hungry indeed. Sheltering
himself against the giant column, he slipped his knapsack from his
shoulder, and looked within for the last of the bread and cheese which
a good wife of the mountain villages had given him the day before.
Alas, there was but the tiniest crust of bread to be found, and the
littlest crumb of cheese! Suddenly, as he fished about in the sack, the
grenadier discovered the little green wand. He had quite forgotten it.
A notion came into his head to try the magic, and he struck the bit of
bread one smart tap.

The moment he did so, the fragment of bread bounced a few inches into
the air, and fell back to the ground; soon it was the size of a loaf
of bread; a moment or two later the loaf had grown to the size of a
table; soon the mass of bread was the size of a small house. And it
was growing, growing, growing.

“Stop!” cried the soldier. The magic ceased. The soldier struck the
mountain of bread _twice_.

Again it leaped into the air, but this time it began to grow less. Like
to a candle end in the fire, it began to vanish before the soldier’s
eyes. Presently it was once more the size of a generous loaf, and thus
the soldier bade it remain. Next he enchanted the bit of cheese to an
ample size, and found himself provided with victuals fit for a king.
Later, when he had eaten his fill, he amused himself by enchanting a
pebble into a great rock. And that rock may be seen in the Adamant
Mountains _to this very day_!

At the end of a week’s journey the soldier reached the Golden Plain,
which lies between the Adamant Mountains and the sea.

Now at the time of the soldier’s arrival, the people of the Golden
Plain were being day by day swept to hunger and ruin by the devastation
wrought throughout their land by a hippodrac. Driven by hunger, so
some thought, from its stony lair in the forests of the sun, this
terrible creature had suddenly swooped down on the harvest fields a
month before, and had roamed the land till the precious grain had for
the most part been consumed or destroyed. Worse yet, the hippodrac was
even then breaking open the royal granaries, in which lay such grain as
the citizens had been able to store away.

This terrible creature, I must tell you, was a kind of fearsome winged
horse. It was larger than any earthly animal, black as midnight in
color, and armored over the chest and head with a sheath of dragon’s
scales. Add to this a pair of giant wings, black and lustrous as
a raven’s, a wicked horse-like head with huge jaws, hoofs of blue
steel, and an appetite like a devouring flame, and you will see that
the people of the Golden Plain had true cause for alarm. Black wings
outspread, blue hoofs plunging, roaring from the fiery pits of its
violet nostrils, the hippodrac was master in the land.

In the hope of ridding themselves of the monster, the people of the
Golden Plain offered a huge treasure to whosoever might conquer the
invader. In true soldier fashion the grenadier resolved to fight the
hippodrac, and win fame and fortune at a blow.

Now the Lord Chancellor of the realm, who ruled the land during the
minority of the Princess Mirabel, had no intention whatever of paying
the promised reward. Not only had this wicked man stolen so much money
from the royal treasury that scarce was a penny left, but also was he
miserly, cruel, and avaricious. Torn between fear of the hippodrac
and fear of having to empty his own money-bags of the stolen gold in
order to pay the reward, the Chancellor wandered back and forth all day
through the castle halls. Thus far, however, no one had ever returned
to claim the treasure.

After talking with some who had seen the hippodrac, the soldier
retired to a little inn to make his plans. Sitting alone in a great
settle by the fire, he watched the flames grow ruddier as the afternoon
sun sank below the western hills. Presently it was night, a night
quiet, cool, and bright with great winter stars.

The grenadier made his way unobserved out of the royal city, and soon
arrived in the midst of the ruined and trampled fields. Here the grain
had been gathered, bound in sheaves, and left to perish when the
harvesters fled; here the uncut stalks had withered in the ground; here
stood a house from which everyone had run for his life. Presently the
soldier beheld, standing apart on a lonely hill, the crumbling towers
of the ruined castle which served as the hippodrac’s den.

A late, wasted, half-moon began to rise. The soldier made his way up
the slope, and peered through the doorless portal into the moonlit ruin.

At the end of the great entrance-hall of the castle, its monstrous
head resting on the lowest step of the winding stair which led to the
roofless banqueting-hall above, lay the monster. The rays of the waning
moon, slanting through the broken tracery of a great window, fell on
its vast bulk; a rumbling breathing alone disturbed the starry silence
of the night.

“I must make my way down those stairs,” said the grenadier to himself,
and crept off to seek a way to the banqueting hall above. Finally he
managed to find a little stairway in a ruined turret. Creeping along
softly, ever so softly, over the floor of the banqueting hall, he
reached the head of the great stair and looked down its curving steps
to the monster asleep below. Then, step by step by step, the grenadier
approached the hippodrac.

Suddenly the soldier’s foot dislodged a piece of clattering stone. The
hippodrac awoke with a scream, but the soldier struck it _two_ swift
taps with the little green wand.

The instant he did so, the hippodrac uttered a cry of fright and rage
which waked the good folk of the city in their beds, and bounced, wings
beating wildly, in the air. The grenadier took refuge at the head of
the balustrade. Smaller and smaller grew the furious and bewildered
beast. Now it had shrunk to the size of a pony, now it had dwindled to
the size of a dog, now it was scarce larger than a kitten.

“Stop!” cried the grenadier. Wild with fright, the tiny monster took
wing, and fluttered like a terrified bird into a corner of the ruins.
And there, beating about and flapping its wings madly, the grenadier
caught it in his high hat, and shook it into his knapsack. This done,
he walked swiftly back to the inn, and went to bed.

Now one of the Lord Chancellor’s rascals had been on watch for his
return, and when the grenadier returned with the light of victory in
his eyes, this spy ran to inform his rogue of a master. Suspecting
magic of some kind, the wicked Chancellor made his way to the inn, and
stole the green wand while the soldier slept.

[Illustration: _Suddenly the soldier’s foot dislodged a piece of
clattering stone, and the hippodrac awoke_]

Early the next morning, the soldier sent word to the counselors of
court that he had mastered the hippodrac, and waited their good
pleasure to prove the truth of his word. Within a very short time a
royal messenger appeared, summoning him before the assembled court at
the tenth hour.

And now the soldier, carrying the tiny hippodrac in his knapsack, was
led to the judgment hall of the royal palace. The Princess Mirabel sat
on the throne of the realm, whilst the Lord Chancellor stood by her
side, a smile of triumph on his wicked lips. But the soldier had eyes
only for the young Princess, who was as fair as the first wild rose of
the year. As for the Princess, it must be confessed that she thought
the stalwart young grenadier with the black hair and the blue eyes
quite the most pleasant person she had ever seen.

Simply and modestly the grenadier told the story of his capture of the
hippodrac. Leaning forward a little, the Princess listened eagerly.

“And your proof of this--?” questioned the Lord Chancellor.

“Is here,” replied the grenadier, and opening his knapsack, he took
from it the hippodrac and placed it on the carpet just before the
throne. As the soldier had taken the precaution to clip the monster’s
wings, the tiny thing could do naught but dance with rage on its little
blue hoofs, and lash out madly right and left in a frenzy of fear.
A murmur of astonishment rose from the assembly. There was a great
craning of necks. All present looked at the Lord Chancellor to hear
what he might say.

“That little thing, the great hippodrac?” said the Lord Chancellor,
evilly. “Pooh! ’T is a juggler’s kitten, rather. I shall give no reward
for this.”

“You dare?” cried the grenadier fiercely. “Wait!” And he reached in his
pocket for the little green wand, but, alas, the little green wand was
gone.

“Pooh!” said the Chancellor again, watching, with contented eyes, the
poor grenadier madly thrusting his hands into every pocket, “You see he
cannot do as he pretends. The fellow is an impostor. Ho, guards! Take
this rogue and his dancing kitten off to prison.”

“But it looks like the hippodrac,” protested the Princess.

“No! Not a bit of it, not a bit of it!” roared the Chancellor. And
he quickly silenced all those who were fain to see justice done, by
threatening to send any objector to the royal diamond-mines in the
Adamant Mountains.

Left to himself in a lonely cell of the royal prison, the poor
grenadier awaited the day of his departure for the mines. Finding the
time hang heavy on his hands, he amused himself by trying to tame
the tiny hippodrac. To his surprise and pleasure, the fierce little
creature made a swift response. Soon it was eating crumbs from his
hand. In a fortnight it could spell out words and letters by tapping
the floor with its right foreleg! And day by day, its clipped wings
grew once more to full size.

“Oh, if you could only get me my green wand again!” said the soldier
one morning.

At these words, the hippodrac beat an excited tattoo on the table, and
before the soldier could seize it, spread its little gleaming wings,
and fled through the barred window out into the world.

All day long the soldier waited its return. “It has flown away
forever,” he thought, as twilight fell. A moment later, however, he
heard a whir of tiny wings, and the hippodrac returned, the little
green wand in its jaws. You may well believe that the soldier was
overjoyed! That very night he found means to send a petition to the
Princess, asking to be brought before her that he might at last prove
the truth of his story.

Now the Chancellor, knowing that his wicked scheme had succeeded,
and never dreaming of the possibility of the grenadier’s escape, had
gone a-hunting: so the Princess took matters into her own hands, and
next morning summoned the grenadier before the court. Alas! Just as
the grenadier reached the throne, the Chancellor, hastily summoned by
another of his rascally spies, came striding angrily into the judgment
hall.

“What means this?” he roared. “How came that fellow to be out of
prison? Ho, guards, take him back at once!”

“No!” said the little Princess bravely. “I believe in him, and he shall
have justice in my realm!”

“Do you dare defy me?” cried the Chancellor. “Guards, do your duty! I
am Regent here.”

A handful of soldiers strode toward the grenadier. With a smile on his
lips and in his eyes, the grenadier struck the hippodrac _one_ smart
tap with the magic wand.

The creature bounced, and instantly began to increase in size; suddenly
it snorted fiercely and reared on its hind legs; once again it screamed
even such a scream as it had uttered when the grenadier enchanted it
in the ruined castle. People began to fly pell-mell in every direction.
Only Mirabel, who was a lass of spirit, stood her ground.

When the hippodrac had reached its full size, the soldier cried “Stop!”
Then, for a moment, the monster and the man gazed directly into each
other’s eyes. The soldier still smiled.

_The hippodrac had understood._

Uttering now the angriest cry of all, the creature darted forward, and
seized the Lord Chancellor by the scruff of his ugly neck. Then opening
wide its giant wings, it leaped up on all four legs, and flying down
the vast hall, crashed through a great window and out into the freedom
of the cloudless sky. So terrified was it by its experiences, that it
flew back to its lair in the forests of the sun, and never bothered
anybody any more.

On the way home, while flying at a great height, it got bored with
carrying the Lord Chancellor and let him drop. No one has since heard
of this personage. No one ever will.

When the excitement subsided, the citizens hailed the grenadier as
the preserver of their country and offered him the treasure which the
Chancellor had stolen away. But the grenadier had already found a
treasure much more to his liking--the Princess Mirabel. The handsome
young couple were married with great pomp and ceremony on New Year’s
day.

And thus the brave grenadier became a king, and with Mirabel by his
side, ruled over the Golden Plain for many a long and happy year.




THE PALACE OF THE NIGHT


Once upon a time there was an Emperor of the Isles, who had but one
son, the Prince Porphyrio. On the day which beheld the Prince’s coming
of age, the Emperor summoned the youth to his council chamber, and said
to him:--

“Dear son, when you were a little child, I pledged to you the hand of
the Lady Liria, daughter of my friend and ally, the Emperor of the
Plain. You are now of age, and I would fain send you forth to find the
Princess and win her for your own.”

Then replied the tall, golden-haired Prince, “Dear father, give me but
a brave ship and a gallant crew, and I will this very eve set sail for
the Emperor’s city and greet the Lady Liria.”

Pleased with this speech, the Emperor gave orders that a fine ship be
swiftly prepared for the voyage. And this was done.

And now it was night, and the vessel lay waiting, her sails gleaming
green-white in the moonlight, her ladder shrouds gently swaying against
the pale and starry sky. When came the ebb of the midnight tide, the
anchors were weighed, the great sails trimmed to the breeze, and the
vessel piloted forth to the measureless plain of the sea.

Now it came to pass, as the great ship sped upon her furrowed way, that
Porphyrio took it into his head to visit the Fair of the Golden Bear,
and fled before the wind to the festival city. Little by little--for
the air was but light--the ship left behind her the blue of the deeps,
and entered the green waters of the shallows. Suddenly there was a
cry of “Land Ho!” and from afar, over the landward hastening waves,
Porphyrio beheld the great tower of the Fair. A giant golden image of
a bear, standing erect, crowned the high tower-top, and shone dully
bright above the haze.

At sundown the Prince, accompanied by his mariners, found himself in
the midst of the great Fair, in the very heart of the din, the medley
of outlandish costumes, the babel of strange tongues, and the shrill
cries of the shopmen and the merchants. Surely there was never such a
market place as the Fair of the Golden Bear!

Everything in the world was there to be bought and sold. At one booth
a venerable man in a scholar’s gown and velvet cap sold words--rare
words, rich words, strange words, beautiful words, and drove a brisk
trade with a crowd of poets and lovers; at another an old woman in
green sold rosy glasses to those who were at outs with the world; and
at still another a joyous fellow in blue offered sunbeams, which he had
caught in a mirror and imprisoned in bits of magic glass.

Porphyrio was quite delighted with the sunbeams, which shone night
and day, like diamonds aflame with golden fires. “The Lady Liria will
surely be pleased with one of these,” thought he, and purchased the
finest of all.

Now it came to pass that, as he walked about the Fair with his retinue
of sailor-men, Porphyrio caught sight of a rustic fellow in brown
corduroys who was carrying a sea bird in a wicker cage. And because he
loved the wild folk of the sea, the Prince said to the countryman:--

“Good friend, whither go you with your bird?”

“To the animal merchants, sir,” replied the fellow. “’Tis a wild bird
which I found in my field on a morning after a storm. Only look, sir;
it wears a circle of feathers on its head, for all the world like a
crown.”

“Why, so it does!” said the young Prince. “Come, will you sell him to
me?”

“Oh yes, indeed, sir,” replied the countryman. “’Tis yours for a florin
of gold and a penny of silver.” And he held out his hand for the sum.

“Good!” said Porphyrio, and he paid the money. Then, to the
countryman’s amazement, he threw open the door of the cage, and
allowed the sea bird to escape. With a glad cry, and a mighty beating
of its gray wings, the creature climbed into a splendor of the sunset,
dwindled to a black speck, and vanished from their eyes.

Once more the Prince set sail. For a few days the weather remained
tranquil and fair. Then came a night of cloud, and a rushing wind,
which increased during the day to a hurricane. Now arose a great din,
the howling of the wind through the shrouds, the cracking and straining
of the timbers of the ship, the cries of the sailors, and the roaring
and foaming of the deep. All night long, through the wild ocean dark,
the Prince’s ship drifted nearer and nearer the unknown waters of the
Southern Sea. Suddenly, just before the dawn, a tremendous noise was
heard; the vessel trembled throughout her length, and crashing down
once more on a hidden reef, broke apart. A huge wave swept Porphyrio
from the deck, some wreckage hurled itself upon him, and he knew no
more.

When he woke again, close upon noon, he found that the waves had
carried him to the stony beach of a dark and unknown isle. A stately
wall of cliffs of the strangest dark-blue stone girdled it about; to
the left, to the right, the rampart swept, solemn, unscalable, and
huge. One broken mast of the Prince’s ship still rose forlorn above the
tumbling waters on the reefs; but of the gallant crew there was never a
sign. With a heavy heart Porphyrio trudged off to look for shelter and
for aid. Long hours followed he the curving shore, even till the sun,
which had been shining in his face, little by little crept to the side
and shone behind, yet never a way to the headland’s height stood forth
in the sheer and sombre wall.

And now, of a sudden, and by great good fortune,--for the tide was
rising,--Porphyrio, turning the base of an advancing crag, found
himself close by a noble promontory that sloped from the cliff-top to
foundations in the sea. Half climbing, half dragging himself along the
stones and terraces of this ridge, the Prince attained at last the
height of the blue wall.

A great dark isle lay open before him--a solitary isle of shadowy
lands, gloomy woods, and rocks and hillocks of the same dark stone he
had marked before. Save for the faint murmur of the encircling sea
below and the sighing of the wind, the isle was as silent as a land
beneath the deep: indeed, so still and dark it was, that it seemed as
if the night reigned there, forever untroubled by the day. In the very
heart of the gloom, its mighty walls and blue battlements lifted high
against cloud mountains gathered in the west, a stately palace rose.

After a long, winding journey through a wood dark as a leafy cave,
Porphyrio arrived at the portals of the dwelling.

The palace was as silent as a stone. Of silver were its massy doors,
and they were sealed and barred, and from turret to foundation stone
its windows were with silver shutters closed against the day. Not a
sign or a memory of living things was there to be seen.

Wondering in his heart at the mystery, Porphyrio presently made his way
into a noble garden, wherein were pools and basins of blue water rimmed
about with silver, and tall, dark trees stately as night. Again to his
wonderment, the Prince beheld that the flowers in the garden were such
as opened only in the night--the pale, fragrant jasmine hid there, the
moonflower dreamed, and the shy star-daisy gathered her petals before
her face.

Suddenly the Prince heard steps behind him, and turning swiftly, beheld
a fair Princess gazing at him with eyes in which wonder, alarm, and
hope might all be seen.

“Speak! Who are you? What do you here?” said the Princess quickly.

To this Porphyrio replied that he was a prince who had been shipwrecked
on a voyage. And he told the Princess of his adventures.

“Alas,” replied the lady, “You have come to the dark land! Know you
not into whose power you have fallen? This dark isle is the dwelling
of the Magician of the Night, who rules the fairy world from sunset to
the morn. When comes the dawn, his mighty power wanes, and he and his
people of the night hasten to this locked and shuttered palace, here to
lie hidden from the sunlight which is their enemy and deadly fear. I
alone go forth, for I, alas, am a mortal. But hearken to my story.

“I am the Princess Liria (Porphyrio started). My father is the Emperor
of the Plain. On midsummer eve, as I was walking with my handmaidens
in the garden, a messenger from my father arrived bidding me come at
once to the great hall of state. I obeyed the message, and going to the
hall, found there the Magician of the Night, who had just presented
a haughty petition for my hand. Because of his fear of the Magician,
my father was very ill at ease. All looked to me for an answer. I
replied courteously that, though I felt highly honored at the demand,
I nevertheless felt bound to refuse, for I had been affianced since
childhood to another. For you must know, good Prince, that my father
was long the true friend and ally of the Emperor of the Isles, and had
pledged my hand to his only son, the Prince Porphyrio.

“Would that this were all I had to tell! But--woe to me!--scarce had
the Magician, with a mocking smile, bowed low and disappeared into
the night, when a terrible storm of his contriving descended upon our
unfortunate city, overturning our tallest towers and strewing ruin far
and wide. Our torches quenched by the rain and wind, my maidens and I
took refuge in a great chamber of the north turret. At the height of
the storm the wind suddenly burst open the double portals, there came
a great flash of lightning and a roar of thunder, and I beheld the
Magician standing tall and motionless between the doors, surrounded by
a dozen of his creatures of the night. I cried out, but his servants
seized me and led me forth; great wings bore me upward through the very
torment of the heavens, a darkness fell on me, and I knew no more.
When I awoke, I found myself here in the Palace of the Night.

“Farewell, dear land of the Golden Plain, whose harvests I shall never
more see! Farewell, dear Prince Porphyrio of the Isles!”

“But I am Porphyrio!” cried the Prince, “and I was on my way to find
you, noble Liria, when the storm swept me to this isle.”

You may be sure the heart of the Princess leaped when she heard these
tidings!

Forgetting that he was himself but a shipwrecked wanderer much in need
of aid, the Prince, like the brave fellow that he was, could think of
nothing but of rescuing his lady from the dark magician; as for the
Princess, she could think of naught but the plight of Porphyrio, tossed
friendless and forlorn upon the isle. But at length she shook her head
and smiled.

“To-day,” said she, “is mine, and to-morrow also; but the Magician
has bidden me be prepared for the wedding feast by sundown on the
following day. But, look, the shield of the sun breaks the storm clouds
close above the waters; twilight approaches; the hour of the magician
is at hand; you must go. Hide yourself well to-night, and come to the
garden to-morrow when the chimes ring thrice. On yon dark wall you will
find some strangely shaped fruits growing; fear not to eat of them when
you hunger. Liria the Unhappy bids you farewell, Prince Porphyrio.”

“Farewell, Princess,” replied Porphyrio. “Do not despair. We shall yet
outwit the dark Magician!”

       *       *       *       *       *

And now the Prince lay hid in the heart of a great tree, watching
the doors and windows of the palace slowly opening in the twilight.
Suddenly huge bells swung forth in waves of heavy sound, strange
music played, and the thousand windows filled with the magic glow of
moon-fire. All night long the people of the night held festival; but
at the break of dawn the silver windows closed slowly on their hinges,
the music grew faint, and the murmur died away.

On the second afternoon the Prince, in his impatience, came early
to the shadowy garden. The Princess Liria was not to be found, so
Porphyrio wandered away into the dark alleys by the pools. Suddenly
he found himself looking at his own reflection in a huge round mirror
which two marble statues supported between them, one at each side.
Happening to move a little, the Prince discovered that his reflection
did not move! He lifted an arm, the image remained motionless; he shook
his head, the mirror gave no sign. Puzzled, Porphyrio left the spot,
and saw his reflection remaining behind the glass.

Presently he heard the welcome footsteps of Liria. And as the lovers
walked and talked and discussed plans of escape, the Prince chanced
to tell of the mirror he had found. Uttering a little gasp of alarm,
the Princess cried: “Now we are lost indeed! Yon mirror is a mirror of
memory, and reveals to the Magician the faces of those who walk these
paths. As soon as he sees your reflection therein,--and he gazes into
the glass every eve,--his demons will be sent in search of you. There
is one hope and one only.

“Go you once more to the sea; follow the cliff for a league to the
west of the promontory, and you will find at its base the opening of
an ocean cave. When you arrive there the tide will be at half-flood,
and the entrance will still be visible above the waves. Fight your way
within and climb to the cavern’s height. Little by little the rising
tide will seal the portal and hide you from the search. Make haste,
dear Porphyrio, for there is not an instant to lose! Oh, that I had
warned you!”

[Illustration: _The image in the mirror stood still_]

Ragingly angry with himself for being a meddlesome fool, Porphyrio
hurried down to the sea and sought out the cave. Twilight was at hand;
the tide was rising fast, already the entrance was almost closed by
the sea. Buffeted by the breakers and tossed against the cliff as he
strode, the Prince at length made his way into the cave and climbed to
a shelf of rock above the height of the tide. A few minutes later, the
water closed the entrance completely, thus imprisoning Porphyrio in a
hollow darkness through which the ebb and flow of the outer sea swept
with chuckles and whispering laughter. All night long waited Porphyrio
in the cold, watery dark.

Toward the end of the Prince’s vigil, the earth suddenly shook, the
waters hushed, and through the silence and the dark Porphyrio heard the
long thunder of a mighty overthrow.

“What can that be?” thought he.

When the first red rays of the sun streamed along the rocky floor of
the cave, Porphyrio descended from his refuge, and walked out of the
cave-mouth to the sea.

Now, as Porphyrio walked along the shore, it came to pass that he
discerned, deeply embedded in the bluish sands and lashed about with
ropes of matted weed, the splendid painted chest which had lain in his
cabin on the ship. Its brazen lock, though tarnished by the waters, was
still highly clasped; but sea and stone had broken the wood loose from
the hasps, and the Prince had little difficulty in raising the lid.
With a rueful smile he gazed down into his robes and fine array lying
musty and sand-strewn within. There lay his prince’s circlet of gold,
here his jeweled sword of state, here the rich gifts he had meant for
the Princess Liria. And among these, tucked away in the very corner of
the chest, Porphyrio found the sunbeam he had purchased at the Fair of
the Golden Bear.

“Were Liria armed with this,” cried he, “the Magician of the Night
could not prevail against her!” At the thought, a new strength
leaped in his weary heart, and he hurried along the cliff toward the
promontory. The storm had now cleared away, the ocean thundered and
broke into silvery white foam at the foot of the blue ramparts, and the
Isle of the Night raised itself defiantly against a bright and royal
sun.

