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Title: The Necklace of Princess Fiorimonde and Other Stories
Author: Morgan, Mary de
Language: English
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THE NECKLACE OF PRINCESS FIORIMONDE
AND OTHER STORIES
[Illustration: "She was in the garden, lying on the marble edge of a
fountain, feeding the gold fish who swam in the water."--FRONTISPIECE.]
THE NECKLACE OF PRINCESS FIORIMONDE;
AND OTHER STORIES
BY
MARY DE MORGAN
[_Author of "On a Pincushion"_]
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
WALTER CRANE
LONDON:
MACMILLAN & CO:
1886
TO
MY SIX LITTLE NEPHEWS AND NIECES
THESE STORIES ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
BY
THEIR LOVING AUNT
MARY DE MORGAN
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE NECKLACE OF PRINCESS FIORIMONDE 1
THE WANDERINGS OF ARASMON 43
THE HEART OF PRINCESS JOAN 79
THE PEDLAR'S PACK 131
THE BREAD OF DISCONTENT 140
THE THREE CLEVER KINGS 157
THE WISE PRINCESS 175
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
1. _Frontispiece._
PAGE
2. HEADING AND INITIAL LETTER, "PRINCESS FIORIMONDE" 1
3. THE PRINCESS AND HER LOOKING-GLASS _To face_ 29
4. GERVAISE WITH THE NECKLACE " 39
5. TAILPIECE 42
6. HEADING AND INITIAL LETTER, "THE WANDERINGS OF ARASMON" 43
7. ARASMON