The Magician, however, had not been idle. The mirror had told its
story; a search had been made; a legion of creatures had sought
Porphyrio in every corner of the isle. Compelled by the approach of
dawn to abandon this pursuit, the Magician resolved to render the
island unapproachable from the sea. With a spell of tremendous power
he caused the promontory to break from the other cliff and fall in
scattered and monstrous ruin to the beach below. It was the thunder of
this overthrow which had shaken the earth and sounded through the cave.

As a last precaution, the Magician forbade Liria to leave the Palace of
the Night, and locked and sealed the doors and windows, every one.

Presently the Prince, hastening along the beach, came in sight of the
ruined headland, and a great fear laid its icy hand on his heart as
he beheld the triumph of his enemy. How was he to reach the headland
height? The cliff-wall now circled the entire island without a break.
League after league he trudged, along the shore, through the tide,
searching, searching for some way to scale the overhanging walls.
Higher and higher climbed the sun. The shadows fell to the east, the
afternoon waned, and still Porphyrio had found no path to the top.
Desperate at last, he attempted to scale the steep face of the blue
precipice. From ledge to ledge, climbing with torn fingers and aching
arms, struggled the Prince, and presently, his further advance barred,
fell backward, faint and overcome, on a shelf of rock high above the
sea.

When his strength returned, he found himself close by an eyrie of sea
birds brooding on their nests in shelves and rifts of the rock. With
a great clamor of piping and crying the creatures rose startled from
their nests, so filling the air with wings that Porphyrio closed
his eyes. Suddenly the master of the eyrie, uttering a joyous call,
swept down close to the Prince, and with an upward surge of his heart
Porphyrio recognized the winged king whose freedom he had purchased at
the Fair of the Golden Bear! And now the sea birds gathered about the
Prince, some gathering folds of his garments into their talons, others
lifting him on broad wings, till presently he was borne from the narrow
ledge and the sound of the sea into the splendor and silence of the sky.

The end of day was at hand. Unveiled of any wisp of cloud, the fiery
sun lay just above the western waters, its lower rim almost resting on
the waves. Once again approached the hour of the Magician of the Night.

The cloud of sea birds flew inland over the blue isle, and settled to
earth at the very doors of the Palace of the Night. And opening his
arms to them, Porphyrio cried aloud his thanks as they wheeled and
fled.

The Prince walked boldly to the great door, and blew a loud blast on
the warder’s horn. There came no answer to his call. The Palace of the
Night remained silent and dark. The sun’s rim dipped; a little breeze
made its way from the sea through the mysterious gardens; the flowers
of the night stirred like sleepers in a dream.

“O jewel of the sun,” cried Porphyrio, “Give me now your aid!” And with
these words he touched the sunbeam to the lock. A crack resounded, then
a shattering crash, and the doors swung open wide. Hastening on twixt
other and other doors and through heavy tapestries, Porphyrio at length
found himself at the thresh-hold of the great hall of the Palace of the
Night. Rich hangings of dark blue velvet, strewn with stars of silver
and gold, hung from the giant walls; a thousand lamps of pale moon-fire
swayed on silver chains from the unseen height o’erhead; there were
huge columns, and dark aisles. To one side of the hall, by a silver
throne raised upon a dais, stood the Magician of the Night, his arms
folded on his breast. Proud and pale by his side, near a second throne,
stood the Princess Liria. About them were gathered the people of the
Night.

As the doors parted, all turned to gaze at Porphyrio.

Fixing his dark eyes upon the Prince, the Magician spake a terrible
incantation; but his words shattered themselves against the sunbeam as
a threatening wave breaks to drift and foam against a crag.

“Seize him!” commanded the Magician.

At these words a host of dark beings surged about Porphyrio, encircling
him, yet afraid to attack. Porphyrio took Liria by the hand, and led
her toward the door. But even as he did so, the Magician caused awesome
silvery fires to bar the outward way.

At the horizon’s edge, the waters were leaping up about the sun.

Baffled by the flame, Porphyrio, still guarding Liria, fought his way
toward a great stair at the very end of the hall. In the wall there,
barred with silver and shuttered with stone, a giant circular window
faced the west. And now there rose a tumult through the hall, and
sounds of magic and thunder. Nothing daunted, Porphyrio touched the
sunbeam to the window-bar, and threw the double shutters open wide. The
sun was yet above the wave, sky and water were aflame, and the great
tide of sunlight swept into the Palace of the Night like the music of
many trumpets.

From all within the Palace a great wailing cry arose that presently
died away. When Porphyrio and Liria turned to gaze, the Magician and
his people had vanished, conquered and forever powerless. And the
velvet hangings were but cobwebs clinging to the walls, and the lamps
of moon-fire but empty shells.

Then Porphyrio and Liria walked hand in hand to the darkening sea, and
beheld there a brave merchant-ship which the sea bird was guiding to
the isle. You may be sure it did not take the jolly mariners long to
rescue the lovers from the headland! And thus the Prince and Princess
fared to Liria’s realm, where there their marriage was celebrated with
the greatest ceremony.

In time Porphyrio became a king and Liria a queen, and thus they lived
happily ever after.




THE ENCHANTED BABY


Once upon a time the King of a great country had a quarrel with a
goblin. Now it chanced that the King had the best of the dispute, and
this so angered the goblin that he departed from the realm and cast
about for an opportunity to do a mischief to his foe.

Now, as the goblin bided his time, it came to pass that the King and
the Queen, who had long been childless, became the proud parents of a
bouncing baby boy. From rosy summer morn to the murmuring quiet of a
summer night, the whole realm gave itself over to rejoicing. Bells rang
from the towers in cities and steeples in the fields, cannon boomed
from castle towers, and small cakes, each one iced with the Prince’s
monogram in red and white sugar, were distributed by royal command
among the children of the realm.

Now it was the custom of the country that the heir to the throne be
shown to the assembled nobility of the realm on the first day of his
seventh week in this changing world of ours, and presently this day
stood at hand upon the calendar.

On the afternoon of the ceremony, the scene within the great hall of
the palace was magnificence itself! Assembled by thousands and ten
thousands, the magnificoes of the land, all in ceremonial attire, moved
or tried to move about; but as the huge hall was crowded to its bulging
doors, this was difficult, and there were, I regret to say, the usual
faintings from lack of air, cries of protest, bad-tempered pushing,
caps knocked awry, crumpled ruffs, and lost jewels.

Suddenly the great bell of the palace set up a ponderous and solemn
booming--the ceremony was about to begin! Mercilessly crowding back
the already densely jammed magnificoes on the toes of still other
magnificoes, a number of gentleman ushers contrived to open an aisle
the length of the hall, and when this feat had been accomplished, the
two tallest sergeants in the royal army opened the double portals
leading forth from the royal drawing-room. And now, heralded by a great
ringing peal of golden trumpets, and accompanied by a crash of exultant
thunder on the palace organ, a noble procession slowly advanced through
the gateway into the hall. The generalissimo of the royal armies came
first, marching solemnly and quite alone, for he was marshal of the
occasion; then came trumpeters in green and yellow; then a chosen
detail of giant grenadiers dressed in rose-red and silver-grey; then
pages scattering flowers from golden baskets; then a little space;
and then, advancing with the dignity of a cloud; appeared the Lord
Chancellor, wheeling in the baby.

Of finest yellow gold were the wheels and push-bar of the perambulator,
whilst the carriage part had been hollowed from a single stupendous
opal! Amid a deafening din of huzzas and shouts and bell clangs, the
procession solemnly advanced to a dais raised at the head of the hall.

Suddenly an invisible shape fluttered in through a window, muttered
something beside the baby’s cradle, uttered a mocking goblin laugh, and
fled away unperceived and unsuspected.

After wheeling the baby to the centre of the dais, the Lord Chancellor
gave a signal to the trumpeters to break into the national anthem, and
bent over the cradle to take the infant and show him to the throng.
To his horror, the cradle was _empty_! The little Prince’s pillow was
there, the coverlet edged with turquoise, and the rattle filled with
seed pearls--but no baby.

“The baby! The baby! Where’s the baby?” gulped the Lord Chancellor,
scarce able to speak. An awkward pause followed: excited whispers,
conjectures, rumors buzzed through the audience. Presently, as the
truth began to spread, a growing uproar rocked the hall. Soon
everybody was busily looking here and there--lifting up edges of
carpets, poking about behind curtains, staring at the ceiling, and
examining corners.

All at once a baby’s cry was heard, faint to be sure, but quite
unmistakable.

“Search, search, my friends!” cried the King. “The Grand Cross of the
Order of the Bluebird to whosoever discovers my child!”

The baby’s cry was heard again! Where could he be?

Suddenly a clever young lady-in-waiting, who had been searching the
opal carriage, uttered a piercing shriek. While groping about in
the perambulator, she had felt the baby, but had been unable to see
him. Like a sudden crumbling of walls, the dreadful truth broke upon
everyone present.

_The baby had become invisible!_

Invisible he was, and invisible he remained. You may well believe that
his upbringing was indeed a difficult task! To make matters worse,
it was soon discovered that not only was the Prince himself totally
invisible, but also that such clothes as touched him became invisible,
too. One could _feel_ the little Prince, one could _hear_ him--and that
was all. Thus, if he crept away on the nursery floor, one had either to
grope for him through the clear air, carefully feeling here and feeling
there, or wait until he cried. No wonder the poor Queen was forever
searching the land for new nurses-in-waiting, and forever sending home
nurses whose nerves had proved unequal to the strain! One could never
tell what might be happening.

On one occasion, for instance, the child actually managed to escape
from his nursery to the sweeping lawns of the royal palace, and the
entire national army, working in scout formation, had to spend the
whole afternoon creeping about on its hands and knees before the prince
was found asleep in the shelter of a plum tree.

Now, when every attempt to undo the spell had failed, it came to
pass that the King went to visit the Wise Man of Pansophia, a learned
sage who sat in a wing chair beneath a green striped umbrella at the
crossroads of the world, giving counsel to all comers. This sage was
clad in the stately folds of a full black gown, a round black velvet
cap rested on the crown of his snow-white head, a broad white beard lay
spread upon his breast, and on his nose were huge round spectacles,
over whose edge he looked with an air of solemn authority.

Beginning at the umbrella, an army of questioners, patiently waiting
in single file, stretched dozens of miles across the rolling land and
disappeared, still unbroken, over the crest of a distant hill. These
patient folk, it is a pleasure to relate, courteously gave way to the
unhappy King.

When he had heard the King’s story, the Wise Man shook his venerable
head, and replied in a voice which sounded like the booming of waves on
a resounding shore:--

“The spell which binds your son is a mighty one, and can only be
removed by touching him with the spell-dispeller, the all-powerful
talisman given your ancestor, King Decimo, by his fairy bride.”

“Alas,” replied the King, “the spell-dispeller was stolen from the
royal treasury twenty years ago. Could you not tell us who stole it, or
where it may be found?”

“Was it not the only spell-dispeller in the whole wide world?”
questioned the Wise Man.

“It was,” replied the King with a sad, assenting nod.

“Then it was stolen from you by the Master Thief of the Adamant
Mountains,” boomed the Wise Man.

“And perhaps _you_ can tell us where _he_ can be found,” said the King.
The Wise Man shook his head.

“Ask me where lies the raindrop which fell yesterday in the river,”
replied the Wise Man, “but ask me not where dwells the Master Thief.
I do not know. No one knows. But as for breaking the spell, it is the
spell-dispeller or nothing. Would that I could help you more!”

And, bidding the King a ceremonious farewell, the sage turned his
attention to the questioner at the head of the long line, a stout
peasant-fellow whose cottage chimney failed to draw.

But now you must hear of the Master Thief of the Adamant Mountains.

This mysterious personage, of whom all had heard, but whom none had
seen, dwelt in a secret house in a lost valley of the mountains, a
house so artfully shaped and so cunningly concealed with vines and
branches, that the very birds of the air were deceived by it and would
often come to roost on the chimney, mistaking it for a chestnut tree!
As for the Master Thief himself, a kind of living bean-pole was he, for
he was taller than the tallest, leaner than the leanest, and provided
with a pair of long, tireless legs which could outrun and outlast the
swiftest coursers in the land.

During the night, he moved through the world in a strange garment of
pitchy blue-black, fitted as close to him as the skin to an eel; during
the day, he wore a marvelous vesture on which were painted leaves,
spots of sun, dabs of blue shade, and stripes of earthy brown.

Now this Master Thief was no ordinary robber, for he stole not for
stealing’s sake, but only to gather new rarities for a wonderful museum
he housed in the caverns under his dwelling. Surely there was never
such a marvelous museum as the museum of the Master Thief!

Deep in the solemn echoing caves, ticketed and labeled each one,
and arranged in order, shelf on shelf, was to be found the _finest
specimen_ of everything in the world which men had made or loved. The
most comfortable chair in the world was there, the pointedest pin,
the warmest blanket, the loudest drum, the stickiest glue, the most
interesting book, the funniest joke, the largest diamond, the most
lifelike stuffed cat, the handsomest lamp-shade, and a thousand things
more. To relabel his collection, to move it about, to do things to it
and with it was the supreme delight of the Master Thief. Seated in the
most comfortable chair in the world, finger tips together, he spent
hours gloating on his treasures, and wondering if he lacked aught
beneath the sun. Presently he chanced to hear of the invisible baby’s
opal perambulator, and instantly determined to add this new wonder to
his gallery.

Going first to his secret den, he spun for himself a globe of delicate
glass, spoke five words into it, and sealed them snug within. Next, he
attired himself in his parti-colored suit, put the globe in his pocket,
and fled on his long legs over hill and over dale to the royal city.

Arriving late in the afternoon, he made his way without difficulty
into the gardens of the palace. The day was fair as only a day on the
threshold of summer may be, and the opal perambulator stood unattended
in the shade of a clump of ancient trees. Magnificently clad, a number
of royal nurses were standing about the silver fence which enclosed
the prince’s romping-yard. Far off, in the sunny distance, sounded the
drums and fifes of the palace soldiery.

And now, creeping nearer unobserved, the Master Thief took the crystal
globe from his pocket and tossed it near the group. Striking the
ground, the globe burst with the faintest crystal tinkle, and the words
that the cunning Master Thief had sealed within escaped into the air.
And these words were:--

_Oh, look at the balloon!_

Immediately all the nurses looked to the sky to see the imaginary
balloon, and while they were looking here and looking there, the Master
Thief sprang to the opal perambulator, released the brake on the golden
wheels, and, pushing the carriage ahead of him, ran like mad down the
flower-bordered alleyways and out the garden gates to the highroad.

[Illustration: _Over hill, over dale, in a long straight line, fled the
Master Thief with the golden perambulator_]

Across the landscape in a long straight line fled the Master Thief on
his wonderful legs, pushing the perambulator all the while. Now they
saw him bouncing it across furrowed fields, now they saw it speed like
a jeweled boat through a sea of waving green grain, now they beheld it
scattering the silly sheep in the upland wilds.

Presently the bells of the city set up the maddest ringing; foot
soldiers were turned out on the roads, and squadrons of cavalry were
sent galloping after; but all in vain--the jeweled carriage, blazing
in the western glow, sped like a meteor over the land. The last they
saw of it was a moving streak of light along the steep slope of a
mountain, a light which gleamed for a moment on the crest like a large,
misplaced, and iridescent star, and then swiftly sank from view.

When the Master Thief reached his secret haven in the valley, he
shouted aloud for triumph, and swiftly wheeled the perambulator down
to the museum. _The most magnificent perambulator in the world!_ Once
more drawing forth the most comfortable chair, the Master Thief sank
into it and contemplated his newest prize.

Suddenly, a strange sound, half cry, half gurgle caused him to sit bolt
upright. Had someone discovered his secret treasury? What could it
mean? And now there came a second cry which ended in a long protesting
wail.

The Master Thief had stolen the invisible baby along with the carriage!

Now the notion of having to take care of a baby, of any baby, was
a matter which might well alarm the Master Thief; but as for an
_invisible_ baby, that was indeed a trial! All at once, however, the
Master Thief slapped his knee and chuckled for joy--he had thought of
the spell-dispeller! Holding aloft the brightest lantern in the world,
the robber made his way to the little side-cavern in which he had
placed the talisman.

His heart jumped. The spell-dispeller was gone!

Baffled and perplexed, the Master Thief began a nervous search of the
little cavern; but never a sign of the spell-dispeller could he find.
Vowing not to restore the Prince till he had found the talisman and
tested its power, the Master Thief at length abandoned the search and
carried the Prince through the caverns to his dwelling.

       *       *       *       *       *

And now days passed, and months passed, and even years, without
bringing to light the spell-dispeller. From an invisible infant the
Prince grew to be an invisible boy, whose merry voice and friendly
presence played about the house of the Master Thief like a capful of
summer wind on a mountain lake.

Heigho, but after all it wasn’t so bad to be invisible! One could see
things and find things hidden away from all other mortals; one could
climb to the side of a bird’s nest, sit still, and watch the mother
bird feed her young; one could dive, unseen, into the clear, cold pools
of the mountain streams and pinch the lurking trout by their rippling
tails; one could follow the squirrel to his secret granary!

Now, during the Prince’s fifteenth year, it came to pass that the
Master Thief suddenly became ashamed of his wicked ways, so ashamed
indeed that he resolved not only to forgo further _collecting_ but also
to return every single thing he had stolen! The invisible Prince, I am
glad to tell you, was of the greatest possible service to the Master
Thief in this honest task. And now, all over the kingdoms of the world,
people began to find their stolen possessions waiting for them when
they came down to breakfast in the morning: the stuffed cat became once
more the pride of the Blue Tower, the most interesting book went back
to its place on the shelves of the royal library, the golden scroll of
the funniest joke appeared as if by magic on the wall of the king’s own
room. Alas for human waywardness, there were actually people who had
grown so accustomed to the loss of their belongings that they reviled
the Master Thief for their return. Dreadful to relate,--the style
having changed,--the handsomest lamp-shade was actually tossed in a
well!

At the end of the fifth year, the opal perambulator and the invisible
Prince were the only two stolen things left to return. The invisible
youth was twenty years old. With a sorrowful heart, for the youth was
as dear to him as a son, the repentant Master Thief began preparations
to restore prince and perambulator to the unhappy parents.

Now it came to pass that, on the morning of departure, the Master Thief
descended for the last time to the forlorn and dusty corridors of his
great museum and walked about the galleries, leaving footprints in
the dust and musing on the glories that had been. Here had stood the
shiniest rubber-plant, here the most beautiful hat-rack, here the only
eraser which had never rubbed a hole in the paper. A tear gathered in
his eye. He had loved them; he had stolen them; he had restored them;
he was free!

All at once his glance, roving empty shelves, fell on a tiny box
wedged in a sombre corner. With a loud shout of joy, the Master Thief
recognized the spell-dispeller! It had fallen behind a shelf and had
lain there concealed for almost twenty years! Thrusting it into his
pocket’s depth, the Master Thief bounded up the secret stairs to the
joy of the sun.

After a pleasant rambling journey in a huge coach, the Master Thief
and the invisible Prince reached the city at the twilight hour, and
took lodgings at a quiet, comfortable inn. The invisible Prince, I must
remind you, was still invisible.

Now it came to pass that when supper had been served and eaten, the
Master Thief and the invisible Prince went for a stroll through the
royal city. Much to the surprise of the travelers, they found the city
hung with streamers and bunting of the gayest kind. Stranger still, in
spite of this display, the citizens of the royal city appeared to be
particularly out of spirits.

“Good host,” said the Master Thief to the landlord of the inn, “pray
what means this air of jubilee? Do you make merry for some kingly
festival?”

“A festival, yes,” replied the host, looking about to see if anyone
were listening, “festival it is, but only in name. Have you not heard
the news? Let us walk a little to one side and I will tell you the
story.

“Three years ago our gracious sovereign, the good King Valdoro the
Fourth--weary of the cares of state and still stricken to the heart
by the loss of his son, the invisible Prince of whom you may have
heard--gave over the guidance of the kingdom to the Marquis Malicorn.
Last week this official made himself master of the royal power,
imprisoned our dear King and Queen in a dark tower, and proclaimed
himself successor to the throne. The coronation is to be held to-morrow
afternoon in the great hall of the royal palace. Alas for the people
and the nation! Oh, if the invisible Prince would only return!”

To this the Master Thief nodded his head, his busy brain plotting all
the while. All at once he smiled. He had devised a plan.

And now it was once more the great hall of the castle, and once more
a sunny afternoon. Bells rang, but their cry was wingless and leaden,
and there was a dull and joyless note in the cannon’s roar. Crowded as
densely together as ever they were twenty years before, the magnificoes
sullenly awaited the arrival of the usurper and his train.

Presently the portals were once more swept apart, revealing Malicorn
and his followers. Not a sound rose from the assembly.

Growling for rage beneath a huge pair of dragoon’s whiskers, the wicked
Marquis made his way to the dais and the coronation chair. The noise of
bells and cannon ceased. An official in blue advanced with the royal
robe.

Just as he was about to throw it over the waiting shoulders of the
usurper, an invisible something snatched the robe from him and, lo, it
melted into the air!

Exceedingly angry, yet disturbed at heart, Malicorn hoped for better
luck with the sceptre, but this, too, was snatched by an invisible
hand. As for the royal crown, it vanished from its purple cushion in
the twinkling of an eye.

Speechless with rage, Malicorn now rose to his feet, and stood before
the throne, glaring about into the air. Cries of defiance, mingled with
shouts of derision, rose from among the magnificoes. And now, even as
the turmoil was at its height, the Master Thief, who had been concealed
behind some curtains, strode boldly forth to the dais, thrust Malicorn
aside with a sweep of his long arms, and shouted to the audience:--

“Magnificoes of the Realm, you came to see your King. Your rightful
King is here. Would you behold him?”

“Yes!” shouted the assembly in one voice. And now the Master Thief
touched the invisible Prince with the spell-dispeller.

The instant he did so a flash of deep golden light set everyone
blinking, fairy music was heard, and suddenly the invisible Prince
stood visible before the throne. He was tall, dark-haired, brown-eyed,
and a bit slim, and the crown was on his head, the robe on his
shoulders, and the sceptre in his hand.

And now the bells and cannon began to boom in real earnest, and a
gay breeze came sweeping in to toss the flags and banners that had
hung so still. Overcome by emotion, the generalissimo seized the
Lord Chancellor by the waist and swung him into a jig, the soldiers
all tossed their caps into the air and cheered like mad, whilst the
organist became so excited that he began to play two tunes at once.
Everybody was laughing and hallooing and hurrahing.

As for Malicorn and his crew, they were tumbling out the back door as
fast as their legs could carry them, and nobody has seen them from
that day to this.

Presently the old King and the Queen, released from the dark tower,
came hurrying in to greet their son.

“He resembles you, my dear,” whispered the King to the Queen.

The Master Thief was forgiven everything.

Singing and rejoicing, the people of the city poured from the houses
into the sunny streets.

Clang, clang! Boom! Clang, clang! Boom, boom! Boom! Boom!

And they all lived happily ever after.




THE TWO MILLERS


Once upon a time, in a pleasant country of meadows sweeping seaward
from wooded inland heights, there were two millers and two mills. If
you came to the country in a ship, you saw the windmill first, for it
was built upon a tongue of land rising above the wide salt meadows and
the washing midnight-tides; but if you came to the country by the land,
it was the water mill you saw, for it stood beside the highway in the
valley of a brooklet rushing to the sea.

Now the wind-miller, who was a great tall man with blue eyes and fair
hair, had a daughter named Cecily, whilst the water-miller, who was a
little nimble man with a red face and crisp, black curls, had a son
named Valentine. And because both the millers were merry men, and there
was a plenty of grain for both the mills to grind, these millers were
excellent cronies, and the maiden Cecily had been betrothed to the
young man Valentine.

Every eve, when the day’s task at the water mill had been brought to an
end, the gates lowered, and the brooklet turned free to rush unhindered
down the glen, Valentine would walk from his wooded hills to the
headland by the sea, and call at the mill for Cecily. The nights were
often still, and the golden shield of the moon, rising over the hilly
woods, gleamed upon the curling foam of the little long waves, and
filled their glassy hollows with her light.

Now it befell that as Valentine and Cecily walked by the shore on such
a night, they heard from the hollow of the hills a faint and far-off
rumble like the echoing of thunder. Such mysterious sounds were forever
rising in the hills, and because no one could tell whence they came, a
legend had grown up that somewhere in the forest depths there dwelt a
hidden someone, known as the Husbandman of the Hills.

“Listen, Valentine,” said Cecily, “the Husbandman of the Hills is
closing the door of his barn. Think you that some day a mortal may find
him in his hiding-place in the hills?”

“But suppose it were naught but an idle tale?” said the merry youth,
with a smile.

“Oh no, Valentine,” said the maiden seriously. “All my life long have
I dwelt here on the shore, and heard the mysterious echoes from the
hills. Sometimes the sound is of the lowing of cattle, sometimes of
the threshing of grain, sometimes ’tis the creaking of a hay wain in a
field. And always the old and wise tell of the Husbandman of the Hills.
Some day a mortal will find the hidden Husbandman--do you but wait and
see.”

It was the early summer now, and all went merry as a marriage bell.
The heavy water-wheel turned with a rolling thunder and a sound of
endless splashing; and the four arms of the windmill spun with a windy
thrum and a clock-like clack from the rising of the wind to the calm of
sundown and the eve.

And now, alas, events were at hand which were to shatter the plans of
the two millers and wreck the hopes of Cecily and Valentine!

At the close of the harvest-tide, the Princess Celestia, only daughter
of the King and Queen of the country, was going to be married. Now it
chanced that the Queen, her mother, was famous in the land as a maker
of cake, and presently this good lady promised her daughter a wedding
cake so splendid and delicious that painters would beg to be allowed
to paint its portrait, and poets to praise it in glorious and immortal
song.

Yes, the Queen would make the cake with her own white hands, the batter
should be mixed in a golden bowl with a golden spoon, the two best hens
in the kingdom should be summoned to lay the eggs, the oven should have
a door of diamonds, and as for the flour, that should come from the
finest fields and the best mill in all the land.

“I know what I’ll do; I’ll offer a rich reward for the best flour,”
said the good Queen. And calling the royal herald to her presence, she
bade him summon all good millers to strive for the prize, and to bring
of their new flour to the palace at the close of the harvest yield.

Now it chanced that the Queen’s herald, all dressed in blue-and-white
and sounding a silver horn, came cantering first to the water-miller’s
door.

“I should like to win that treasure,” said the water-miller to himself,
musing in the doorway.

“After all, my flour _is_ better than the wind-miller’s meal. That
treasure should be mine, must be mine. Yes, mine, mine, mine!”

Now it was the custom of the country for millers to visit the farms
in midsummer, view the growing, green grain, and bargain with
the husbandmen for the yield of the tossing fields. Suddenly the
water-miller, coveting the treasure, determined to purchase all the
standing grain, so that the wind-miller should not have any good grain
to grind! And this he did, forgetting the while that the deed was
sharp and unfriendly.

A day or two passed, and presently the wind-miller climbed to the
saddle of his fat white steed, and rode away to buy his customary
grain. Alas, there was none to be had. Every turn of the road disclosed
new fields of grain, but every single ear was pledged to the miller by
the brook!

At first--I must tell you--the wind-miller was more hurt than angry at
his old crony’s trickery; but the more he thought of it the angrier he
grew. Storming about the windmill in a rage, he gave a great roar for
Cecily, and when the frightened maiden appeared before him, he bade her
dismiss all thoughts of Valentine from her heart, and consider herself
fortunate to be rid of the son of such a father.

The water-miller, however, was not to be outdone. The moment he heard
of the wind-miller’s wrath, he too fell into a rage, and presently
forbade Valentine, on pain of dismissal, so much as to look at the
maiden Cecily.

And now the youth and the maiden were very sad indeed, for in spite of
the strife between their fathers, they continued to love each other
very much. Presently Valentine could endure it all no more, and stole
away one night to have a word with Cecily.

The mill brook was babbling in the dark when Valentine returned to the
mill, and a single light was burning in a window by the door. Opening
the portal gently, the youth presently discovered his father seated on
the stair clad in a flowered nightcap and a long white dressing-gown.

“Valentine,” said the water-miller in a voice deep as the bottom of a
well, “where have you been?”

“I’ve been to the windmill to see Cecily,” said Valentine truthfully
and bravely.

“Sirrah!” cried the water-miller, shaking with such temper that his
flowered nightcap trembled on his head. “Did I not forbid you to go to
the windmill, on pain of being turned away from this my house? Go!” And
the angry water-miller pointed a level finger out into the night.

“But, father,” protested Valentine.

“But me no buts,” thundered the miller. “Go, sirrah, for this house is
yours no more.”

“But whither, father?” asked bewildered Valentine.

“That, sirrah, is your affair,” replied the angry miller. “Go anywhere
you please; go find the Husbandman of the Hills!”

And with this last bit of advice, the wrathful water-miller pushed his
son out of the mill and drew the long, grinding bolt across the door. A
moment later the single light went out, and the mill was dark.

And now Valentine, in search of shelter for the night, sought out a
farm in the gloom of the wooded hills. Leaving the broad white road, he
followed first a country lane, then a pathway winding through a great
woodsy mire, and then another lane, softly carpeted with moss and last
year’s fallen leaves.

A star fell from the twinkling heavens; a hunting owl hooted in a tree.
Ever so far away a silver bell struck the midnight hour.

Suddenly Valentine knew that he had followed a strange path, and was
lost in the heart of the hills. It was a very strange path indeed, for
the trees and the brambles along it seemed to have grown together in
the dark, and pressed forward to form a thick imprisoning wall.

Uneasy at heart, the youth now turned to retrace his steps, only to see
that the same mysterious trees had risen up behind!

Hours passed. Stars that were high in the heavens vanished over
treetops in the east, a silvery dawn began to pale, and there were
chirps and stirs and peeps and feathery noises in the wood. At the
rising of the sun, Valentine arrived at the farm of the Husbandman of
the Hills.

Now the Husbandman of the Hills--I must tell you--was the farmer of
the fairies. It was from this farm in the hills that the goblins of the
mountain-tops, the elves of the silver river, and the peoples of the
fairy kingdoms of the world had their apples and clotted cream, their
cherries and plums, and their butter-pats stamped with a crown.

The fairy farm lay in a green vale, magically walled about with briery
trees. Only at the midnight minute could the wall be passed, and
Valentine had chanced to cross it at the sixth stroke of the bell.

And now Valentine found himself made welcome by the Husbandman and his
lady, the Goodwife of the Hills. The Husbandman was old; his face was
ruddy and his hair silvery white, and in a smock of blue with a white
collar was he clad. His spouse was elderly too, and wore a gown of
green with short old-fashioned sleeves, a white housekeeper’s-apron,
and a cap with ribbons and frills.

I wish I had time to tell you of how the long summer passed at the
farm of the fairies--of the brewing, the baking, and the churning; and
of how the green elves came to cut the grain with silver scythes no
longer than your arm; of how a very young giant, who had a pleasant
smile and was as tall as a tree, came to pitch the hay into the barn;
of how the orchard goblins came to gather the wonderful apples into
baskets of silver and gold; and of the enchanted bear who wore yellow
spectacles and turned the butter churn.

Presently the leaves, though green, began to rustle dryly on the trees,
and Valentine began to long for his own again.

“You have been a faithful laborer,” said the old Husbandman of the
Hills. “A reward is yours. What shall it be?”

“But I seek no reward,” said Valentine, “for you gave me shelter, when
shelter I had none.”

“A brave answer,” said the old Husbandman with a smile. “But you have
earned your wage, good friend. I’ll give you _a wish_. Be in no haste
to use it. And guard it well!”

And now Valentine turned from the vale, passed the magic bound at
midnight, and found himself once more in an old, familiar pathway of
the wood.

       *       *       *       *       *

The autumn had been a rainless one, and the water-miller was having
forty fits.

The mill brook was running dry!

Already there was scarce water enough to stir the heavy wheel. Another
week without rain, and the bed of the brook would be naught but a
length of puddles and pools. And the fine golden grain he had purchased
was being threshed and winnowed, and would soon be arriving at the mill!

In and out of the door of the mill, a hundred times a day went the
water-miller, now to stare at the vanishing brook, now to sweep the sky
in hope of rain. But the dry leaves only rustled more dryly, and the
sun was bright.

Worse yet, the Princess Celestia’s wedding day was fast approaching,
and the Queen would soon be calling for her flour. And sure enough, the
Queen’s herald presently rode again through the land, summoning all
good millers to bring of their new flour to the palace before sundown
on the seventh day.

The following week was indeed an anxious one for the miller by the
brook. Alas for his fortunes--not a single drop of rain fell either in
the meadows or the hills, and the brook ran dry. You might as well have
tried to turn the wheel with a pitcher of water as to turn it with the
trickle which remained.

On the night of the sixth day, the water-miller, humbled in heart, rode
over to the windmill to make his peace and ask a boon. He would ask the
wind-miller to grind the wonderful golden grain, and offer him half of
the grain as a reward.

Now the wind-miller had not forgotten the water-miller’s trickery; so
he received his old crony with anything but a friendly air.

“Grind grain for you, sir?” said the wind-miller, standing with arms
akimbo and feet apart, “yes, sir; but only on one condition, sir, and
that is, sir, that you let me choose my half of the grain, sir.

“And hearken, sir, one thing more, sir. You must bring the grain to the
windmill this very night, sir.”

Now it came to pass that, as the water-miller, hanging his head, went
out into the night, Cecily saw him, and ran to ask him for news of
Valentine. But the water-miller was himself troubled because of the
absence of his son, and could give no new tidings to the maid.

Groaning many a regretful groan, the water-miller loaded his fine
two-wheeled scarlet cart with sacks of golden grain, and carried it to
the windmill door. It was a warm night. The water-miller unloaded the
sacks, mopped his brow with a red bandanna handkerchief, and sighed.

What a fool he had been not to play fair! What a fool to send away his
son!

When the water-miller had driven away, the triumphant wind-miller took
a great iron lantern, and went down to see the grain. For a moment or
two he stood motionless, chuckling at his unexpected victory. Presently
he called to Cecily to gather all the lights and candles she could
find, and place them round about.

And now, toiling in a great blaze of candlelight, the wind-miller
slowly and carefully sifted out for himself the better half of the
wonderful grain. The remaining half--which was good enough, but full of
husks and dust--he set apart for his rival.

The dawn was breaking as he finished the task. Some of the candles
were burned out, and the lanterns were smoke-begrimed and dim. Wearily
rubbing the grain-dust from his eyes, the wind-miller trudged up the
circular stair and tumbled into bed. He would grind the grain into
flour as soon as he woke in the morn.

And on that same still, autumn dawn young Valentine came out of the
fairy wood.

When the wind-miller woke, he woke with a start, for he had slept
late, and the sun was high. How warm and misty-moisty it was! Good
heavens--there wasn’t a breath of wind!

A ship drifted becalmed upon the glassy sea; a blue haze of wavy summer
heat lay upon the meadows, and over the wooded hills hung a motionless
mass of bluish cloud with a rim of silvery white. There was not even
air enough to stir a dead leaf hanging by a thread.

In and out of the door of the mill, like one distracted ran the
miller; he stood upon the balcony and stared about at the sky, the
greeny-leaden sea, and the helpless ship; he lifted a moistened finger
to the air.

Oh, for a wind!

And now a ship’s bell in the mill struck the eight strokes of high
noon, and presently the water-miller came hurrying to the mill in his
scarlet cart. A moment’s glance at the two halves of golden grain told
him of the wind-miller’s counterstroke, and he ran upstairs into the
mill room full of wrath.

[Illustration: _He lifted a moistened finger to the air. Good
heavens--there wasn’t a breath of wind!_]

“I brought you my grain to grind,” he shouted at the wind-miller, “and
you have not done so. I shall take it all back again, do you hear?”

“Wait; you made a bargain with me,” answered the wind-miller.

“I tell you I am done with the bargain,” cried out the water-miller in
a passion.

“I tell you a bargain’s a bargain,” shouted the wind-miller. “Touch yon
grain if you dare!”

And now, I am sure, the old friends and cronies would have come to
blows, had not Valentine and Cecily suddenly hurried and rushed between
them.

“Good sirs,” said honest Valentine, “pray you stand apart and do each
other no wrong. The brook is dry; the wind is gone; of what use then is
this disputed grain? Were it not best, mayhap, to begin anew?”

“Dear father,” said pretty Cecily, “Will you give your share of the
grain to me?”

“With all my heart,” said the wind-miller, who hated brawling.

“And will you give your share to me, father?” asked Valentine.

“Yes, and gladly,” said the water-miller.

“Heart’s thanks to you both, good sirs,” said the youth with a bow and
the maid with a courtesy. “And now,” continued Valentine, “you shall
all behold a great wonder.

“O Husbandman of the Hills, you gave me a wish for a wage. Grant it to
me now! I wish for a fine windmill-wind to blow till sundown of this
day.”

Out of the hills came the wind. It swept up an inland dust, it sent
the leaves on the higher crests a-flying, it rushed over the hot
sea-scented meadows, it surged about the mill--and the great arms
gathered it, creaked, groaned, and began a-spinning.

Valentine poured a shower of grain down an oaken slide into the
grinding thunder of the heavy stones. The grain fell between the upper
and the nether wheel, and presently the finest of new flour was pouring
down below. And this new flour the three millers shook and sifted and
cleansed until it was worthy of the Queen’s own hands, the golden
batter-bowl, and the Princess Celestia’s cake. So wonderful indeed
was the flour, that it instantly gained the rich reward the Queen had
offered as a prize, and won for Valentine the appointment of miller to
the King.

Touched by the happiness of their children, I am glad to say, the two
millers agreed to forget their strife. And they shook hands, and became
cronies again.

On the day following the wedding of the Princess Celestia, Valentine
and Cecily were married. The little Princess sent them two thick slices
of her cake. It was as white as snow, and frosted with sugar, and there
were candied plums, and cherries, and citron nibbles in each slice.

And Valentine and Cecily rejoiced, and lived happily together all their
days.




THE ADAMANT DOOR


Once upon a time, on a fine spring morning, a country lad named Hugh
took his fish pole from a corner and went to try his luck in a brook
beside the road. Now it fortuned that as he stood upon the grassy bank,
casting about in the broad shallows of the stream, the boy heard the
mighty sound of many men singing together, and presently he beheld a
regiment of soldiers on the march. In uniforms of red-and-white they
were clad, and an officer in red-and-white and gold was riding at their
head.

And now the regiment came to a halt, and broke ranks beside the brook.
With shouts and cries the young soldiers hurried to the water, opened
their gay coats at the throat, and washed the dust from their sunburnt
faces; the sergeants gathered and gossiped by themselves; the horse of
the guiding officer sucked up great mouths of water, looked about, and
blew the spray from his nostrils; and here and there a man helped a
comrade with his pack.

“How splendid it must be to be a soldier!” thought Hugh as he gazed
upon the merry company. And, hurrying home to his mother as fast as his
legs could carry him, he begged so eagerly for permission to enlist,
that at length he won her consent and followed the marching men.

And now the lad Hugh was himself a soldier of the realm with a
red-and-white uniform like unto the others, a pack for his back, and a
shiny leather hat with a shiny silver star. Soon he knew what it was to
lie upon the ground and shiver in a blanket, and to watch the rolling
stars, and hear the night wind cry.

Now it chanced that there was another young soldier of Hugh’s age
enlisted in the company, and with this lad, whose name was Jocelyn,
Hugh presently became the best of friends. This Jocelyn was a
mountaineer and was slender and yellow-haired; whilst Hugh was a lad
of the plain and was sturdy of frame and dark. And because these two
lads were the youngest of the company and were loyal friends, they
marched down the highway side by side and shared together the good and
ill of life.

Now it came to pass upon a summer’s night, as the soldiers lay encamped
in fields by the royal city, that the great bell of the King’s palace
broke the quiet of the stars with a loud and unending clangor of alarm.
It was late, the watch fires had almost burned away, and the soldiers,
waking in the dark, seized upon their arms and wondered at the din.
All at once, with a thunder of hoofs, a messenger from the city came
spurring in with the news that war was at hand, and that the regiment
must break camp on the instant and speed to the borders of the realm.
Presently fresh branches tossed upon the embers filled the camp with
the light of flames, and bugle calls rang through the tumult and the
clanging of the bell.

Left! Right! Left! Right! And the soldiers were marching to the wars.
They came to ancient hamlets in the night, and found soldiers of other
companies already sleeping in the barns; they marched through lonely
forests, and warmed their noonday meal with a blaze of twigs and fallen
boughs; they marched singing through the fields of golden grain. Soon
the villages and the fields grew rare, a silence fell upon the land,
and the regiment found itself at the edge of a vast and lonely moor.
Regiments without number were there encamped, and their bivouac fires
gleamed at night like a thousand scattered stars.

Leagues away, on barren hills rising to the north, were to be seen the
fires of the foe.

And now it was the morn of battle: a red sun was rising above the brown
hills and hollows of the moor, the air was sluggish, and flat gray
clouds lay motionless and low. Tarantara! Tarantara! went the bugles,
regiment after regiment came marching to its post, the plain shook to
the tramp of feet, the horsemen gathered behind, the drums began to
sound, the men in red-and-white marched down to the moor, and presently
the great hollow of the waste rang like a brazen cup with the beginning
tumult of the fray.

The soldiers of the enemy were clad in black-and-white, and wore shiny
leather hats with shiny golden stars.

The young comrades marched into battle side by side. And even as a
branch, thrust gently from the bank of a racing river, first moves
slowly in calm waters by the edge of the stream and then is caught up
and tossed about by the wild mid-torrent, so did the great tide of the
battle catch up Jocelyn and Hugh. They fought as in a dream, scarce
knowing what they did.

Now it came to pass that, at the storming of a grassy hillock of the
moor, Hugh was taken prisoner by the men in black-and-white, but was
bravely rescued by Jocelyn who fought his way undaunted to his side.
Presently the enemy yielded the disputed hill, and the company in
red-and-white made ready to hold it for their own.

The day waned; a tide of dark and threatening cloud rose over the
horizon to the east, and a cold wind rode before it, bringing rain.
All at once a wild and terrible storm burst over the battle on the
moor; and, under cover of the thunder and confusion, the men in
black-and-white strove to regain the hillock for their own. A bellowing
wind whipped the heavy rain in the soldiers’ eyes, and it was very hard
to see.

Now it fortuned that, in the dark of the storm and the tumult of the
fray, the boy Hugh became separated from his comrades and suddenly
found himself out of the battle, and wandering quite alone. Night was
rushing on, the din of the combat was muffled in the roaring of the
rain, and the young soldier scarce knew where to go.

Now it was his duty to return to the battle, seek out his comrades,
and fight beside them to the end. Alas, so weary and shaken was the
soldier lad that he made no effort to return to his hard-pressed
friends, but fled away from the battle through the dark! Presently the
all but roofless ruin of a shepherd’s hut appeared ahead, and Hugh took
refuge within it from the battle and the storm.

All night long he lay there on the stones of the floor, sunken in a
shivering sleep; but the dawn woke him at last, and he crept to a
window to look forth upon the moor.

All was still. The battle was lost. The men in black-and-white were
encamped upon the nearer hillocks of the moor, and a company of their
horse was guarding a square of some hundred men in white-and-red.

Suddenly the runaway soldier heard the beat of a distant drum and,
gazing through a cranny of the ruined house, beheld a number of
prisoners marching by, forlorn. A triumphant dragoon in black-and-white
was riding at their head; the drummer of his own company followed
close behind, mournfully beating his drum; and then, trudging wearily
on, appeared the good comrades whom he had deserted in their need. And
Jocelyn walked among them bareheaded, with his arms tied behind him at
the wrist.

And now the dark waters of sorrow and shame welled up in the heart of
the runaway soldier, and he wept bitterly that he had failed to return
into the fray. He would have leaped from the house and taken his place
with his comrades, save that he could not bear that they should know of
his flight.

Now it came to pass, when the drum-beats had faded into the silence of
the moor, that Hugh discovered a shepherd’s smock and wide-brimmed hat
hanging on a peg, and abandoned his uniform for these. Thus clad, he
fled from the hut in the dead of night and made his escape across the
moor. Because of the triumph of the enemy, he dared not return into his
own land, but fled to a kingdom in the west.

Presently he came upon a village lying at the foot of a hill crowned
with a ruined tower, and there took service in the harvest fields.

As for Jocelyn and his comrades, they were marched into the enemy’s
country, thrust into dungeons, and held for ransom, one and all.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now it fortuned that one noontide, as Hugh rested with fellow laborers
in the greenwood shade, he asked them of the ruined castle on the hill.

“Yon castle,” said a big harvester with an important air, “was built
centuries ago by an old knight who was known throughout the land as a
magician. A treasure lies hid within, but none dare seek it; for those
who do--”

“Never come back!” croaked another harvester, a little lean man with
thin legs and large red ears.

“Once there was a brave adventurer who went to seek the treasure,” said
a man with long, uncut, locks and a pointed nose. “We watched him
climb the hill, we saw him enter the castle, and all at once we heard--”

“A terrible yell!” said the big harvester and the red-eared man
together.

“And he never came back,” said somebody else, shaking his head.

“Bless us,” cried Hugh, “but what do you suppose it is that guards the
treasure?”

“Well, if you ask me, I’ll tell you,” said the big harvester; “it’s a
trigorgon.”

“A trigorgon?” questioned Hugh. “And pray, sir, what is a trigorgon?”

“A trigorgon is a creature that has only three legs,” continued the
big harvester. “It’s triangular and flattish, the one leg being at the
front under the long neck, the two legs riding behind. Short, thick,
elephant-like legs, body like a turtle, double rows of teeth, violent
disposition. I’ve read of it in a book.”

“Bother your book,” cried red-ears. “The trigorgon you describe, my
good sir, is quite impossible. A trigorgon has its two legs in front,
and its one leg behind. A neck has got to have shoulders to rest on,
hasn’t it? You see, young man, the trigorgon uses its one hind leg to
push itself ahead at a frightful speed. I know!”

“How do you know?” asked the big harvester with some displeasure.

“Because the seventh son of a seventh son’s great-grandmother told me!”
exclaimed red-ears triumphantly.

“Bother your seventh son’s great-grandmother!” shouted the big
harvester. “Now, my book had large print and most wonderful pictures!”

“Pish!” said red-ears.

“Tush for you and your seventh son of a seventh son’s great-gran--”

“My friends! My friends!” interposed pointed-nose. “Why quarrel over
this absurd trigorgon? You are both wrong. The castle is haunted by a
thith, a terribly dangerous thith. All over the land they say it’s a
thith.”

“Who say?” questioned the big harvester.

“They say,” replied pointed-nose.

“Bother they, and all they say,” shouted the big harvester, forgetting
his grammar. “It’s a trigorgon!”

“It’s a thith!” shrieked pointed-nose.

And now began a tremendous uproar in which everybody took part, some
agreeing with the big harvester, some with red-ears, and some with
pointed-nose. A few who disbelieved in both the trigorgon and the thith
stood disdainfully to one side, but suddenly they too began to quarrel
violently among themselves as to whether the castle was haunted by a
mistophant, a winged bogus, a bristly whiskeroarer or an ugsome vrish.
So bitter grew the strife that presently red-ears and pointed-nose
fell to fisticuffs and were separated with great difficulty by their
fellow-harvesters.

“A treasure!” said Hugh to himself. “Ah, if I could but find it, I
would ransom Jocelyn and the comrades.” And with an uneasy heart, he
thought of the trigorgon, the thith, the winged bogus, the snarling
whiskeroarer, the mistophant, and the vrish.

How terrible it would be to meet creatures so awful that no human being
had dared to see them! But Jocelyn and the comrades whom he had failed
in their hour of peril on the moor, what of them? They were prisoners
in the land of the foe; with the treasure of the castle he could ransom
them--was he to fail them again?

All at once the runaway young soldier threw back his shoulders bravely
and lifted his eyes to the sky. He would seek the treasure on the
morrow’s morn.

The sun was shining brightly, a cold dew was still glistening on the
leaves, and the villagers had gathered by the public well to speed
Hugh on his way. Shaking their heads doubtfully and mournfully, they
watched him go swinging down the road and disappear into the trees upon
the hill. Presently the glint of his blue smock began to be seen here
and there along the climbing path, close by the summit of the mount.
A little anxious time passed, and suddenly there rang from the ruin a
long, wild howl.

“There, the trigorgon has got him,” said the big harvester.

“You mean the giant thith,” pointed-nose corrected.

I am glad to tell you, however, that they were both wrong. This is what
had happened at the ruin.

Now Hugh had carried an ancient lantern with him from the village, and
halfway up the hill he paused, cut a likely branch from an ash, and
fashioned himself a stout and serviceable staff. Thus armed, he arrived
at the great gate of the ruin, and forced his way through the thorn
trees by the portal into the roofless square of the walls. There were
trees there, too, and though the leaves were still green, every now and
then one went drifting through the silence to the ground. In the heart
of the wooded court, a broad flight of steps, overgrown with moss and
shrubs of shallow root, led down into a darkness far below.

Grasping his cudgel firmly, Hugh descended the woodsy stair. The
sunlight disappeared behind, the green moss grew no more, and clumps
of leathery toadstools burst from the muddy crannies of the stone.
Suddenly the runaway soldier found himself facing a giant pointed door
of blackest adamant. Over the arch of it, in letters of ancient form,
was carved a legend saying:--

    He who would share the treasure
    must conquer a mighty foe within

Behind the door something was roaring and roaring. “’Tis surely the
trigorgon,” thought Hugh, his heart pounding at his ribs. Summoning up
all his courage, the runaway soldier threw back the adamant door.

The instant he did so, the roaring rose to a howling shriek, and
a gust of the storm wind, magically imprisoned in the caves of the
hill, went whistling out of the adamant door and up the tunnel of the
stairway to the sun. It was this cry of the imprisoned gust which had
made them shake their heads in the village below.

And now Hugh bravely set foot into the darkness and, holding his
twinkling light at arm’s length ahead, advanced to meet the mighty foe
within. Through great halls he fared, and heard queer noises which he
took to be the steps of the trigorgon, but were only the echoes of his
own steps tapping in the dark; through long tunnels he trod, and heard
breathings and whispers which he took to be the sighs of the thith,
but were only the echoes of a chuckling brook, flowing somewhere in
the wall. On and on went Hugh, and laughed a little to himself when he
mistook two shining points of stone for the eyes of the winged bogus,
and a monstrous round rock for the bulk of the mistophant.

[Illustration: _Summoning up all his courage, Hugh threw open the
adamant door_]

After a while, I am glad to tell you, he even ceased turning around now
and then to see if he were being followed by the whiskeroarer or the
vrish.

Presently Hugh began to hear the queerest tinkling-clinking ringing
sound, unbroken in its flow as the trilling of a stream. A moment later
the youth opened a second pointed door and stood in a lighted chamber,
staring at a _fountain of money_.

The chamber was high and square; its roof and walls were of blackest
adamant, twinkly-bright with specks of yellow gold, and a magic,
ever-burning lamp of adamant hung from above, yielding a golden light.
In the height of the further wall a great fountain-like opening
there was, framed in a golden star, and through this there poured a
ringing cataract of coins of yellow gold! Below the shower of money, a
semicircular basin, raised above the floor on pillars strangely carved,
received the golden flood and lay full to the brim of clinking pieces
of gold rising, falling, tossing, and washing about like waters in a
pool. About the brim of the fountain there ran a sculptured band of
stone whereon men were shown engaged in honorable labor--the farmer
scattered the seed, the harvester gathered the grain, the smith labored
at his forge, and a master workman carved a fair statue from a block of
faultless stone.

And Hugh, pausing to look at the pieces of gold, saw that they were of
ancient years and sealed with the seal of old, forgotten kings.

Now it came to pass that, when Hugh had filled his pockets and his hat
with gold, he discovered a third adamant door leading from the chamber
and, passing through it, found himself blinking in the sunlight on the
further side of the hill. Strange to say, in the wall of stone behind
him there was never a sign or appearance of a door!

But the mighty foe within--what could it be? He had seen nothing of
the trigorgon, the thith, the winged bogus, the whiskeroarer, the
mistophant, or the vrish. Yet the inscription had said that he must
conquer a foe. Suddenly Hugh threw his hands into the air with a great
merry shout; he had found the key to the mystery.

It was all a wise jest of the old knight. The foe to be conquered was
fear, and “the mighty foe within” meant the host of silly fears which
run and hide in the house of one’s heart. The treasure had been guarded
against men by their own fears. Brave men, who sent fears hurrying and
scurrying out of their hearts, alone were worthy of the prize.

As for the trigorgon, the thith, the winged bogus, the whiskeroarer,
the mistophant, and the ugsome vrish, they had never existed, for they
were not creatures, but silly, thoughtless imaginings and fears.

And now Hugh, with his pockets laden with gold, walked over the hills
to the enemy’s land, and ransomed his comrade Jocelyn and the dear
friends with whom he had marched to battle on the moor.

Presently a just and mighty emperor compelled both kingdoms to make
peace, and the men in red-and-white and the men in black-and-white went
home to their fields and their dear ones gathered by the fire.

And Hugh and Jocelyn shared the treasure together, and their farms lay
side by side.




THE CITY OF THE WINTER SLEEP


Once upon a time, by the banks of a noble river flowing to the sea
through a mountain-girdled plain, stood a city of the wisest people
in the world. Instead of spending the winter as others did, huddled
over smoky fires, freezing ears and noses, bundling themselves up in a
pother of clothes, and being cross at breakfast, these sensible folk
simply retired to their dwellings, locked their doors, drew down their
curtains, put on their nightcaps, got into bed, and _slept the winter
away_. The north wind howled there about the shuttered houses and woke
no citizen from his dreams; in the empty market place and the silent
streets, stainless and untrodden lay the snow. But when the leaves were
the size of a mouse’s ear, and the singing birds had returned from
their winter pilgrimage, the sleepy citizens would wake, rub their
eyes, stretch their arms, and come yawning to open their windows on the
sunlight and the spring.

The King of this remarkable city, I must tell you, had three children,
the two elder of whom were sons and the youngest a daughter. Now, as
occasionally happens, the two sons were models of royal deportment,
whilst their sister, the slender, dark-haired, and dark-eyed Princess
Theolette, was as wilful and spirited as a mountain bird.

Now, on a day when the year was growing old and only a few
half-withered flowers were to be gathered in the fields, it chanced
that Theolette, who had been idling about with little to do, took
it into her head to pay a visit to the royal library. It was very
quiet there, the red autumn sun was shining through the great
windows, a million motes of dust danced in the broad and ruddy beam,
and Theolette, curled in a huge red-leather easy-chair, had great
difficulty in keeping awake. Presently her eyes lit upon a large green
book entitled, _Winter Time_, and this Theolette took from its place
and opened in her lap.

Somewhat to her disappointment, the print within the old book was in
a foreign language, but the pictures--they would have kept anyone
from sleeping! There were pictures of snowy mountain-tops, of bright,
frozen lakes with people skating on them, of attacks on snow forts,
of snowstorms in pleasant country villages, and of belfries agleam
with snow beneath the moon. Now, although Theolette had never seen the
winter or any snow or ice and could hardly make anything out of some
of the pictures, she could see well enough that here was something
strange, and new, and wonderful indeed. And then and there she resolved
to run away during the winter sleep, see the winter world, and return
before the city woke to the coming of the spring!

Shorter grew the golden days, and longer the still cold nights, and
presently the great day of the winter sleep was at hand. A trumpeter,
posted in the tower of dreams, at sunrise called the city to its last
morn of waking life; and scarce had his last notes faded, ere a murmur
of bustle and preparations began to rise from every household in the
town.

At sunset, in accordance with ancient custom, the edict of sleep was
read to the people from a balcony of the palace. This venerable law, I
must tell you, summoned all good citizens to go to sleep, and recited
the dreadful penalties prepared for all who should dare to stay awake.
When the gathering had melted away, and the streets were empty save for
a hurrying citizen or two on some belated errand, the gates were locked
and the waters of the river turned into the moat about the town.

The enchanted chimes of sleep, which rang of themselves, were to sound
at the midnight hour.

Little by little, the royal palace became as silent as a stone. A
darkness of slumber and night filled the vast echoing halls, and from
afar through the gloom came the faint tramp, tramp of the hob-nailed
night-watch on the last round of the year.

After attending the ceremonial winter good-night of the royal family,
Theolette hurried away to her own chamber.

“I mustn’t fall asleep now,” said she, clenching her fist, “because if
I do, I’ll sleep until the spring!” And with a heart that went thump,
thump, thump in the darkness, she waited the midnight hour.

Suddenly the first warning bell--_Nightcaps On!_--struck one great
solemn rolling clang which swept out over the city and ebbed away
humming to the stars.

And now, after a pause, sounded the second bell--_Lights out!_
Theolette sat down in a great chair, arose, walked about, sat down
again, and arose once more. Would the third bell never ring?

Presently--_Everybody to bed!_--boomed the third bell. Theolette put
her fingers to her ears. Solemn and sweet and strange and golden, the
enchanted chimes were sounding their fairy tune.

Now, once the song of the chimes had come to an end and the throbbing
humming of the last grave chord had melted into the air, Theolette went
to her window, drew back the curtain, and looked forth over the city
sleeping in the starlight. How strange and still they were, those dark
streets winding like crooked brooks through banks of huddled roofs.
Suddenly the Princess uttered a little cry of surprise!

Far away across the sleeping city, in a little house by the wall, a
yellow light was gleaming! And now the light moved, went from window to
window, vanished, reappeared, and vanished yet again.

Someone else was awake in the city! Who could it be?

Puzzled, but not the littlest bit afraid, the Princess went to her
wardrobe and dressed herself as well as she could in a little red
hunting-dress and cap. Then, throwing her warmest mantle over her
shoulders and taking a lighted candle with her, she made her way from
her chamber down the great stairway to the palace door. Fantastic
shadows leaped and swayed as the Princess, holding aloft her taper,
descended the long broad flight, and somewhere a huge clock ticked on,
solemn, dutiful, and forgotten. Opening the door gently, Theolette
stepped forth into the dark street and hurried along it to the royal
gate of the city wall.

All seemed well; the gates were locked, and the drawbridge of the moat
was lifted high above the black and starry waters. Standing motionless
for a moment in one of the shadowy nooks of the giant portal, Theolette
listened for a footfall or a sound, but heard only the sigh of the
night wind and the ripple of water in the moat. Reassured by the
silence, the Princess lowered the drawbridge, unlocked the great gate
with her father’s own key, opened one vast swinging door, locked it
behind her, and walked off bravely into the dark and lonely land.

[Illustration: _The runaway Princess stepped forth into the dark street
and, taper in hand, hurried to the gate of the city wall_]

On the following morning, a little after the dawn, the Princess arrived
at a country town just over the frontier of her father’s realm, and
there she sought out the inn and made preparations for her runaway
winter-pilgrimage. From the host, a little white horse she purchased,
and from the host’s fourth son, who happened to be a tailor, a fine
warm riding-habit of country wool. Thus clad, away into the winter
world galloped the adventurous Theolette. Of what befell her, you soon
shall hear.

       *       *       *       *       *

And what a wonderful pilgrimage it was through the world of ice and
snow! I wish I had time to tell you of all she saw and of all she did,
of how the first snowstorm so pleased her that she almost lost her
way in the whirl of the flakes, of her first look at a bit of ice, of
her visit to the winter festival of the Fairy of the Snows, of how
she danced the minuet at the polar bears’ ball, and of how she rode
Aldebaran, the skating horse, up and down the ice lakes of the wild.
White as snow was this marvelous animal, and of blue leather edged with
white were his saddle and bridle, whilst the skates he wore were of the
blackest and shiniest adamant. You should have seen him skating o’er
the lakes, now striking out with this hoof, now with that; his head
held high, his long silky tail streaming in the wind. And Theolette
thought, as she rode, of the old book in the royal library and of the
City of the Winter Sleep far away, with the storm crying unheeded
through its dream.

And now the winter waned, a venturesome bird or two returned to rock
on budding twigs, the earth began to turn from brown to green, and
Theolette knew that she must hasten back at once. Alas! one pleasant
morning, as she was nearing the borders of her father’s land, a band of
robbers suddenly sprang at her out of a wood, bound her securely, and
hurried her to their castle with the intention of demanding a ransom.
Once there, they pushed the Princess roughly into a little cobwebby
turret-chamber, slammed and locked the heavy oaken door behind her, and
left her to her thoughts.

From her window in the turret, Theolette could see the highroad leading
toward the castle through the wooded lowlands, and the broad winding
stream of a mighty river--the very river, indeed, which flowed by the
walls of the City of the Winter Sleep. With every warm and sunny hour
the spring was driving old winter from the land, the scales of tree
buds were unsealing, frogs were piping in tiny triumph from every marsh
and pool, and there were pleasant earthy smells in the air.

“The spring awakening is surely close at hand,” thought Theolette.
“What _shall_ I do?”

Now, one sunny morning as the disconsolate Princess walked to and fro
in her little room, it came to pass that she heard from the road below
a pleasant voice singing a strange old song of her own land. It was
a song about a soldier who had fought in the wars and returned in the
spring to plough the dear earth he had loved and defended. And, hearing
the old song, Theolette uttered a joyful cry and ran to the window.
A youth in a student’s dress of green stood in the highroad directly
under the window; he had heard the cry, and stood looking up at the
sunny wall.

“Stay, good sir,” cried Theolette, “and tell me who you are that sings
a song of mine own land.”

To this the pleasant youth replied that he was but a student who had
stolen away from the City of Winter Sleep, and was even then hastening
back lest his absence be discovered. And Theolette remembered the light
she had seen in the old house by the city wall.

And now Theolette told the student of her adventures and begged of him
to aid her. You may be sure that the student, who was a fine brave
fellow, needed no second entreaty! Being a clever youth as well as
a brave one, he skillfully managed to lure the robbers away from the
castle that very eve, and fling a coiled rope to the Princess. And,
hand over hand, with feet pressed close against the cord, down came the
adventurous Theolette.

Now, one of the robbers, a small one, had ridden away with Theolette’s
little white horse, so the student hurried Theolette to the river bank
where a boat lay waiting. Alas, the vessel was scarce large enough for
a single passenger!

“See, Princess, the river is in flood,” said the youth, “and you have
but to step into this vessel and be carried swiftly to the city.”

“But what of you, brave friend?” said Theolette. “You will be late now,
and your flight from the city will be known.”

“Do not fear, Princess,” replied the student with a queer, half-merry
smile. “There is still time, and I can make haste as well as any man.
To tell you truth, I have never felt at home in the city, anyway. But
enough of words. Hasten, Lady Theolette, for the robbers will soon
return.”

And now Theolette found herself on the mighty river in the full
hurly-burly of its springtide flood. On and on she swept through the
night, league after league, now floating quietly over lowlands turned
to lakes; now borne headlong with the torrent down valleys and ravines.
Solitary and fugitive, one great star shone close above the distant
peaks.

Just as the dawn was streaking the east with rose and gray, the
Princess gained her father’s city. The drawbridge was still lowered
across the moat, the city was still sealed in its winter dream.

After thrusting the little boat once more forth into the full current
of the river, Theolette ran to the palace and went to her own room.
With a little sigh, she folded away the worn red hunting-dress and cap
she had been wearing--the riding-habit of country wool had been left
behind somewhere at the return of spring--and crept into her little
silken bed. So weary was she that scarce had her head touched the
pillow ere she was sound asleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

When she opened her eyes again, a whole day and a night had passed, the
City had risen from the winter sleep, and her mother stood bending over
her with an amused smile. Loud and clear and joyous the silver bells of
the spring-awakening were ringing o’er the town.

“Good gracious, Theolette,” said her mother, “but what a sleeper you
are! I’ve been shaking you for the last ten minutes. Get up now, that’s
a dear, and wear your rose frock to the grand spring breakfast.”

A little later Theolette, feeling just the tiniest bit bewildered,
sat down to breakfast with her father the King, her mother the Queen,
and the two Princes her brothers. And there, moved by an impulse of
truth and courage--for, though wilful, Theolette was as faithful to
high honor as a vowed knight--the Princess told them all the tale of
her runaway adventures. To her surprise, she could win none of them to
believe her story!

“You have been dreaming, Theolette,” said her father, gravely shaking
his head and reaching for a royal muffin. “But I called you myself!”
exclaimed her mother, pausing from her royal marmalade. And as for
Theolette’s two brothers, they pretended that polite disbelief which
young men find so delightfully irritating when teasing their sisters.

Weeks passed, spring followed winter into the cupboard of time, and
Theolette could find no one to believe her story. Weary of insisting,
and shaken by the unbelief of those about her, the Princess began to
wonder in her own heart if it were not all a dream. Nothing remained of
it all, and it was so like a dream!

Her head bowed low, her eyes full of doubt and memories, the Princess
mused all day, and finally grew so pale that her royal parents became
quite alarmed, and took counsel to send their daughter on a long
visit to her aunt, the Queen of the Golden Mountain. On the morn of
departure, Theolette walked to the great hall of state to say farewell.

“A dream, a dream; was it only a dream?” thought Theolette. And she saw
again the winter world, and the polar bears’ ball, with the candles
burning in chandeliers of icicles, and the skating horse, and the
pleasant youth in green who had saved her from the robbers. Could it
have been only a dream? With a sigh and a doubting shake of her head,
the Princess took her place at the head of her ladies and approached
her father and mother.

And now, of a sudden, from the sunny street below the pillared window,
a voice was heard singing. And the voice sang an old song of a soldier
who had fought in the wars and returned in the spring to plough the
dear earth he had loved and defended. A hush fell over the astounded
assembly.

“Stop, I pray you!” cried Theolette, turning pale as the new-fallen
snow. “O hasten, good soldiers, and bring yon singer here before me!”

And now a group of guards rushed through the swinging doors to do her
bidding. Presently they returned, bringing with them the student who
had saved Theolette from the robbers! He was very pale, there were
irons on his wrists, and two burly turnkeys, dressed in red and black,
stood beside him. And, beholding Theolette, the poor youth drew in his
breath with a start and met her gaze with strange eyes.

“Speak! What does this mean? Who is this fellow?” cried the King,
rising from his throne.

“May it please Your Majesty,” replied a turnkey, falling on one knee,
“this youth is a student of the College of Dreams who disobeyed the
edict of sleep and ran away from the city. He was captured as he tried
to return after the spring awakening, brought before the Court of
Dreams, and sentenced to pay the penalty. We were on our way with him
to the dungeons under the river when the royal guards surrounded us
and led us here. What is your will, O King?”

“My will is that the judgment be obeyed,” replied the King. “Lead him
forth to his doom!”

“Nay, hear me, father,” cried Theolette. “If he is guilty, so am I! I,
too, disobeyed the edict; I, too, ran away. This is the brave youth who
so gallantly preserved me from the robbers! Oh, will you not believe me
now? It is not a dream--it never was a dream!”

At these words, a stir of excitement swept through the vast hall;
indeed, it seemed as if all there were trying to talk, to protest, to
support, to dispute, to explain. The uproar was at its height when
the boom of a cannon first quieted, then roused the hubbub to an even
greater pitch.

“A royal visitor!” exclaimed the King. “What can this mean? Let no one
stir!”

Presently, there was a fanfare of many trumpets, the great portals of
the hall swung open, and there entered a crowned King and his train.

“O King of the City of the Winter Sleep,” cried the newcomer, “hear
me, for I have come from afar and in great haste. I am the King of the
North and I seek my only son, Prince Florimond, who was stolen from
his cradle twenty years ago. The Fairy of the Isles has revealed that
I shall find him here. He dwells in a house by the city wall and is a
student of the College of Dreams. I pray you search for him at once,
for my heart hungers to behold him!”

“Florimond? Florimond?” cried the Lord Chancellor of the College,
stepping forward, “there is but one Florimond in the city and, as I
live, this youth is he!” And presently all beheld that the great King
and the runaway student were indeed father and son. To pardon the
runaway youth and loose him from his bonds was but a moment’s task.
This done, a royal herald proclaimed a three days’ holiday.

On the last evening of the festival, Florimond and Theolette walked
alone to a great balcony and looked forth over the city, the river,
and the mountain-circled plain. It was midsummer eve, the warm night
was sweet with the fragrance of many flowers, and the music of lutes
and viols sounded faintly through the pleasant air.

“Was it a wonder that I ran away,” said the Prince, laughing, “when I
wasn’t born a winter sleeper?”

“The winter--ah, what fun it all was!” answered Theolette. “I wonder if
I shall ever see it again.”

“You shall see it every year if you will only consent to be Princess
of the North,” replied Florimond, with a gallant smile. And then and
there the two runaways pledged their troth. The wedding over, Florimond
returned to his own land, taking Theolette with him; and, unless you
have heard to the contrary, they are living there happily still.




AILEEL AND AILINDA


Once upon a time a company of jugglers, acrobats, and other strays,
traveling afoot to the Fair of the Golden Bear, arrived at twilight
in a glen close by a village and encamped there for the night. From
eventide till late into the dark, the watchful villagers beheld their
huge fire blazing behind the dark columns of the trees; but at dawn all
was still, for the wanderers had risen by the glow of the morning star,
and fared away toward the sea.

Now it came to pass that an old villager, whose lands lay beyond the
glen, rose early that morn, and with his hoe on his shoulder walked to
his labor through the sunrise, the quiet, and the dew. Arriving at the
glen, he turned aside for a moment from the path and out of curiosity
wandered in to gaze at the trampled grass and the burned circle of the
fire. Suddenly he caught his breath with a start. Two little children,
a boy in tattered leather and a girl in a ragged frock of blue, were
lying fast asleep on a pile of yellow straw.

And now the two children stood, hand in hand, in the house of the
Master Villager, gazing up into the faces of a dozen gathered there
to see them and to question. The little boy, who was brown-haired and
brown-eyed, bore himself bravely and appeared sturdy and strong, whilst
the tiny girl, whose blue eyes were full of frightened tears, seemed
very gentle and shy. Of who their parents were, and of how it had
fortuned that they had been thus forsaken, neither the little boy nor
the girl could tell; indeed the most that could be gathered from them
was that they were not brother and sister, and that the lad’s name was
Aileel and the girl’s, Ailinda.

Forlorn, forsaken, and unknown, the children of the wanderers remained
in the village and were given to certain villagers to house and to
keep. It was the lot of Aileel to become the foster son and little
apprentice of Braulio, the good smith, whilst tiny Ailinda fell into
the hands of Tharbis, the grudging and envious miser of the town.

And now passed many years; and Aileel, of whom you first must hear,
grew to be a comely young smith, wise in the lore of iron and of
fire. Tall was he, broad-shouldered and very strong, yet so lithe and
swift-moving withal that none in his wide land of the Blue Hills could
master him in a trial of strength or speed. His favorite pastime was
country wrestling, and on holiday morns you were sure to see him and
his good foster father wandering down the village lanes to the day’s
wrestling-match, each tricked out in his best, each with a fine blue
kerchief knotted at the throat. And when Aileel, after a stirring
battle of catch and turn and tug and strain would hold his rival’s
shoulders to the straw and then leap up, light as air, joyful and
victorious, how honest Braulio would shout and pound together his huge
hands!

Their smithy stood by the village brook; of gray-green stone its
walls were made, and its roof of heart-of-oak turned silvery brown.
It was a brave sight, I can tell you, to see the fire rising hot and
violet-white from the forge, brightening Aileel’s face as he bent to
it and gazed within it at the iron turning ruddy gold; and there was a
brave music, too, in the clang-clanging of the anvil ’neath his blows.

Far otherwise, alas, were the fortunes of Ailinda! Scolded to work
at the earliest dawn and kept at some task till well into the night,
the poor maiden had hardly a moment’s time to call her own. Whenever
he could and as often, Aileel came to help her with her toil; he drew
water from the well, carried in the wood, and aided her in the garden
in the cool of the golden day.

In spite of this hard life, I am glad to tell you, Ailinda grew up to
be as fine a lass as Aileel a lad. Her eyes were as blue as the waters
of the bright September sea, the glance they gave was full of patience
and courage, her long golden hair was as splendid as a queen’s.
Everybody loved her and helped her--all save Tharbis’s only son, her
jealous foster-brother, Potpan.

Squat, round-nosed, and leering-eyed, there was no spiteful trick in
all the world which this wretch was not prepared to try. He would slyly
nip the buds from flowers Ailinda had planted, so that they might not
bloom; he would drive the cows at twilight back into the fields; he
would roll the clean milk-pans in the mire. Left to his own counsel,
Aileel would soon have taught the wretch a lasting lesson, but as
Ailinda feared lest after such a battle Aileel be forbidden the house,
she endured much, saying naught.

But presently came matters to a head.

Now it chanced upon a May Day, that a fair blue kerchief had been
chosen as the wrestler’s prize, and this prize Aileel won gallantly,
and offered to Ailinda. Gathering the kerchief together again in the
folds in which it had already lain, the maiden, for fear of Potpan,
hid the kerchief in a cranny of a room. Presently arrived the sunny
morn of the year’s midsummer holiday. At high noon, her thankless toil
for a moment o’er, Ailinda went to take the kerchief from its nook.

The kerchief was no longer there!

Suddenly she heard a loud ill-natured guffaw, and turning, found Potpan
at a window, watching all. He was dressed in his best festival finery,
and Ailinda’s pretty kerchief was knotted at his neck. The maiden’s
heart sank; her brave eyes filled with tears, yet she ran forth and
confronted the robber face to face.

“Give me my kerchief, Potpan,” said she, “Oh, give me my kerchief,
Potpan!”

“Your kerchief?” answered Potpan with another rude guffaw. “Ha! Ha!
That’s a good one! Your kerchief, indeed! I found this kerchief myself,
and I mean to keep it, too.”

“It is mine, Potpan,” replied poor Ailinda. “Give me my kerchief,
Potpan.”

“I suppose you would wear it at the festival,” jeered Potpan. “The
notion of your going to the festival! Go back to your kettles and
pails!”

A pause of quiet now followed, and all at once Ailinda heard through
the stillness the sound of a closing gate. Suddenly Aileel came
striding swiftly to her side.

“Come, Potpan,” said Aileel sternly, “Give Ailinda my kerchief!”

“At your command, you wanderers’ brat?” cried Potpan, furious with
rage. “Be off or I’ll teach you how I--” but here his speech came to an
end; Aileel, turning swiftly as the wind, caught him in a wrestler’s
grasp, held him fast, and undid the kerchief from his neck. This done,
the young smith freed him and pushed him contemptuously aside. Hardly
had he done this, however, when Potpan caught up a great stone and
flung it, striking Aileel with it upon the hand.

And now there came a real tussle, for Potpan, though squat, was no
mean antagonist. A real tussle it was, but a short one, for suddenly
Aileel’s handsome face cleared, he laughed a little merry laugh even,
and catching up Potpan in all his finery, held him high for all his
kicking, walked with him a little space, and tossed him splash into the
duck pond! You should have heard the squawking and the quacking of the
ducks, and seen the scrambling, and the paddling, and the indignant
tail-feather-shaking as Potpan fell into the mud-brown pool. One yellow
duckling with cold wet feet walked on his ear.

But what an uproar awaited Aileel and Ailinda on their return from the
festival!

Telling a wicked and lying story, Tharbis and Potpan had gone about
among the villagers, picturing Aileel as a violent and dangerous
ruffian whom it was unsafe to have about, and urging that the
wanderers’ lad be sent away from the village. Now Tharbis was very
rich, and there were many in his debt who dared not disagree with him;
a dispute arose, the village took sides, and the partisans of Tharbis
and Potpan snatched the victory. At the head of a crew of hangers-on
armed with sticks and scythes, Tharbis and Potpan came in triumph to
the smithy, held Braulio and his foster son to the wall, and bade the
latter leave the village at once, never to return.

“I go, Potpan,” replied Aileel, the same strange little smile on his
lips, “but I shall return some day, and I shall toss you into the duck
pond once again.”

“Enough! Be off, wanderers’ brat!” cried Potpan’s crew. “Begone, and
never let us see your face again!”

So now Aileel bade his dear foster-father farewell, entrusted Ailinda
to his care, and fared over hill, over dale, to the Kingdom of Iron in
the Land of the Fiery Mountains.

When Aileel arrived there, it was twilight; the east behind him was
already dark and blossoming with stars, and the immense plain at his
feet lay full of earthy vapor and vague gloom. Night was gathering
behind, night was gathering below, but beyond the vast sweep of dark
the western sky was still aglow with a great splendor of the purest
emerald-green. Rising steep and solitary, each one, from the dark of
the plain, a thousand black mountains towered to the green light,
their heads crowned with rosy glows of fire. Some from their burning
craters tossed great showers of golden sparks; some were crowned with
huge tongues of many-colored flames; some poured forth rolling smoke;
and over others hung clouds illumined with the red of fire deep below.
Presently the green of the sky deepened and died, and night came to the
Land of Fire.

These Fiery Mountains, I must tell you, were the forges of the people
of the kingdom, who were sturdy smiths, armorers, and artificers, one
and all. Their royal city stood half upon the plain, half upon the
slope of the greatest of the burning heights, and everything within
it was of iron made. Of iron were the king’s palace and his throne, of
iron the royal crown, of iron the money, of iron the houses, of iron
the walls and towers, and of iron the motionless and shrill-tongued
trees along the way.

And now Aileel took service with the Lord of the Royal Forge that he
might learn from him all the world’s wisdom of iron and of fire. The
great iron halls of the royal forge were built in the caves of the
Fiery Mountains, and within them toiled Aileel from daylight to the
dark, his ears half deafened with the music of a thousand anvils, and
the rumbling-grumbling of the great forge-fire. Presently the Lord of
the Forge became so pleased with the skill, the industry, and the good
spirit of the comely young smith, that he took him to lodge in his huge
iron house.

One morn Aileel said to his friend and master, “Honored sir, it is in
my mind to fashion something never yet seen in the Kingdom of Iron.
Grant me, I pray, the great chamber beyond the black cave to be my
very own.”

“It shall be yours, worthy Aileel,” replied the Lord of the Royal
Forge. “Here is the key.”

From morn till night, behind the locked door, the people of the royal
forge heard Aileel toiling at his secret task. Now they heard him at
his anvil, now they heard him carrying his iron to melt in the fires of
the mountain, now they heard him whistling snatches of a tune.

“What can he be making?” said they, and they peeked through the
keyhole, but could see nothing at all.

But now you must hear of Potpan and Ailinda.

       *       *       *       *       *

At first, with Aileel driven from the village and venturing afar, the
poor maiden had gone about in deadly fear of Potpan and Tharbis; but
as both of them had a wholesome respect for Braulio, it had fortuned
that her lot was neither worse nor better than before. Tharbis still
scolded her to work, shirking Potpan gave her oft a heavy task, yet day
by day, in spite of all their ugly tricks, brave and patient Ailinda
grew to be quite the loveliest maid in all the land. Finally even
Potpan himself began to see her loveliness, and told her one evening
that they were to be married in a fortnight’s time! Wild with anxiety
and determined to run away rather than enter into any such hateful
alliance, Ailinda sought out Braulio and told him of her plight.

“Fear not, Ailinda,” said the brave smith. “Though a fortnight be but a
little time, and the Kingdom of Iron a week’s journey down the world,
yet shall Aileel be here before this wedding comes to pass. I will
fetch him myself and at once!”

And now Braulio climbed to the saddle of his huge white horse, and
galloped off on the road to the Fiery Mountains. Alas, just as the
smith was descending the slope to a glass bridge over a river, the
white horse stumbled and fell, throwing Braulio over his head and
laming him severely. Hobbling along, lame horse, lame master, the pair
made so slow an advance to the Kingdom of Iron, that it was not until
midnight of the thirteenth day that Braulio knocked at the iron door of
the Lord of the Royal Forge.

Seated in a great chair of wrought black iron, Braulio poured forth his
unhappy story to Aileel, the Lord of the Royal Forge, and the latter’s
good wife. Strange to say, an odd little smile gathered on Aileel’s
lips as he heard the tale, even such a smile as he had worn when he had
tossed Potpan in the pool.

“The wedding morn of Potpan and Ailinda?” said Aileel. “That shall
never be! Come, take heart, good friends, and quick, all of us to the
chamber in the cave!”

The night was clear and windless, but only the brightest stars were to
be seen, for the great Fire Mountain above the city was crowned with an
immense whirl of gold and orange flame which flooded town and sky with
flaring light. Up a broad iron stair, along the slope, and into the
mountain through a mighty iron portal, fled the little company. Bright
torches gleamed in the iron halls and caves, the roar of the great
forge shook the earth, and the iron floors were warm beneath their
feet. And now as Aileel unlocked his door and flung it open wide, his
friends uttered together a great cry of joy and surprise.

The young smith had fashioned a wonderful flying bird of iron! Its
wings, which it flapped like a real bird, were of iron tempered a
lovely jewel-blue, its breast was of iron forged to a silver-gray, and
its beak and claws and living round eyes were of iron as red as fire.
Within it a spring of iron lay, which one wound up with a huge black
key; one steered it by pulling shiny iron chains attached to a collar
round its neck. And there was a great comfortable seat, too, in the
body between the wings--a seat with a huge high back in the fashion of
a splendid sleigh, cushions of sunniest larkspur-blue, and just enough
room for three.

So Aileel wound up the spring, clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety
clack, bundled Braulio into the seat, swung back a lofty door he had
opened in the side of the mountain, waved farewell, and flew out into
the golden glow of the fiery night. Over the forges of iron he fled,
and saw their flaming deeps and felt their hot breath; he winged
his way over woodlands and mountains and rivers and gleaming lakes.
Braulio, beside him, hung on to his hat all the time, and only once in
a while looked over the side. On and on went Aileel and Braulio, yet
the sunrise found them far away from the land of the Blue Hills.

       *       *       *       *       *

And now it was the wedding morn and the wedding hour; the sun was
shining, bells were ringing, and music was sounding in the street.
Fearful of her running away, Potpan had locked Ailinda in her chamber,
first advising her to put on a merry countenance lest she be well
slapped. Presently women of the village came to attire her in wedding
finery, and Ailinda, her heart sunken in a despairing dream, suffered
them to do their will.

The bells were ringing now their loudest peals, and presently Potpan
pushed Ailinda rudely up to a place on the seat of the gay cart which
was to carry them to the wedding festival. This bridal cart was painted
a fine bright blue, its sides and the spokes of its two great wheels
were garlanded with flowers, an arch of flowers had been built over the
seat, and the two snow-white oxen who drew it brandished horns gilded
with bright gold.

Clang! clang! ding dong dong! went the village bells. Swaying their
huge heads from side to side, and ringing golden bells upon their yoke,
the white oxen slowly drew Potpan and Ailinda down the village street.

And now all at once there were cries and shouts of alarm. “Run! run,
everybody! Run! Run! The bird! Oh, see the bird!” Soon one and all were
scrambling here and there into houses, down cellars, under tables,
into clothes-closets and up trees till there was not a soul in sight.
Never stopping to take thought of Ailinda, cowardly Potpan leaped from
his seat at her side, and ran and hid in a plum tree.

All, all alone stood the gay cart in the deserted street, all, all
alone sat the deserted bride. The oxen came to a halt. A bell somewhere
on their harness jangled, and then the world was very still.

Nearer and nearer and lower and lower through the sky came the giant
bird, flapping its shining wings. Suddenly its shadow fell across the
cart. Ailinda sank in a swoon against the arch of flowers. But now the
great bird settled to earth on its claws of red iron, and tall Aileel,
leaping forth, gathered Ailinda in his strong arms, and waked her from
her sleep. Closed now were the gates of unhappiness; open were the
gates of joy.

“Where is Potpan?” said Aileel sternly. Ailinda, recovering from her
swoon, made faint motions in the direction of the plum tree.

[Illustration: _And now, all at once, there were cries and shouts of
alarm. “Run! Run, everybody! The bird! Oh, see the bird!”_]

And now Aileel disappeared for a little while, and all at once there
was a yell, a terrible splash, and a loud chorus of the most indignant
squawking and quacking. Aileel had tossed Potpan once more into the
duck pond!

Then Aileel came back, tall and handsome as could be, and lifted pretty
Ailinda to the seat in the iron bird. Then he got in himself, set the
wings to flapping, and guided the iron bird into the air and home to
the wonderful Kingdom of Iron.

And there, in the house of the Lord of the Royal Forge and amid great
rejoicing, Aileel and Ailinda were wed. Good Braulio, I am glad to say,
remained with them, and all three lived happily together all their
days.




THE WONDERFUL TUNE


Once upon a time, a young minstrel wandered over hill, over dale,
through the world, earning his bread as he strayed by piping on a
penny-pipe to all who cared for a tune. Young was he and little of
stature, his eyes and his hair were brown, and in bright blue was he
clad.

Now it came to pass that, as he wandered through the world, the little
minstrel said to himself one morn, “If some tunes make people merry,
and others make them sad, whilst still others make them dance, why
should there not be a tune so wondrously pleasant and gay that all who
chance to hear it must remain joyous of heart, and can never be sad
or bad or unhappy again? Down the roads of the world I shall seek the
wonderful tune.”

And, with this new thought in his mind, the little minstrel continued
on his way through the world, bidding good-morrow to all, questioning
all. And some there were who thought him mad and were scarcely civil;
others pushed him aside as a jesting vagabond; and there were even
those who would have cast him into prison as a disturber of the public
mind and a wandering rogue. But there were others, too, and these were
the brave and the merciful and the kind and the merry, who speeded him
on his way and wished him luck in his quest.

The summer ripened and came to an end; the crackled leaves tumbled and
fled before a howling wind; snow covered the lonely fields; and still
the little minstrel roamed the world, seeking the wonderful tune.

Now it fortuned that, as the little minstrel turned his steps to the
west, he arrived in the city of a king whose court musician was said to
know all the tunes in the world. Travel-worn, brown of face, and humbly
clad as he was, the youth made his way through the palace and, cap in
hand, knocked gently at the great musician’s door.

From behind the little green door, long runs and wiggles and cascades
of tinkling notes came dancing out into the quiet of the deserted
marble corridor. The youth knocked yet again. Presently the notes
ceased, and, opening the door with a stately bow, the court musician
invited the young wanderer within.

And now the youth found himself in a pleasant room, painted a fair
apple-green and set about with panels edged with gold; the furniture,
too, was painted green and gold, and there were flowered curtains, a
dozing cat, and a china bowl. As for the court musician, he was clad in
a superb costume of the most fashionable lavender brocade.

“Honored Master,” said the little minstrel respectfully, “I am roaming
the world for a tune so pleasant and merry that, once men have heard
it, they can never be sad or bad or unhappy again. Pray do you know
this wonderful tune?”

“Yes, indeed, I know many a wonderful tune,” replied the court
musician. “Listen, now, was it this?” And, seating himself at a gay
green-and-gold harpsichord, the court musician played a merry song full
of the most elegant tinkles and trills.

“No, I am sure that is not the wonderful tune,” said the little
minstrel, looking through an open window at tiny clouds sailing the
sunny sky of a mild midwinter day.

“Then surely this is it,” said the court musician, playing a second
merry tune.

But the little minstrel shook his head once more.

“Dear me, dear me! Not the wonderful tune?” exclaimed the court
musician, wrinkling his brow and pursing his lips. “Ah! Wait! I think
I have it!” And this time he lifted the cover of the green-and-gold
harpsichord so that the minstrel could see the little picture of
frolicking shepherds painted upon it, and played a long, harmonious,
and majestical strain.

But the little minstrel shook his head again.

“My young friend,” said the court musician, with something of a
fatherly air, closing the harpsichord as he spoke, “I have played for
you the only three tunes I know which might be the wonderful tune. Are
you quite sure you are not wasting your life upon this quest? Perhaps
such a tune as you tell of was once known in the world, and is only
hidden away; yet again, perhaps it is all only a dream. You should go
to the Kingdom of Music, and inquire.”

“The Kingdom of Music,” cried the youth. “I’ve never heard of such a
realm. Pray, sir, by what road does one go?”

“Come!” said the court musician, taking the youth by the arm and
leading him to the open window. “See you that land of blue cloud-capped
hills at the world’s edge, and the broad and winding river which
disappears among them? You have but to follow that stream. Farewell,
young friend, the world is before you, and may you find the wonderful
tune!”

League after league and day after day, the little minstrel followed
the winding river, till spring stood upon the hills. And now, with the
first sight of the new leaves, the little minstrel arrived in the land
of melody. It was a goodly land, this Kingdom of Music--a rolling land
of great fields, sweeping cloud-shadows, and ancient oaken groves: a
land of pleasant murmurs and sweet sounds. Only birds with pretty songs
dwelt in the Kingdom of Music, and they sang more sweetly there than in
any other kingdom of the world; the very crickets had a more tuneful
chirp, the river a more various music, and even the winds blew merry
tunes as they whistled through the trees.

Rejoicing in the kingdom and its sounds, the little minstrel was
strolling along, half in a dream, when of a sudden sky and land were
filled with a strange, huge, earth-shaking sound, a sound of the
scraping of thousands of fiddles; of the blowing of thousands of
horns, flutes, trumpets, trombones, and clarinets; of the clashing
and clanging and thumping and bethumping of thousands of bass drums,
kettle-drums, and cymbals; indeed, in all his wanderings the little
minstrel had never heard such a din.

The King of the Kingdom of Music was rehearsing his orchestra.

Every single person in the kingdom, whether man, woman, or child, was
a member of this orchestra. Babies alone were excepted, though on one
occasion the King had made use of a gifted child with a musical howl!

Now, when the rehearsal had come to an end and quiet had returned to
the land, the little minstrel made his way to the royal city, obtained
an audience with the King, and asked for news of the wonderful tune.

“The wonderful tune,” said the King from his throne, nodding gravely.
“Yes, once there was even such a wonderful tune! In those days peace
and plenty reigned in the world, and everyone was happy at his task
beneath the sun. One luckless eve, alas! the tune in some manner
happened to get broken up into notes; and before anyone could help it,
these notes were scattered and lost through all the kingdoms of the
world. Young man, I fear your search is in vain; never more shall the
sons and daughters of men hear the wonderful tune.”

“But perhaps someone might gather the notes together again,” said the
little minstrel eagerly.

“Many have tried to do so,” replied the King. “Of those who fared away,
some returned weary in the days of their youth, others crept back in
old age, and others yet were lost forevermore. And never a one returned
with a single note of the wonderful tune.”

“Then is the time come for a new search,” cried out the little minstrel
bravely. “Farewell, O King of the Kingdom of Music, for I must be off
gathering the notes in the highways of the world.”

“Farewell, good youth,” answered the King. “Return to us when your
quest is ended; and may you come piping the wonderful tune.”

And now the little minstrel found himself on the roads of the world
again, strolling from the first chill gold-and-gray of laggard dawns to
the twilight world of meadows in the gathering dark and village bells
sounding faintly afar.

Seven long years rolled over the world; the little minstrel searched
diligently and far and wide, yet never a trace could he find of a
single note of the wonderful tune. His blue coat, which had been so
gay, was now sadly tattered and torn; even his penny-pipe had a dent in
it, and his shoes, alas! were scarce worth the putting-on in the morn.

Now it came to pass, on a day in the early winter, that the little
minstrel arrived in a northern land and followed a woodland road
through the silence and the cold. The sky was overcast with a wide tent
of dull gray cloud, through which a sun swam, cold as a moon; and the
whole world was very still--so still indeed that the only sound the
little minstrel could hear was the scattering of the leaves beneath his
feet. Twilight came, and found the little minstrel far from a house or
village; a cold wind arose, and presently a thick snow began to fall.
And now the night and the snow closed in upon the wanderer. Huddled
in his ragged cloak, the little minstrel trudged bravely on into the
whirling storm; but little by little the cold crept into his body and
bones, a weariness and a hunger for sleep overcame him, and suddenly he
sank unknowing in the brambles by the road.

When he opened his eyes again, a great open fire was burning before
him on a huge hearth; a blue mug of steaming milk lay waiting at one
side; and over him there bent anxiously two kindly young folk--a sturdy
country-lad in a green smock, and a pretty lass in a dress of homespun
brown. These twain were a young husband and wife who lived in a little
house in the wood, loving each other dearly, working contentedly
at their daily tasks, and dealing hospitably and generously with
all. Returning through the storm from a distant sheepfold, the young
countryman had found the little minstrel lying in the snow and had
carried him on his shoulders to the shelter of his home.

After a few days had passed, and the little minstrel felt quite himself
again, he told his generous friends of his search for the notes of the
wonderful tune. It was at night that he told of his quest; the supper
had been cleared away, the house was still, and the little minstrel and
his hosts were gathered by the fire.

“A note of the wonderful tune--bless me, but I think we have one in
this house!” exclaimed the young wife. And she went to the mantel and
fished about in an ancient brown bowl standing in the gloom. “Yes, here
it is, sure enough--a note of the wonderful tune!”

And thus did it come to pass that the little minstrel obtained the
first note of the wonderful tune; for the young husband and wife were
quick to make a gift of it to their guest.

But now you must hear how he found all the notes save the last.

The second note the little minstrel discovered on a glorious midsummer
day. It had lain in an old bird’s-nest in the heart of a great tree,
and a chance breeze tumbled nest and note together at the minstrel’s
feet.

The third note had been hidden away amid the books of a famous scholar
who lived all alone in an ancient tower, gathering the wisdom of the
world.

The fourth note was given the minstrel by a little child whose toy it
was.

The fifth note was turned up out of the earth, on a spring morning, by
a whistling ploughman who saw the minstrel passing by and called to him
to come and see the strange thing he had found.

The sixth note the minstrel had of a weaver, who labored in his own
house at his own loom and upon it wove fair and beautiful things.

The seventh note a great nobleman possessed; he dwelt in his castle
free of little fears and mean rivalries; and truth and courage and
honor were his squires.

The eighth note the minstrel had of a young sailor, who chanced to
discover it in an old ship that sailed the seas.

Of the ninth and last note, however, there was still no sign; so the
little minstrel put the eight others into his pocket that had no hole
in it, and turned again to his quest. And presently he walked over a
hill into the Kingdom of the Blue Lakes, where reigned the Lady Amoret.

Now the Kingdom of the Blue Lakes was quite the fairest of all the
kingdoms of the world, and Amoret the fairest Queen. Her palace stood
on an open hill by her kingdom’s eastern bound; of golden-white marble
was it made, and from its terrace one looked westward to distant
mountains over a woodland bright with lakes. All day long there a gay
court of lords and ladies in silks and fine array held festival; the
music of lutes and violins was ever to be heard; and scarce an hour
there was but had its pleasure, and scarce a pleasure but had its hour.

Clad in a queen’s robe of scarlet and cloth of gold, and seated in a
jeweled throne raised upon the terrace, the Lady Amoret received the
ragged pilgrim of the tune.

“The last note of the wonderful tune?” said the Lady Amoret. “Seek no
more; it is here. Beyond the palace domain, by a lake in the depths of
the wildwood, my court fool has built for himself a bower, and upon its
wall hangs the last note of the wonderful tune. Tarry with us a while,
and you shall have it. I promise you.”

“May I not go this very instant and find it, Your Majesty?” asked the
little minstrel anxiously. “Long have I roamed the world in search of
it, and I need it so for the tune!”

“Nay, tarry a while,” answered the Queen, unyielding; “for even were
I to bid you go, you would never find the bower, so cunningly is it
hidden in the wood. You have wandered long and afar, good friend; tarry
now a while from your quest. My kingdom is the fairest in the world,
and you shall have all you desire.”

And Amoret gave a command that new apparel of the fairest blue cloth be
prepared for the little minstrel and that a place be set for him at the
royal board.

Now it came to pass that, as the Lady Amoret and her court beheld how
brave a youth the little minstrel appeared in his new apparel, and
hearkened to the thousand wonderful tales he had to tell of his quest,
they found him the best company in the world and determined to hold him
in the realm. To this end, therefore, they strove to drown the memory
of his quest in a tide of gayest merriments; but, in spite of feasts
and festivals, the little minstrel never once forgot the last note of
the wonderful tune.

Try as he might, the little minstrel could never find the note. Again
and again he had tried to make his way to the fool’s bower, only to
lose himself in the tangled paths of the wildwood; again and again he
had questioned the court fool, only to be met with a mocking courtesy,
a finger to the lips, and a jesting wink of the eye. One day he even
ventured to remind the Lady Amoret of her promise, but she only laughed
at him for his impatience and swept him off in her golden boat to a
pageant on the lakes.

Now it happened on the following morning that the Lady Amoret, taking
counsel with her court, determined to destroy the note, lest the
minstrel should discover it, and go. Summoning the captain of the
palace guard before her, she said to him:--

“Go to-night to the bower of the court fool; take the last note of the
wonderful tune, and fling it into the depths of the lake.”

       *       *       *       *       *

And now it was night, and the lords and ladies of the court, strolling
forth from dinner, walked through the palace to the terrace of the
west. A storm was gathering afar, an approaching thunder growled, and
lightning, flashing in the sky, was mirrored in the waters of the
lakes. Presently there came wind and a patter of rain, and soldiers of
the palace guard entered to close the windows and the doors.

The little minstrel stood apart by a great window, gazing forth into
the darkness and the storm. His fine new clothes weighed like lead upon
his shoulders; his jeweled neckcloth scarce left him free to breathe;
and with all his heart he longed for his rags, his liberty, and the
cool rain on his eyes.

But the last note--he could not leave that behind. Suddenly he heard
one soldier say to another:--

“Our companions will be caught in the storm; they have ridden forth
with the captain to the fool’s bower, to destroy the last note of the
wonderful tune.”

“Oh, the note, the note, my note! Oh, what shall I do?” cried the
minstrel, his heart sinking into depths of despair. “Even now it may
be lost to the world--this time forever! I must find the court fool;
he shall tell me where the bower lies!” And he looked about in the
splendid throng for the fantastic motley of the fool; but he saw only
many in rich garments, and the gleam of jewels reflecting many lights.

Suddenly he chanced to recall that the court fool dwelt in the garret
of the palace, so up great and little stairs he fled to the fool’s
chamber in the eaves. The rain was now falling in torrents on the roof
close overhead, and all at once a terrible peal of thunder shook the
palace to its depths. Never pausing to knock, the little minstrel burst
in at the door.

Candles were burning within the humble chamber, lightning flared at an
oval window, and the court fool stood in the centre of the floor, still
in his motley clad.

“My friend,” said the court fool, with a low bow and a mocking smile,
“allow me to present you with the last note of the wonderful tune.”
And with those words he handed the note to the very much astonished
youth.

“I feared lest mishap destroy it,” continued the court fool, “so
yestereve I took it from my bower. You see, I believe in the wonderful
tune; and without my note, this last note, your tune would scarce be
worth the playing. And now, your hand, little minstrel, for you must
hurry away at once through the wind and rain.”

So the minstrel pressed the hand of the court fool and, hastening down
a tiny corner staircase, went forth into the storm. And as he fled, he
cried aloud to the thunder and the rain and the wild wind:--

“The wonderful tune, the wonderful tune! I have it, I have it--the
wonderful tune!”

And now the storm wore itself away, the summer stars shone forth in the
clearest of blue skies, and the only sound to be heard was the rain
drip-dripping from the trees. Drenched to the skin, but with a fire of
joy in his heart, the minstrel hurried through the night toward the
Kingdom of Music far away.

When he arrived there, on a summer’s morning, he found the people of
the palace assembled in the hall of state, and the King upon his throne.

“I have it, Your Majesty!” cried out the little minstrel breathlessly;
“I have it, every note; here is the wonderful tune!”

“What! The wonderful tune?” cried the King, leaping to his
feet. “Quick, somebody, ring all the bells, send trumpeters
through the streets, assemble the orchestra, and call hither the
Violinist-in-Chief, the Lord Organist, and the Grand Harper. We shall
play it over at once!”

       *       *       *       *       *

“H-m,” said the Violinist-in-Chief, after he had put on his
huge spectacles and studied the wonderful tune, “Don’t you feel
that those last bars ought to be played very fast, like this:
tum-diddy-tum--tum-diddy-tum--tum-diddy-tum--diddy-dum-dum-dum?”

[Illustration: _“No, I do not agree with you,” shouted the Lord
Organist_]

“No, I do _not_ agree with you,” replied the Lord Organist, a huge
personage with a majestic air and a bad temper. “Those bars should
be played slowly,” here he waved a large, solemn finger, “like this:
tum--tum--tum--tum--tum--tum--tum--tum--tum!”

“You are both entirely wrong,” interrupted the Grand Harper, a
short contradictory fellow with long arms and long fingers. “To
my way of thinking the entire tune should be played throughout
in the same time, in this fashion; listen to my tapping now:
da-da--dee-dee--da-da--dee-dee--da-da--dee-do-dum.”

“Impossible! Absurd! No, never!” cried the Lord Organist and the
Violinist-in-Chief in one long indignant breath. “We appeal to the
King!”

But the King had ideas of his own on the matter.

And thus it was that the musicians all took to quarreling as to how the
wonderful tune should be played, and are quarreling still.

But some day they will make up their minds as to how it should go; the
little minstrel will leave the Kingdom of Music and come through the
world piping the tune; and then, oh, then, what times there will be!




THE MAN OF THE WILDWOOD


Once upon a time, on a summer’s morning after a night’s rain, a country
squire’s son stood within an arched doorway of his father’s house,
gazing upon the hedgerows and the fields. The sun was shining after the
storm, a high wind was shaking the trees, scurrying gusts fled through
the nodding grass, and silvery white clouds sailed the arching sky. And
beholding the bright morning and the rain-washed land, a great longing
came into the heart of the squire’s son to follow the clouds over hill,
over dale, and to see the world. Presently, with his parents’ blessing
locked in his heart’s treasury and a purse of gold in his pocket, he
leaped to the saddle of his dappled steed, waved his plumed hat, and
galloped away.

Long he rode and afar, and presently he found himself in the heart of
the deepest and darkest wildwood that was ever to be seen. Before
him, behind him, around him all about, were the trunks of numberless
trees--trees so tall that they hid the sky, and made of it but patches
of cloudy white or speckles of blue; trees--broad trees, slender trees,
trees that were like men-at-arms, trees that were shy and aloof as
maids, trees that were silent, trees that rustled, everywhere trees.
And deep was the wildwood silence and unbroken save for the soft pad of
the horse’s hoofs and the rare song of a hidden bird.

At the close of his third day, the squire’s son found himself at the
gates of a noble city built of cedar-green glass on an open hill in the
heart of the wildwood.

Now as it was late in the day when the youth arrived at the city, it
came to pass that he went to an inn for supper and the night. The
mistress of the tavern, I must tell you, was a lonely orphan maiden
named Miranda. Surely there was never a fairer or a kinder little
maid! Beneath her ancient roof the humble wayfarer met with as
friendly a greeting as his richer fellow, and with her own hands she
gave bread and milk to the unfortunate and poor.

Now it chanced that the youth had been given a chamber overlooking
the court of the inn, and presently he heard from below a confused
din of voices, laughter, and jeers. In wonder as to what the cause of
the hubbub might be, the squire’s son drew open his latticed window
and looked down. A great green cage on wheels was to be seen there,
surrounded by a throng of curious onlookers who poked fingers at
something within it, shrieked catcalls, whistled, and laughed to split
their sides.

The youth descended to the court, and made his way into the throng.

Within the cage, clad in a gray wolf’s skin, sat a creature like unto a
man. Strong of body was he, and beautiful to behold. His eyes were blue
and they were the eyes of a wild thing, and the long hair which fell
about his neck was of the strangest tawny gold. Aware of the stir made
by a newcomer, the prisoner turned, and fixed the youth with a glance
in which lay pride mingled with despair.

Presently the proprietor of the cage, who had been baiting his horse at
the stables of the inn, returned and lowered curtains about the cage
and the prisoner. Fearful lest they be summoned to pay the showman his
penny, the onlookers took to their heels, and soon the youth found
himself alone in the courtyard.

Now this prisoner, I must tell you, was known as the Man of the
Wildwood, for some hunters had found him in a net which they had spread
in the wildwood a year before. To some an animal-like man, to others
a man-like animal, the Man of the Wildwood remained a mystery in the
land. As for the prisoner, never a word said he, and none knew whether
he would not or could not talk.

Securely locked in his cage, the Man of the Wildwood was shown to all
at a penny a head.

And now, as the youth mused alone in the silence, the maid Miranda came
forth to light the great lantern in the court. A white apron she wore,
a great white cap, and there were red ribbons on her gown. The squire’s
son thought he never beheld a maid so fair.

Catching sight of the squire’s son, standing idly by, Miranda said to
him, “Pray, good sir, what may there be in yon cage?”

“The Man of the Wildwood,” replied the youth. And he told Miranda what
he had overheard amid the throng.

“Alas, poor creature,” said the gentle maiden, “how bitter must be such
a cage to one who has known the freedom of the wildwood! I surely must
bring him some honey and bread!”

And away she sped to the larder of the inn to fetch the good cheer.
The twilight deepened. When Miranda returned again, the youth and the
maid walked to the green cage and offered the gift to the Man of the
Wildwood.

For a little space the prisoner, crouched in a dark corner of the
cage, made neither sign nor sound. Then slowly, very slowly, he
approached the gift of the kind maiden and ate of it hungrily. And
because he had met with so little pity and compassion, the Man of the
Wildwood was moved to his heart’s deep, and gazed upon the young folk
with strange eyes.

All evening long the squire’s son mused on the Man of the Wildwood.
Suddenly a great pity possessed him, and going to the showman, he
purchased the prisoner for fifty golden crowns.

And now it was midnight; and the green cage, drawn by the showman’s
horse, rolled down a deserted road to the edge of the wildwood. A moon
almost at the full sailed the high heavens, now vanishing under thin,
black clouds, now floating forth through silvery rifts and isles. Side
by side, saying little to each other, sat the showman and the youth.

Suddenly a high wall of rustling darkness loomed before them at the
verge of a moonlit field; the cage had reached the gate of the forest.
With a key given him by the showman--who was a little afraid--the
squire’s son unlocked the cage, and freed the Man of the Wildwood. And
even as he did so, a summer breeze went singing through the wildwood
with a great cry of joy.

Free at last, the Man of the Wildwood said naught, but lifted his head
to the stars. Then raising his right arm high above his head, he made
a stately sign of salutation to the youth, and walked like a king into
the darkness of the trees.

The next morning the youth rose early and set forth once more upon his
travels. Cities he saw, and nations, and kingdoms, but no one in them
whom he thought fairer than Miranda. As for Miranda, scarce had the
squire’s son ridden away, than she began to hope for his return.

Little by little the tide of summer rose to its full, and ebbing, left
the gifts of golden autumn in the fields.

But now you must hear of the three merchants, the moonstone, and the
misfortunes of Miranda.

It was a harvest eve, and presently Miranda, watching by the tavern
door, beheld three men habited as merchants making their way along the
city street to the inn. Somewhat to her surprise, they came afoot. Two
of these merchants, I must tell you, were tall and lean, whilst the
third was short and fat and had green eyes. Unwilling to refuse, yet
somewhat against her better judgment, Miranda granted the request of
these merchants for lodgment at the inn.

Now these three merchants, alas, were not merchants at all but three
famous thieves, who had come to the city to steal a certain celebrated
gem belonging to the king. This gem was a moonstone--a moonstone of
such rare loveliness that men fabled that it had tumbled to earth from
the moon, and been found in a forest glade at the end of a ray of
summer moonshine. In all the world nothing there was more fair.

And now it was another midnight, and the three thieves, quitting
their rooms in the inn, stole as quietly as three cats down the
oaken stairway to the empty street. Unknown to them, however,
Miranda--wakened by their whispers--followed close behind, now
retreating into shadowy doorways, now leaning against a wall lest she
be seen.

Presently the rogues approached the huge darkened mass of the palace,
and made their way into the grounds through the dreaming gardens. A
little fountain splashed somewhere in the night. The moon had set, and
a thin layer of cloud dimmed the wheeling stars.

Chuckling softly at their success in having thus far eluded the palace
watch, the thieves now pressed open a little window and crawled into
the tower of jewels. Hurrying as fast as ever she could, Miranda ran to
wake the yeomen of the guard.

Suddenly there was a great outcry, a light appeared in a window, there
were shouts and a clash of arms, and the thieves came tumbling out of
the window with the moonstone and vanished, all three, into the starry
dark. A moment later flaming torches moved amid the trees, a throng
of men-at-arms poured into the gardens, and Miranda found herself a
prisoner.

Accused of having harbored the thieves and of having had a hand in the
robbery, the maiden of the inn was the next morning brought to trial.
Shaken to the heart, yet protesting her innocence to the last, the poor
maiden made but a confused defense, and presently was condemned to
suffer the sternest judgment of the law.

When this was pronounced, however, the friends and neighbors who loved
Miranda made such a tumult in the court that the judgment was altered,
and Miranda was sentenced to be carried in the gaoler’s cart into the
very depths of the great wildwood, and there abandoned to live or
perish as she might.

And now it was twilight, a golden harvest twilight; and Miranda,
standing with her hands tied behind her by the wrists and her head
bowed low, was drawn in a two-wheeled cart through the darkening
streets of the glass city, and carried far out into the pathless
regions of the wildwood. Once there, the gaoler--who pitied her--loosed
her from her bonds, gave her a crust of prison bread, and drove away.
Fainter and fainter grew the noise of the homeward-faring cart.

The night was moonless, the stars were bright, and a wild wind from
some far waste of the world was roaring through the trees, now dying
away to a faint and vagrant murmur, now rising to a great wailing
rustling cry that arose and broke and ebbed like a wave of the sea. And
the swaying branches tossed their clots of darkness against the stars,
whilst underfoot so dark it lay that naught was to be seen.

For some moments the unhappy maiden, trembling with dread, stood
motionless in the dark of the wildwood. Strange sounds drifted to her
ears--the moan of rival branches, the laughter of running water, and
the far cry of some hunter of the night. Suddenly she felt herself grow
icy cold, and her eyes closing, she sank to the earth and knew no more.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile, that very eve, in the distant city, the squire’s son was
riding joyously to the inn. Presently he reached his long-awaited goal,
and to his great surprise found the windows darkened and the doorway
sealed and barred. Seeing him thus wandering about, a neighboring
goodwife came forth from her dwelling, and told him, with tears in her
eyes, the cruel fate of the good Miranda.

“Oh, wicked judgment!” cried the youth. “Quick--tell me whither in the
wildwood have they taken her; for I must find her, come what may!”

“Alas, who can say?” replied the goodwife. “All that I can tell thee
is that the cart vanished through the eastern gate, adown the eastern
way.”

And now the youth cried to his dappled steed to press on as he had
never done before, and galloped through the night to the wildwood.
Darker it grew and darker still.

Arriving at length in a little clearing, the squire’s son bade his
horse stand halted, and plunged into the wildwood, loudly calling and
hallooing for the lost maiden. On and on through briery thicket and
stony mire he blundered forward in the gloom. Suddenly an unseen ravine
opened beneath him; his feet trod forward into nothingness; his hands
caught at the air; and with a cry, he fell. And now as he lay there
stunned, strong arms caught him gently up and carried him away.

When he woke to life again, he found himself lying on a bed of skins
piled near a fire on a cavern floor. By his side, the torment of
his human prison fallen from him like an evil garment, noble and
beautiful and strong, stood the Man of the Wildwood.

[Illustration: _Before him stood the Man of the Wildwood_]

Lifting himself up and turning toward his rescuer, the youth poured
forth his story and sought the eyes of the Man of the Wildwood for a
token that he had understood. For a moment, however, the Man of the
Wildwood made no sign. Then, of a sudden, with a gesture at once gentle
and commanding, he touched the youth by the hand, and going to the cave
mouth, opened his arms to the dark wildwood, and called upon it in its
secret speech.

And he bade the things of the wild--the brethren who go afoot, the
kindred of the air, and the humble folk who crawl upon the earth--to
go forth through the wildwood and find the maiden and guard her well.
And he called upon them, too, to follow the thieves, and make them
prisoners of the wood.

And now a great murmur, even such a sound as heralds the coming of a
mighty rain, swept through the wood. Forth from their dens creeping
came the bears, the gray wolves, and the little foxes; the shy deer
started in their glens; the birds awakened with a flutter in their
nests and took wing into the starry dark; the little wood-mice came
tumbling out of their warm beds; and even the spotted snakes went forth
to seek. Almost in less time than it takes to tell of it, the earth and
the air seemed full of the people of the wild, questing here and there
in search of the maid.

There passed a little time, and suddenly a great brown owl, half
blinded by the firelight, swooped down to the arch of the cave-mouth
with the news that he had found the maiden asleep beneath a sheltering
pine; and a moment later a nimble gray hare with upstanding ears came
hopping in with the tidings that the thieves had been taken on a
wildwood road.

Now this news was quite enough to cure the squire’s son of his fall,
so jumping to his feet, he followed the staring owl and the Man of the
Wildwood to the refuge of Miranda.

You may be sure that Miranda rejoiced to see the squire’s son! As for
the thieves, they came upon them standing terror-stricken, huddled
together in the heart of a wide circle of watching, silent, flame-eyed
animals. Creepers and vines had seized upon them as they fled, and
bound their arms behind with leafy fetters.

Suddenly a friendly whinny was heard, and the dappled steed, guided by
a benevolent badger, came trotting through the wildwood to its master.
To lift Miranda to the saddle was but a moment’s task. The three
thieves walking ahead, Miranda riding, and the youth and the Man of the
Wildwood following behind, even thus went the little company through
the forest dark to the edge of the wildwood.

Morning was at hand; only the brighter stars were left in the wide and
cloudless sky; presently the dawn broke over the green horizon of the
trees.

Arriving at the bound of the forest, the Man of the Wildwood lifted his
arm once more in token of farewell, and with his animals clustered
about him, watched his friends till they vanished down the road.

Presently the domes and towers of the city of glass rose before the
little company. A swirling autumn mist lay over the fields between the
wildwood and the city walls, the sky was rosy overhead, and hundreds of
little bells were ringing.

Pausing at the eastern gate, the squire’s son delivered the thieves to
the yeomen of the guard.

On the following morning the three rogues, brought to trial, declared
the innocence of Miranda, confessed their wickedness, and restored
the moonstone. A stern sentence was justly theirs; but so pleased was
the king at the return of his jewel that he merely condemned them to
road-mending for a number of years. To Miranda the king gave a rich
reward, to the squire’s son, a fair house whose windows looked forth on
the treetops of the wildwood.

And thus it came to pass that the squire’s son married the good
Miranda, and lived happily with his dear wife and little ones many a
long and pleasant year.




THE MAIDEN OF THE MOUNTAIN


Once upon a time, in a noble realm to the west of the Golden Plain,
there towered to the sky a solitary height of such majesty and grave
beauty that the realm became known through the world as the Kingdom of
the Mountain. Mighty, snow-capped, and serene it rose beyond the little
woods and willow-bordered streams.

Now it came to pass that a king ruled in the land who had been left
with two little motherless children, the Prince Ariel and the Princess
Leoline. The Princess was the elder of the two and, though only three
years old, considered herself quite a grown-up personage; as for the
little Prince, he was but a child in arms. From a window of their
chamber in a tower-top, the children were wont to look forth over the
land to the mountain rising afar, now blazing white and bright in the
clear midwinter air, now half concealed in summer’s hazy veil.

And now, with the suddenness of a tempest shattering the quiet of the
night, a wicked nobleman, Babylan by name, rose against the good King
and challenged him to do battle for his throne.

Now it chanced that the wise old nurse to whom the King had entrusted
the Princess Leoline had for some time feared that all was not well
with her master’s cause, so on the day of battle she climbed to a
high tower-top to see what she could see. Already from afar, through
the dull still morning, could be heard the sullen tumult of the fray.
Closer and closer advancing, hour by hour louder and louder growing,
the tide of battle approached the very gates of the stronghold.

Suddenly, enveloped in a cloud of dust, the first stragglers from the
King’s defeated army burst from a little wood and came hastening down
the road toward the castle. Knowing only too well that all was lost
and that the troops of Babylan would be soon battering at the gate, the
good nurse caught up Leoline and hurried down the curving stair to warn
the guardians of Ariel.

Neither Prince nor guardian, however, could she find. The castle was
already in confusion, people were running hither and thither, an alarm
bell was wildly clanging, and in the soldiers’ court a runaway was
gasping out his story to a handful of frightened listeners. Well aware
that her first duty must be the safety of the little Princess sleeping
on her shoulder, the old nurse abandoned the search for Ariel and fled
from the castle with her charge. And because she had been born in a
village of the mountain and knew the region to be inaccessible and
wild, the brave nurse turned her steps toward the height.

All night long, down lonely lane and royal highway, by woodland path
and river road the brave woman hurried through the dark war-shaken
land. The voice of great waters, roaring in the night under turreted
bridges, beat upon her ears as she fled; messengers galloped by,
spurring fast; and here and there a signal beacon flamed afar on some
high crest. But presently the swarming stars grew pale, and streaks of
day appeared in the east.

Pausing at a lonely farm at the end of the lowland way, the nurse
begged a crock of milk and a morsel of bread for herself and Leoline.

To the east, beyond the hills, rose the great snowy summit of the
mountain, outlined against a clear green sky of dawn.

And now the pleasant fields gave way to rocky wind-swept pastures,
lying at the foot of a road winding and climbing along a great ridge
of the mountain to a tiny village at a valley’s height. To the right
of this road, towering steeps of rock soared to a wild, snow-mantled
crest; to the left, the mountain side fell away, a terrible precipice,
to a torrent all afoam. Up this road fled the old nurse, half
carrying, half dragging the weary and bewildered Leoline.

When they arrived at the journey’s end, the day was at its close, the
air was hushed, and the wide chasm of the valley lay dark with mist
and gloom. The sun had set upon the huddled roofs of the village; but,
towering into the upper air, the ruling summit still beheld the western
light and reflected a rosy splendor in its snows.

Once safe in the village, the old nurse took refuge in a cottage
belonging to her sister, a widow woman who kept a flock of sheep.
Fearful lest the cruel Babylan in some manner become aware of the
Princess and her refuge, the good woman wisely determined to keep
secret the true history of her little guest. In time even Leoline
herself forgot all about the palace.

Thus did it come to pass that Leoline the Princess became Leoline the
Maiden of the Mountain.

As for the Prince Ariel, his fate remained a mystery. Some said the
poor little Prince had perished in a sort of prison, some whispered
that the wicked new King had caused him to be abandoned in the
wildwood. But, whatever the truth may have been, no one at the palace
saw him or heard from him any more.

And now passed many years. Safe within her refuge in the mountain, the
Princess Leoline grew from a rosy-cheeked mountain child to a tall,
blue-eyed, golden-haired shepherdess. Far and wide through the villages
of the height ran tales of her stout-heartedness and great daring,
her gentleness and courtesy as well. Again and again, in quest of a
strayaway or seeking some rare flower of the snows, she had made her
way to heights to which none had ever dared aspire. Indeed, so fearless
was the royal shepherdess that presently a poor woman to whom she had
brought an armful of snow violets cried out to her that she must surely
be under the protection of the Giant of the Mountain!

“The Giant of the Mountain,” asked Leoline, “who is he? Pray tell me,
for I have never before heard of him.”

And she turned her head to gaze wonderingly on the wild crest of the
mountain half hidden in the morning mist.

“The Giant of the Mountain is the ruler of the height,” replied the
village goodwife. “At least so men say, though never in my lifetime
have men beheld him. Perhaps he has hidden himself away from mortals.
But long ago, Maiden Leoline, in the days of the grandsires, men who
climbed beyond the torrents sometimes heard a great voice speaking
solemn as thunder in the hills.”

“Would that I might behold him!” cried Leoline. And with wonder in her
heart she returned to the daily task of watching her sheep. Clad in a
pretty dress of rustic brown and wearing a kirtle of apple green, the
royal shepherdess was very fair to see.

Now it came to pass on the afternoon of that very day that, as Leoline
was driving her flock home to its fold, she heard the sound of weeping,
and presently she overtook a little sister-shepherdess in tears.
Catching the child to her, Leoline endeavored to comfort her and asked
her why she wept.

“Alas! Maiden Leoline,” replied the ragged little shepherdess, “I weep
because the white lamb which my father bade me guard has strayed away
and is nowhere to be found. Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?”

And the little shepherdess wept afresh, while her halted flock lowered
their silly heads and bleated mournfully.

“A white lamb?” said Leoline. “Come, take heart; he cannot be far away.
We shall find him, I am sure, for the sun is still high above the west,
and the day is far from spent. Do you but remain here and guard your
flock and mine, while I go to search the pasture by the snows.” And
with these words the kind maiden turned her face to the height.

Through upland pasture and rocky dell fared Leoline, scanning the
waving flower-strewn grass for the lost white lamb, and listening for a
forlorn crying; but of the lamb she had neither sight nor sound. Little
by little the afternoon drew to a close. Presently a chill of cold and
dark crept into the air as the sun vanished behind a great mass of
sombre cloud.

Finding a mountain torrent near at hand, Leoline followed the edge of
the roaring stream toward the wild steeps of the mountain.

The sky was now but one vast and seemingly motionless sea of cloud.
Beneath this cloudy tent, however, floating strangely and swiftly by,
fled steamy wisps and fragments of shapeless mist, and ever and anon
one of these fugitives enveloped Leoline in its chilly veil. Bravely
making her way along a path every step more dangerous growing, the
maiden at length attained the last sweep of open land. Strewn with
lovely flowers was the field; and two strange crags, which Leoline had
never seen before, rose from its further bound.

Now as Leoline gazed upon the two crags, the level floor of rock lifted
high between them, and the pinnacled wall of cliff rising behind, she
beheld that they formed together a marvelous great throne, of which
the two crags were the carven arms and the cliff-wall the sculptured
back--a throne for a giant being mighty as the mountain: a being whose
feet were of the earth and whose body rose to the clouds and the
marshaled stars. And this chair stood exalted high, strange and noble
and dark, now outlined against the sullen clouds, now caught up and
hidden in their depths.

Presently the unseen sun sank below the crest of the mountain and a
wild dark fell. The clouds rolled about the craggy throne.

[Illustration: _For a long moment Leoline, awed yet unafraid, gazed at
the Giant of the Mountain_]

And now, of a sudden, a great roaring wind arose which swept the
mountain-top with a sound of noble music; the cloud veil broke asunder
and rolled away; a rich and sudden light poured down upon the field;
and Leoline beheld the great throne uplifted high against the sunset’s
flare. And within the throne, mantled in a robe that might of cloud
have been spun, sat a giant being. The western light was about his
head, his hands rested on the crags, and there was mystery in his eyes.

For a long moment Leoline, awed yet unafraid, gazed at the Giant of
the Mountain. Then came a sound like unto a far trumpet-clang, the
winds were again unleashed, the clouds once more gathered together, and
throne and Giant vanished in the mountain gloom.

All at once Leoline heard a pitiful cry and, looking down, beheld the
lost lamb at her feet. Whence could it have come? It was nowhere to be
seen a moment before.

Lifting the lamb gently up, Leoline carried it through the twilight to
the little shepherdess.

       *       *       *       *       *

And now a year and half a year again passed, and presently disorder
reigned once more within the realm. Weary of Babylan and his
tyrannies, the people of the land were gathering from far and wide
to drive him from his throne. Surely there was never a worse King!
Did he demand gold from some unhappy village, gold would he have, or
else the villagers would see their houses in flames and their lowing
cattle being harried to the royal barns; his prisons were full of
innocent folk whose possessions he coveted or against whom he had
taken a grudge; no longer in the land was to be found that friendly
spirit and good cheer which had reigned there in the time of Leoline’s
unhappy father. But, though the anger of Babylan was the anger of the
thunderstroke, there is an end to all patience; and presently the land
rose against the King.

The leader of the people in this strife was a young forester of humble
birth, named Norbert. This daring youth, I must tell you, had once been
imprisoned by Babylan for saving a poor family from his oppression, but
had succeeded in escaping to the mountain. Courteous, generous, and
brave as a lion, the young Captain was the idol of the land.

Presently the tidings of the revolt arrived at the village in the
mountain, and from rocky pasture and upland field the youth of the
neighborhood gathered in the village square to choose their chief. And
because Leoline was so spirited and daring, they cried out that she
must be their leader and that no other would they obey. Riding at the
head of her band of sturdy mountaineers and clad in the armor of a
young knight, even thus went the shepherdess Princess to the wars.

Little by little the army of the revolt swept towards the stronghold
of Babylan, and presently encamped at the foot of a huge ridge of land
no great distance from the city. And there, in the meadows below the
ridge, the people slept, doubting not that the next eve would see their
victorious standards in the city streets and Babylan their prisoner.

But when came the dawn they beheld the terrible black horsemen of
Babylan drawn up in line along the ridge. The sky was pale behind them,
they moved not, and little awakening breezes fluttered their dark
bannerets. Midway in the sombre rank, mounted upon a giant charger
halted a little ahead of the others, was to be seen the wicked King.
All at once there were trumpet calls, some near, others afar, and with
a great wild echoing cry the host of Babylan swept galloping down the
slope of the ridge upon the surprised soldiery of the people.

And now all was confusion indeed! A panic was at hand. Emboldened,
however, by the coolness, courage, and resource of Norbert, the army
of the revolt, though taken by surprise, rallied quickly and held its
ground. All day long thunder of arms resounded from the fair green
fields and fruit-laden orchards. Norbert performed prodigies of valor,
and Leoline was ever to be found in the thick of the fray. Now at the
head of her mountaineers she brought succor to an encircled group of
her comrades in the revolt, now from Babylan’s own color-bearer she
wrested the black standard with the scarlet eagles, now was she to be
seen giving water to both wounded friend and foe. But, alas! as the day
grew old and the shadows lengthened, the host of Babylan slowly gained
the mastery, and by nightfall the army of the people was fleeing in
disorder through the highways and the fields.

Now it came to pass that Leoline, forced at length to abandon the
struggle in which she had played so brave a part, discovered Norbert
lying wounded and unheeded in an orchard. Dismounting from her horse,
she lifted the young leader to the saddle and, accompanied by her
faithful troop, hurried through the night toward the village in the
mountains.

And now it was once more dawn. Presently Leoline, Norbert, and their
followers arrived at the little cottage in which Leoline’s old nurse
and foster mother awaited her return. It was cold, and a crackling
fire was burning on the huge hearth. After placing their unhappy young
leader on a little pallet, the mountaineers withdrew, leaving Leoline
and her foster mother to care for him. As for poor Norbert, alas! so
weak was he that he lay helpless and unknowing.

And now, of a sudden, there came a swift knocking at the door, and
opening it, Leoline discovered there the little shepherdess whose white
lamb she had found the year before.

“Oh, Maiden Leoline,” cried out the little shepherdess, “I have come to
warn you! The King has discovered this refuge and is on his way here
with a troop of horsemen. They are mounting the road along the ridge;
my father has seen them from the high rock. Oh, make haste and hide or
you will fall into his cruel hands!”

“But our Captain; what of him?” asked Leoline. “We cannot desert him
in his hour of sorrow and defeat. Quick, give me your aid, and we will
hide him away in yonder pines.”

But the old nurse shook her head. “Nay,” she said, “stir him now, and
he will never again waken into life.”

“Oh, Maiden Leoline, do make haste,” cried the little shepherdess,
holding the door ajar.

“Nay, little sister,” answered Leoline, shaking her head, “here shall I
remain. Farewell, little friend; I thank thee for the warning.”

Now rose the morning sun in splendor over the shoulder of the mighty
mountain, rolling away the mists and revealing the dewy fields, the
crags, and the eternal snows in all their bright unsullied loveliness.
Leaving Norbert in the care of the old nurse, Leoline ran to the high
rock.

Before and below her lay the village, then the deep gulf of the valley
opening toward the distant plain. All at once the Princess beheld
Babylan and his men! Up the road leading along the side of the higher
crest they were mounting. Ever and anon, on lesser slopes of the
winding road, they galloped their steeds.

Now crept despair into the heart of the brave Leoline even as the
bitter cold of a winter’s night creeps into a room when sinks the fire.
And in her heart she beheld the helpless Norbert in the hands of his
enemy, her people flying, pursued, to the caverns in the mountain, and
her village laid low.

But of whom could she now seek aid? Along the snow-crested ridge nearer
and nearer rode the wicked King.

Suddenly Leoline recalled to mind the Giant of the Mountain. Turning
her face toward the mountain peak, she lifted her arms to it and cried
aloud:--

“O Giant of the Mountain, O Giant of the Snows, help us in our need!”

Loud and clear rang the cry of Leoline through the mountain air and was
followed by a silence.

A breeze shook the branches of the dwarfed pines; a bird sang.

Then, suddenly, a far high murmur trembled to a roar, a roar loud
and terrible enough to drown all the sounds of the world, and from
the snow-capped ridge above the road there flowed and rolled down on
Babylan and his men a mighty avalanche. Huge stones were there in it,
glistening ice and snow, brown earth and uprooted pines. Sweeping over
the road, the mass poured over the precipice into the valley-depth a
league below.

Such was the end of the wicked Babylan.

Now it came to pass that, because his horse had gone lame, one of
Babylan’s men had fallen behind and, as a consequence, had escaped the
avalanche. Upon this fellow the mountaineers quickly fell and were
about to do him a mischief when the horseman cried:--

“Hold! Hold! I, and I alone, can tell you of the lost Prince Ariel.”

Hearing these words, the mountaineers thought it wise to take their
captive to Leoline. Bound securely, the horseman was thrust into a
corner of the cottage and commanded to tell his story to the assembled
company.

“Babylan gave me the Prince Ariel,” said the man at arms, “and bade me
abandon him in the wildwood. But I obeyed not his cruel word and left
the child with a good forester, named Hildebrand of the Oaks.”

Now, when the horseman had spoken, all present knew that, by a strange
and wonderful turn of Fortune’s wheel, their young leader was likewise
their lawful lord and king. For Norbert the daring had passed as the
son of the forester, Hildebrand of the Oaks.

And now it was the old nurse’s turn to speak. Said she, “Long enough
have I kept my counsel, but now that the danger which kept me silent is
no more, I may tell all. Our Leoline, whom you have known as Leoline,
the shepherdess, is Leoline, our Princess and own sister to Prince
Ariel.”

And she told them all of her flight to the mountain and of how she had
saved the little Princess from the cruel Babylan. You will believe that
Leoline was amazed to find herself a real Princess. But her heart was
filled with joy and pride because of her brother’s deeds.

Now, when Ariel’s wounds had healed and his strength had returned, the
people of the mountain escorted him in triumph to the royal city, and
there, amid universal joy, the brave Prince claimed and received his
own. The annals of Fairyland tell of no better King. I am glad to say
that he richly rewarded both the man at arms and the old nurse.

As for Leoline, she took the Mountain for her kingdom and, under the
protection of the Giant of the Height, dwelt there long in peace and
happiness.




THE BELL OF THE EARTH AND THE BELL OF THE SEA


Once upon a time a brave mariner, who had sailed the blue for many
years, married a captain’s daughter and went to live in a pleasant
inland country a long way from the sea. Now it came to pass that, as
the sailor and his wife dwelt in the inland vale, a sturdy son was born
to them whom they named Altair; and this little son grew to manhood
with a great longing in his heart to go companying with sailors and
sail upon the sea. Presently the old mariner called his son unto him
and said:--

“Dear son of mine, a sailor were you born and a sailor you shall be.
Go you forth to the ships, have your fill of a sailor’s life, and may
honor and fortune come to you upon the sea.”

So now the youth Altair bade his dear parents farewell and followed
the northern highway to a certain great city by the sea. Day after
day, as he walked, the soft blue skies and golden clouds of the inland
country vanished behind, a brightness and a faint glow of green
appeared in the arching heavens, and a cold northern wind shook each
sombre northern pine. Suddenly one morn the youth heard from afar the
endless thundering of breakers and, arriving on a sandy height, beheld
great seas tumbling in foam and white confusion on the shore. And thus
discovering the sea, something in the heart of Altair shouted and
leaped for joy.

To one side and below stood the towers and masts of the city; there
were sailors in her streets with brown faces, rich merchants in velvet
caps and gowns, brave pilots, and adventurers, and captains coming and
going to their ships.

After purchasing a stout jacket, a knitted cap, a blue sailor blouse,
and a pair of trousers belling out below, Altair set down his name in
the book of a great ship and sailed away upon the sea. Seven years
he sailed, now through nights of whispering seas and skies of silent
stars, now through storms and howling winds and waves blown white with
foam. Little by little the youth’s blue eyes took on the look of one
who sees afar, his body grew strong, and he walked as a sailor walks,
with feet apart and a roll from side to side. Seven years he sailed,
and then became a captain and master of a vessel of his own.

Now it came to pass that, as the blue-eyed captain returned from a long
and lonely passage to the Isles of Gold, he beheld a great multitude
of ships sailing together down the sea. Across his bow they sailed,
great ships stately as castles of oak, little ships that bobbed and
courtesied to every wave, ships with pennons, ships with banners, ships
of all rigs and colors in the world. And so great was the multitude of
ships that some had already crossed the rim of the sea ahead, whilst
the swaying spars of others rose faint and far behind.

In great wonderment as to what the gathering might portend, the young
captain hailed a passing ship and questioned a master mariner.

“These be the ships of all the world, Sir Captain,” answered the master
mariner, “and we sail to the land of the King of the South, for he hath
summoned us one and all. There is great news, they say, awaiting us at
journey’s end, but of what it may be none can tell. But come: up with
your helm, Sir Captain, and follow through the sea.”

Week after week, through weather fair and weather foul, Altair sailed
with the ships of the world to the Kingdom of the South. All at once,
one fine night between midnight and the morn, the men upon the masts of
the first three ships sent back a cry of land, and presently the great
blue light of the Kingdom of the South shone forth, far away and low
upon the sea. At sunrise the ships of the world, following one another
in line, sailed through rocky gates into the wide haven of the King.

The palace of the King was built upon a hilltop between blue mountains
and the sea, it was of golden marble made, and a winding marble
stair led from it to a pavilion and a landing on the bay. Rising in
solitary splendor above the ancient trees of the King’s garden, a great
belfry-tower soared to the rosy dawn which overhung the hilltop and the
town.

And now, in the hall of columns, stood gathered the captains of the
ships of all the world, great captains with plumes in their velvet
caps and jeweled swords at their sides, merchant captains in capes of
sober blue, and humble fisher-captains with knitted caps and blouses
gaily striped. Then came forth to them the King of the South, clad in a
scarlet robe and a crown of yellow gold, and said to them:--

“Captains of the ships of all the world, I give you greeting. You wait
to hear why I have called you from the seas. Hearken then to my word.
A belfry have I built, the fairest belfry which stands beneath the
sun, and I fain would lodge in it the fairest and noblest bell in all
the world. Find me this bell, O captains of the ships! Go ye to all
nations, and speed through all the seas.

“He who finds the bell shall be given a mighty treasure, and be crowned
with glory and honor.”

Thus having said, the King of the South led the captains of the ships
to a great feast which he had prepared for them, and there they made
merry till the closing of the day.

Now, when the sun had set and the city, the still harbor, and the ships
were bathed in a gentle golden light, Altair descended the winding
marble stair to the pavilion at which his ship’s boat lay awaiting
his return. Now it came to pass that, as the young captain approached
the end of the steps, he saw standing by a marble pillar there an
old bent fisher-wife with a young fisher-maiden at her side. And,
because it seemed to Altair that they were fain to speak to him, yet a
little afraid, the young captain paused at the pillar and asked the
fisherfolk if some misfortune had come upon them.

“Good Sir Captain,” replied the maid, “we are fisherfolk of the
Perilous Isles who would fain return to our homes again. In the
springtide of the year, while my mother and I were out amid the nets
in our little boat, a storm arose which swept us out to sea. For two
bitter days and nights we fled before the gale, but on the third morn a
great ship chanced to espy us and, rescuing us from the waves, brought
us to this realm. Long have we sought a way to return into our own
land. You find us here because of our hope that one of the ships of the
world might be sailing by the Isles. But though we have asked those who
passed before, there was never a one who could help us on our way.”

And the old fisher-wife shook her head slowly and sadly, whilst the
maid stood still and said no more. The golden light was fading now from
the city, the still harbor, and the ships. Even the belfry tower stood
dark, its empty bell-chamber outlined against the sky. Presently the
great blue light at the harbor mouth awoke in its stately tower, and a
sudden wind brought a little sound of waves on the distant outer shore.

“Be of good cheer, I will take you to the Isles,” said the young
captain. And, with stately courtesy, he put the fisherfolk in the boat
and went with them to his ship. Then was heard the sound of ropes and
blocks and the filling of sails, and presently the ship of Altair fled
away like a bird into the dark sea. Already there were lights here and
there on the dark waves, the lights of ships gone seeking the marvelous
bell.

At the end of a fortnight of favoring wind and fine weather, the ship
of Altair arrived by the Perilous Isles. Huge and high and dark were
the Isles, and weed-hung reefs encircled them and tossed fountains of
spray into the air.

Off the isle of the fishers, the kings of the world had prepared a
fairway--for so mariners call a passage--through the cruel rocks, and
at the entrance to this passage a warning bell sank and rose and nodded
and swung in the seas.

And now the fisher-maiden and her mother bade a grateful farewell to
the young captain Altair and were rowed ashore to the isle. The name of
the maiden, you must know, was Thyrza. Her eyes were gray, and her hair
a pretty ruddy-gold. And so fair she was and so honest and true her
gaze, that Altair thought he had never seen her like in all the world.

As for Thyrza, she stood long upon the shore, watching the ship of
Altair until it dwindled and disappeared at the edge of sea and sky.

       *       *       *       *       *

North and south, through the seas of the world, went Altair in search
of the bell. To great cities of golden domes he sailed and found silver
bells, and brazen bells, and even bells of glass, but never a bell for
the belfry tower; by lonely shores he passed and saw the far surf
break in a border of white between the yellow sands and the ocean’s
sweeping green.

Now it fortuned that the boatswain of the vessel was an old mariner
who had sailed with Altair since the days of the young captain’s
apprenticeship at sea. And presently this boatswain came to Altair and
said to him:--

“Good master, in the isles of the east was I born, and in those isles
there runs a tale that somewhere, in the great sea flowing westward
down the world, lies an isle of bells. There is a city there, they say,
whose citizens take such joy in the ringing of bells that they will be
at it all day long; in the mountains of the isle are rare metals most
fit for noble bells, and there is a King there who is the bellman of
the world. It may be but an idle tale, but I tell it as ’twas told to
me.”

“East and north and unto the south have I sought the bell in vain,”
said Altair. “Into the seas of the west none have ever sailed. Come,
helmsman; about, about, and follow the setting sun; we shall seek this
hidden isle.”

Westward into the bright waves and the great glory of the sun sailed
Altair. Higher grew the waves, the sun-bright spray fell in showers
about the bow, and streams of marbly foam ran hissing at each side. A
thousand leagues upon a thousand leagues sailed the ship, and presently
there came a windless night of swaying ropes, still waters, and the
stars. And, while the ship glided ever so gently on into the night,
there was heard over the sea, faint and far, a golden sound of bells.

Now uttered the sailors a cry of joy which rang to the stars and
drowned the voices of the bells. And a wind arose, and the sails
filled, and when it was dawn the mountain isle of bells stood before
them, lonely as a ship in the wide circle of the sea.

Then to the city of bells they went, and found bells on every house and
tower, and people wearing bells on the borders of their gowns. All day
long great bells were ringing in their towers, chimes were pealing, and
clusters of little bells replying--tiny bells that sang like children
at their play.

Now it came to pass that, when the old, bearded King of the Bells heard
the tale of the brave voyage of Altair, his heart warmed to the sturdy
blue-eyed youth and he said to him:--

“Good Sir Captain, you shall have the bell you seek, the fairest and
noblest bell in all the world. To-day shall the metal be prepared and
melted in the furnace of the mountains, and to-morrow at high noon
shall the metal be poured into the mould of the bell.”

And now it was the high noon of the following day, and the King and his
people, together with Altair and his sailors, stood beside the fiery
pit in which the metal of the bell boiled in foam of green and red and
eddying copper-gold. Taking a golden cup filled with earth, the King
cast it into the pit, saying:--

“O bell, by this token I charge thee to remember the earth!

“The earth and her sweet sounds, the songs of birds, the rustle of
leaves, the murmur of brooks, the cry of the night wind, the majesty of
thunder: of these speak to the sons of men!”

And thus having spoken, the old King took a golden cup of water of the
sea, and cast it also into the molten pit, saying:--

“O bell, by this token I charge thee to remember the sea!

“The sea and her voices, the roaring of the mighty waves, the thin
whisperings of foam, the talk of ripples on the shore of sheltered
isles, the tumult of the gale: of these speak to the sons of men!”

And they poured the fiery metal into the earthy mould and left it to
grow cool. Seven days and seven nights sped by, and presently came
skilful men to cut the bell from the mould, and sculptors to carve upon
it flowers and trees and leaves and birds and waves and cockle shells.

And Altair thanked the old King with all his heart and, stowing the
bell in the hold of his ship, sailed away eastward and southward
through the sea.

Now it came to pass that, as the returning voyage drew to an end, the
young captain found his ship to be almost empty of victuals and drink;
so he hastened to the nearest port to see what he could buy. Now it
chanced that there lay in the same port another ship which was also
returning with a bell, a fine bell to be sure, but not one worthy to be
named with the bell of brave Altair. The name of the captain of this
other ship, you must know, was Kraken, and he was filled with curiosity
to see if the bell of Altair was a better than his own.

The ship of Altair lay at a wharf, and strong brown-faced men worked in
the hazy sun, rolling kegs of water to the deck and carrying bags of
meal down into the hold. Presently Kraken, sitting in the stern of a
red boat rowed by six of his sailors, came over to call upon Altair.

[Illustration: _And stowing the Bell of the Earth in the hold of his
ship, the young Captain sailed eastward and southward through the sea_]

And now Altair and Kraken stood in the dark hold of the ship, and
Altair held up a great light so that Kraken might see the wonderful
bell. And beholding the bell, how fair it was, Kraken said in his
secret heart:--

“If the Captain Altair shall return to the land of the South with this
wonderful bell, my bell will never win the treasure of the King. I must
find a way to destroy this captain and his bell!”

Turning to Altair he said, “Brother Captain, when do you sail away?”

“To-morrow at high noon,” replied Altair.

“At high noon?” said Kraken, his envious eyes suddenly lit with a
wicked thought. “You dare then to sail at night through the reefs of
the Perilous Isles?”

“My ship is fast,” replied Altair, “and I shall find the floating bell
of the fairway before the sun has set. Once I find it, what is there to
fear? The passage which it marks is deep and wide. And the Bell has a
brave clang.”

And now it was the next morn, and Kraken sailed early from the port.
All morning he sailed over a lonely gulf of the sea, and arrived at
noon before the Perilous Isles. It was a windy day, the hazy sky was
now open, now overcast, and here, there, and all about the reefs were
breaking white. Gulls barked and piped, and the shaggy weed-hung sides
of the nearer reefs rose and fell with the waves.

Presently Kraken caught sight of the floating bell which marked the
entrance to the fairway of the Isles.

The sea-bell had been made in the fiery mountain forges of the Kingdom
of Iron. Its round base was of iron, and a band of iron, chiseled about
with fish and shells and flowers of the sea, encircled its tossing
rim. The warning bell rose from the center of the shield, and two iron
figures, one of a giant, one of a dwarf, struck it with iron hammers
night and day.

And Kraken laughed and sent men to break the hammers from the hands
of the iron figures so that the bell should sound no more. And this
they did. But the dwarf and the giant continued to lift and lower their
empty hands.

Sailing through the fairway, Kraken continued on his course to the
Kingdom of the South, and was soon lost to view.

The wicked deed, however, had not passed unseen. Thyrza, the
fisher-maiden, had beheld all.

The long hours of the afternoon dragged to their close. Sunset was at
hand. Black clouds rose over the edge of the world, the sea darkened,
and the heavy waves grew black and streaked with foam. A wind began to
howl.

Suddenly Thyrza beheld the sails of a great ship fleeing before the
gale. The hidden sun had almost set, and the black clouds were barred
with rays as red as fire.

“’Tis the ship of Altair,” cried Thyrza. “The night is gathering fast,
and, unless he hears the bell in the dark, Altair will be wrecked upon
the reefs. I must row to the bell, if I can, and sound the warning
clang.”

And now the courageous maiden hastened to her little fishing boat and
rowed through the dark and the gathering storm to the soundless bell.
Long and hard she fought, and presently a great gust of the gale swept
her down against the bell. Great waves were breaking over it in bitter
spray, and it rolled and tossed and turned and plunged in the sea.

After tying her little boat to one of the figures, Thyrza took a round
stone, which she used as a weight for a net, and began to sound the
bell.

Nearer and nearer drew the ship of Altair. The fiery bars of the sunset
faded from the clouds; the wild night closed in upon the sea.

“Ding--Dong! Ding--Dong!” went the bell. And the wind howled in the
dark, and the waves thundered and broke as they fled. Suddenly Thyrza
saw the lights of Altair’s ship close at hand; the vessel was safely
entering the passageway.

So near she passed to the bell that Thyrza could almost have touched
her oaken side.

Now, when the lights of Altair’s vessel had vanished in the night,
Thyrza went to unloose her little boat and row ashore. Some fishers had
seen her on the bell and built a great bonfire on the beach to guide
her safely in. But suddenly the maid beheld the lights of a second
ship, searching for the fairway and the bell.

Weak and chilled though she was, Thyrza sounded the bell till this
vessel, too, had passed safely through the reefs. Much to the maiden’s
surprise, this second vessel came about and anchored in the little
fishing-harbor of the Isles!

Guided by the light of the fire, brave Thyrza safely made her way to
the shore.

As for Altair, he continued on to the Land of the South, and was given
the treasure and the crown of glory and honor for bringing the fairest
and noblest bell.

And the bell of the earth hung in the belfry-tower, and in the morning
and the evening spoke to men of the wonder and mystery of the earth and
the changing sea.

And now the brave young sailor had riches and honors like unto a king,
yet was he restless at heart, for he remembered the maiden Thyrza and
was fain to make her his wife. Returning again to the sea, he sought
the Perilous Isles, and hurried ashore to find the gray-eyed maid.

“You seek the maiden, Thyrza?” asked the fishers. “Alas! she is gone we
know not where. In the month of the low moon, two great ships passed at
nightfall through the fairway of the reefs; one ship continued over the
sea, and the other came to anchor in our bay. We fear that this ship
was perchance a pirate ship, for she sailed away at the break of dawn,
and since that hour Thyrza hath not been seen.”

And the fishers told Altair of how Thyrza had saved the ships by
striking upon the sea-bell; and Altair remembered the night of which
they spoke, and knew that Thyrza had saved him from the reefs.

East and west and north and south, along the shores of the world went
Altair in search of the maid. But never a one he found who could tell
him aught of her. A long year he sailed, and presently he came to the
Kingdom of the Moon.

Now it came to pass that, when he went to the palace to ask tidings
of Thyrza, attendants came and led him before the Queen who ruled the
land. And she was very young, and clad in a silver gown, a silver
crown, and a spreading robe of blue.

Strange to say, a heavy silver veil hid her face from all.

“Sir Captain,” said the Queen, when she had heard the story of Altair,
“you are wasting your days in quest of the fisher-maid. She is gone;
you will never see her more. Have done with this hopeless seeking, and
take service in my realm. Stay, and I shall make you the kingdom’s
admiral.”

But gallant and faithful Altair shook his head and answered, “No.” And
though the Queen twice and even thrice besought him to stay, he still
remained faithful to his quest.

Then laughed the Queen a little merry laugh, and tossed the veil aside.
And Altair beheld Thyrza on the throne!

“Dear Altair,” said the Queen, “you shall hear all. My father was the
King of this country and I was his only child. It fortuned that one
morn we went forth in a ship, and a great storm arose which drove us
from our course far out into the sea. Presently the ship struck upon
the reefs of the Perilous Isles and went to pieces fast. Of all aboard,
I alone was saved.

“My subjects long sought for news of the missing vessel, but in vain.
Years passed, and presently a fisherman of the Kingdom of the Moon
chanced to land at the Isles and heard from the fishers the story of
the wreck. He returned with the tidings, and my people came in a great
ship to take me to my land. We hurried away, for a dangerous wind was
blowing and the captain was a stranger to the reefs. But even now there
is a ship on the sea which carries tidings and gifts to the fishers of
the Isles.”

So now the courtiers and the attendants bowed politely and withdrew,
and Altair and Thyrza walked together to a great window by the sea.
And there the young sailor and the Queen who was a daughter of the sea
pledged their faith to one another.

Their wedding was the most splendid wedding ever seen in all the world.
Altair’s good father and mother were there, Thyrza’s foster mother too,
and all the sailors danced hornpipes and sang old pleasant songs of the
sea.

And they all lived happily ever after.




THE WOOD BEYOND THE WORLD


Once upon a time a young knight, named Alois, went to dwell at the
court of a mighty King until his coming of age, for he was without
kinsmen, and heir to great powers and possessions. A tiny round room
in the castle’s topmost tower was given him to be his very own; and
from the curving sill of its one great window he could look down on the
gardens of the palace, the woodland beyond, and see the older nobles
walking two by two behind the King.

Now it came to pass, upon a summer eve, that the knight Alois beheld
from his tower a lovely golden light moving about on a hillside in the
wood.

“The elves must be dancing on the hill,” said the young knight. “I’ll
ride into the wood, and watch them from afar.” And gallop-a-gallop
away he rode in the dark. The night was still, the birds had gone to
bed, and a young sickle-moon was sinking in the west with the old moon
in her arms.

Suddenly the youth beheld the golden light approaching through the
trees.

A pretty maiden in a dress of homespun green, a white apron, and a
little cap was carrying a golden lantern through the wood. Her eyes
were upon the ground, and every once and a while she stooped to gather
a flower from the earth and thrust it into a basket by her side.
Dismounting from his horse, Alois followed the maid afoot, fearful lest
the snapping of a twig reveal his presence in the dark.

And now the maiden came to a little house in a moonlit forest-glade
and, entering the dwelling, closed the door gently behind her. A
casement window stood open to the night, the beam of the golden
lantern filled the room, and presently a voice began to sing a pretty
country-tune. Mingled with the lilt of the ballad was a strange sound,
a purring treading sound something like the whir of a spinning wheel,
but heavier and with a queer wooden click to it every tiny while.

Approaching quietly in the moonlight, Alois rose on tiptoe and gazed
within the house.

A single candle in a tall candlestick was burning at each end of the
mantel, candles were burning in sconces on the wall, and the golden
lantern, still aglow, hung close beside the door. The maiden of the
light was sitting at an oaken loom, working the treadles with her feet,
and tossing the shuttle back and forth from side to side. Skeins of
golden thread, and white, and rose, and mulberry, and blue lay at her
fingers’ ends, and on the frame of the loom stood forth the finished
labor, a noble tapestry in which the maiden had cunningly woven knights
and ladies, banners and tents and men at arms, and castles moated round
with quiet streams.

This maid in homespun green, I must tell you, was an orphan lass who
earned her bread in the world by weaving at her loom. It was her custom
to stain the weaving yarns with colors made of roots and flowers, and
she had been wandering about in search of the starlight daisy when
Alois had seen her lantern on the hill.

Now it came to pass that, as the youth Alois rode home in the moonlight
to his tower, he could think of naught but the lovely maiden of the
loom and determined to ride forth again, find her, and make her his
wife. On the following morning, therefore, he rode singing down the
wildwood road to the house in the glade and asked a cup of water from
the maid. And so graciously and prettily did Fidella--for this was the
maiden’s name--offer him the cup, that Alois thought her more than ever
quite the most charming person in the world.

Months passed, the youth rode every day to the little house, and
presently made so bold as to ask Fidella to marry him on the morrow’s
morn. Little suspecting that Alois was aught but a simple squire of
the court, the maiden answered with a nod, and promised to be ready to
ride with him to the village on the hilltop, and there be wedded by the
Master Villager.

And now it was the marriage morn; great clouds fled over the sun,
chilling and quieting the world, yet every now and then breaking
asunder and dappling the broad land with spots of sunshine, which
gleamed for a moment and were gone. Dressed in her pretty country
finery, and with a nosegay of posies at her throat, Fidella stood by
her window waiting to hear the thunder of arriving hoofs and Alois’
joyous hail.

But, alas! little by little the morning dragged along, the wooden clock
on the mantel ticked and ticked and ticked and ticked, the clouds
gathered in a gray sea over the noontide sun, yet of Alois came no
sign. Early in the afternoon a gentle windless rain began to fall, and
presently the flowers in the garden hung their heads in the gathering
gloom, as if in sorrow to see so fair a bride forsaken and forgot.

But now you must hear of what had happened at the court.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now, after bidding farewell to the maiden of the loom and promising to
return on the following morn, Alois had gone to his tower and attired
himself in the magnificent costume which court ceremonial prescribed
for all who were fain to speak with the King. This habit was of richest
white satin, faced with gold; a sword set with splendid sapphires was
belted to its side; and a short blue-velvet cape, hanging in loose
folds, was secured at the breast by a golden chain. Now, as Alois was
very dark and red-cheeked, you will see that this costume was really
quite becoming.

Thus arrayed, the youth went boldly to the King, and spoke freely and
frankly of his love for the maid of the loom and of his purpose to be
married with her on the morrow’s morn.

The King, who sat on his throne clad in a great scarlet robe and
wearing his crown, listened to Alois with a smile when he began, but
with a frown as the tale drew to an ending.

“Youth,” said the King sternly, “I have heard enough; this folly must
end, and at once. Are you so far forgetful of your great inheritance
that you must take a weaver’s lass to be your bride? Go to your tower,
and see that you ride not beyond the castle wall until I speak the
word!”

“But, sir, am I not in this my own master?” cried Alois, unafraid.

“You are my ward,” replied the King, with cold authority, “and I have
other purposes for you. Sir Alois, go!”

“Do what you will,” replied the youth; “I shall have Fidella, and no
other.” And holding his head high, the youth Alois quitted the audience
hall, and mounted to his room.

Now when he had gone, the King, who had sat silent a moment, chin in
hand, suddenly threw off his crimson robe, called for his coach, and
rode through the wood to a giant tower on the brink of a wild ravine.
A powerful enchanter dwelt there, whose magic aid and guileful counsel
were ever at the service of the King.

And now the enchanter sat in a huge golden chair hearkening to the
King. He was very old, this enchanter, and attired in a full black
mantle, spangled with silver stars and golden crescent-moons; and, as
he sat in his golden chair, he leaned forward and rested his two hands
on a stout black cane. The high round chamber was full of a cobwebby
gloom, and on shelves in the arched windows stood crystal flasks of a
thousand twisted shapes and colors: deep ocean-blues, fiery scarlets,
smoky purples, clear topaz yellows, and bright snake-like greens. And
there was a huge black lizard with greeny-scarlet eyes, that made scaly
noises as it ran about on the flagstones of the floor.

When he had heard the King’s story of Alois and Fidella, the enchanter
smote the floor with his black cane, rose to his feet, saying never
a word, and took from a niche in the wall a jar of blackest marble,
strangely veined with gold.

“You have done well to come to me,” said the enchanter to the King,
“for the youth is proud-spirited and will resist you to the end.
’Twere wisest to bend him to your will by magic guile. Within this
phial dwells the water of forgetfulness; a goblin brought it me from
the depths of the underworld. To-night you must pour it forth into a
golden goblet, and that goblet you must stand by the youth’s place at
the dinner of the court. As soon as he drinks of it, he will forget the
weaver’s maid forever.”

And now it was evening, and the King and his guests were at dinner in
the castle banquet-hall. There were candles everywhere, white tables
and golden plates, and much coming and going of servants clad in green.
From the royal table, raised above the others, the King watched Alois
through the meal. Suddenly he smiled a grim smile; the youth had drunk
the cup.

When it was late at night the King summoned Alois before him, stared
into his eyes, and beheld that he had indeed forgotten all.

“My Lord Alois,” said the King, “your coming-of-age approaches, and you
will soon find yourself the greatest lord in my dominions. Since you
are my ward, it has been my duty to seek for you a bride worthy of your
titles and estate. In the Kingdom of the Fields a fair Princess dwells.
Melusine is she called, and to-morrow’s morn you shall go forth in
state to offer her your homage and your hand.”

Thus spake the crafty King, and hid in his heart his design of adding
the Kingdom of the Fields to his own dominions through the marriage of
the knight and Melusine.

And now it was the morn of cloud and fleeting gleams of sun. In the
little house in the glade, Fidella stood waiting and waiting at the
casement window; whilst at the court, Alois drew on his jeweled gloves,
bowed to the King, mounted into the golden coach, and sank back in
splendor against cushions of mulberry brocade.

“Tick-tock, tock-tock, tick-tock,” said the clock in Fidella’s house,
as the hands circled the hours.

And the golden coach, gleaming great golden gleams in the pools of
light, rolled over the hills and far away.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was twilight now and, in the little house in the wood, Fidella
lifted the bridal wreath from her head, lit candles, and sank into a
wing chair by the burnt-out embers of the fire. So great was her trust
in Alois, that never a questioning doubt of him raised its voice in her
heart.

“Some evil thing has surely come to pass,” said faithful Fidella.
“Alas! what may it be?” And for two days she walked to and fro between
the window and her loom, vainly hoping for a sign. On the third
morning, no longer able to bear the burden of her fears, the maiden
journeyed to court and sought news of Alois from the King.

“So you are the maid of the loom?” said the unpitying King, who owed
Fidella a grudge for having endangered his precious schemes. “And ’tis
your Sir Alois whom you seek? Well, find him if you can. Ho, guards of
the palace, take this forward maid, put her in a coach, and drive her
far beyond the bounds of my dominions!”

Over hill, over dale, bumping through puddle-holes, and tossing and
swaying crazily from side to side, rolled the coach in which Fidella
sat a prisoner. A rushing scurrying wind was flowing over the sunny
world, shaking the manes of the galloping horses, rippling the roadside
pools, and worrying the little birds who had just begun to fly.
Presently Fidella found herself on a lonely moor, watching the coach
fare homeward into the wind-streaked splendor of the west.

And now began the wayfaring of Fidella in quest of Alois, for the King
had forbidden the maid to return again into her own land. Down the
highway of the Golden Plain she fared and beheld the grain tossing
about her like a sea; through the silence of the Adamants she passed,
and on into the Kingdom by the peaks; yet never a word of Alois brought
joy to her ear.

Now it fortuned on a spring morning, as Fidella wandered in a pleasant
land of wooded hills and little singing brooks, she came to the
strangest palace that was ever to be seen. Of earth o’ergrown with
grass were its mighty walls and lofty battlements; flowers grew in
the crannies; blossoming vines swayed from its heights; and, when the
maiden peered within, she beheld there a woodsy hall, whose giant
columns were the trunks of living trees. At the far end of the hall, on
a throne of living wood, sat a dark and stately queen. Twelve maidens
stood beside her, three robed in summer scarlet, three in winter white,
three in springtide emerald, and three in russet gold.

The lady of the palace was Airda, the great Earth Queen. Four sons had
she, and each son was master of a season of the year.

“My faithful Fidella,” said the Earth Queen, when she had heard the
maiden’s story, “be of good cheer, for all that hath been hid from
you shall now be known. An enchanted torrent through my palace flows;
its waters possess the gift of speech, and to every mystery it hath a
secret key. Follow, Fidella, to the grotto of the stream.”

Now rose the Earth Queen from her throne and led the way through the
cool sweet-smelling chambers of the palace to a strange dark grotto,
half cave, half vine-hung hall. At the darker end of the leafy cave a
lovely waterfall, whose torrent was full of a pale mysterious light,
was leaping from some height overhead into a chasm so profound that
only the faintest watery murmur rose in whispers from below. Kneeling
upon the brink of the chasm, Fidella gazed down into the palely glowing
depths of the abyss and asked of Alois and his fate.

For a moment or two, the waters far below seemed to gather themselves
into a faint echoing roar, which slowly ebbed to a whisper; and
presently this whisper became a voice, and dissolved into delicate and
silvery words. And the voice of the enchanted chasm told Fidella of
Alois’ true faith, of the enchanter and the water of forgetfulness, and
of the youth’s journey to the court of the Kingdom of the Fields.

“Ah, me! Is there no way in which the spell may be broken?” said
Fidella.

“In the wood beyond the world,” answered the torrent, “under trees
which are older than the stars, the fountain of memory pours its
crystal stream. If the youth shall drink a golden goblet of this water,
the chain of the spell will break.” And the silvery voice grew faint,
and died away.

And now Airda, the Earth Queen, gave the maiden a fair golden goblet
with a golden cover, and bade her sail upon the giant ship of the earth
to the wood beyond the world.

When the maiden arrived at the sea, the sun had vanished below
mountains to the west, the waves were breaking gently along a darkening
shore, and ragged hulks of cloud were lying becalmed in the deep and
starry sky. Far, far out to sea, rising from the waters like the blue
bulwark of another land and bridging the vast horizon from west unto
the south, stood the giant ship of Airda, the Queen. So high were its
masts that their tops could scarce be seen in the dome of the heavens,
clouds swept through the royal yards, and the lights within the rigging
floated like stars upon the sky.

Three days’ journey long, and close upon a day’s journey wide, was the
giant ship. Its sails were the size of towns, and a sailor on horseback
carried the captain’s orders to the crew. And there were villages
aboard, and wide fields in which men were ploughing, and grazing
cattle, and highways, and inns wherein travelers might rest.

Now came the dark, a wind rose upon the sea, the black clouds moved
through the stars, and a little boat came to take Fidella to the ship.
Once aboard, the maiden was given a pretty cottage with a garden to be
her very own.

And, sailing by night and by day, furrowing vast and lonely seas, the
giant ship came to the wood beyond the world.

The fountain of memory lay at the foot of the noblest of the trees, and
the silvery music of its falling water was the only sound to be heard
in all the wood. A hooded figure of worn and ancient stone, standing
with head bowed low, held aloft the jar from which it flowed, an
endless crystal stream.

And Fidella, stooping to fill her cup in the basin of stone below, saw
mirrored in the water there, gathering and dissolving one into the
other, memories of all the years of her life which had been.

Once more through the lonely seas sailed the giant ship of Airda the
Queen, Fidella again beheld the land, and presently she fared over
hill and dale to the Kingdom of the Fields.

       *       *       *       *       *

The winter was over and gone, and all the towns and villages of the
realm were decked with bannerets and wreaths of early flowers, for in
three days’ time the Lord Alois was to wed the Princess Melusine.

Presently Fidella, journeying through the land, arrived on the crest
of a hill overlooking the royal city and, pausing there a while, took
counsel with herself as to how she might best make her way to Alois and
offer him the cup of memory.

“I must find me a loom,” said faithful Fidella, “and weave upon it a
wedding gift so worthy that the lords of the castle will suffer me to
go with it to Alois.”

And she sought out a house and a loom in a village by the city, and
paid for them with a penny of gold. And from one neighbor she had
silver yarn; and from another, blue; and from others, all the colors of
the world.

[Illustration: _Fidella knelt at the edge of the pool, and filled her
golden cup with the waters of memory_]

And now Fidella began to weave a fair tapestry picture of the story she
had lived, beginning the tale with the golden light in the wood and
the coming of Alois to the glade. Thread by thread, inch by inch, the
grass-palace of Airda grew on the loom, the cave of the talking waters,
the giant ship with its masts above the clouds, and the fountain of
memory in the wood beyond the world. The sun set behind the high towers
of the city, and still Fidella labored at the loom; candles melted low,
and still the sound of the weaving hummed upon the air.

In the dark of the second night, as Fidella rose to toss a brand upon
the fire, she heard, through the quiet of the room, the distant beat of
galloping hoofs and the thundering rumble of a coach. Louder and louder
grew the sound, and presently there passed the maiden’s dwelling a huge
coach speeding from the city. Strange to tell, its lanterns were unlit
and its curtains closely drawn.

“Perchance some noble guest hath been summoned posthaste to his
realm,” thought Fidella.

And now it was the morn, the marriage morn of the Knight Alois and the
Princess Melusine. Alas, still unfinished was the picture tapestry!
Fearing to risk a single moment more, however, the maiden unbound the
picture from the loom and, carrying the gift and her golden cup, joined
the merrymakers thronging to the city. The streets were already full of
soldiers in gayest uniforms, strolling musicians, young nobles, larking
pages, good countryfolk, and sober burgesses in velvet gowns. Those
who brought gifts for Alois and Melusine were faring into the castle
through the eastern gate.

The bells of the castle were ringing as they never rang before.

Fidella approached to the portal with her gift. A haughty chamberlain,
with a silver chain about his shoulders, stood there by the thresh-hold
and suffered only those to enter in whom he thought well worthy of the
boon.

“But my good young woman,” said the chamberlain severely to Fidella,
“your tapestry is unfinished still. Go to your home and weave it to an
end ere you return again. You may not enter.”

“Oh, sir,” cried poor Fidella, “do not thrust me back! Let me enter, I
pray; oh, let me go within!”

“What I have said, I have said,” replied the chamberlain, shouting at
Fidella through the deafening clangor of the bells. “Young woman, I
forbid--”

Suddenly the bells stopped in the middle of a peal, and everything grew
very strangely still. People began to look questioningly at one another.

The Princess Melusine was not to be found! She had fled during the
night with her cousin, the King of the Golden Hill. The coach, which
Fidella had seen, had borne the runaway bride. As for the knight Alois,
some said that he had already left the realm, whilst others murmured
that he was hiding for shame in a tower. And many laughed.

Thrust from the portal by the guards, Fidella returned to her cottage
in the fields.

And now it was night, the air was sweet with the fragrance of earth
beneath the plough, and a sickle moon hung in the cloudy west with the
old moon in her arms. Within her silent house Fidella kindled a yellow
fire, threw the tapestry picture over the loom, and stood by the hearth
gazing deep into the flame.

Suddenly a knocking sounded at the door, and Fidella, answering the
summons, found herself standing face to face with the young knight,
Alois. His pride touched to the quick, the forsaken youth had lingered
in the castle till the dark, and then fled with his people from the
town. And, because he had fled in haste and was athirst, the youth had
paused at the first light shining in the fields.

Standing on the threshold in the moonlight, the youth asked a cup of
water of the maid. With a beating heart, Fidella lifted to his hands
the cup of memory.

And now there came an end to the enchanter’s wicked spell and the long
years of danger and faithful questing. Letting fall the golden cup,
the young knight uttered a great cry and stretched out his arms to the
faithful maid for whose sake he had braved the anger of the King, the
loyal maid who had loved him with a loving faith and braved many a
peril for him through the kingdoms of the world.

“Dear Fidella,” said Alois, “to-day is the day of my coming-of-age, and
I am free forever of the King. Now shall you be the Lady of my land.
Come; my people and my coach are at the door.”

So now Fidella quenched the taper, leaving only a flickering brand to
light the empty room, and walked with Alois to the coach. A little
breeze was stirring in the grass, and somewhere in a glen beyond the
fields a bird awoke, sang a few sweet piping notes, and then was still.

“I am glad I did not finish my tapestry,” whispered Fidella; “for now I
can weave it to a merry close.”

And the coach rolled away, over hill, over dale, in the golden light of
the moon.


  The Parson Capen House
  Topsfield, Massachusetts




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Transcriber’s Notes


A number of typographical errors were corrected silently.

Cover image is in the public domain.

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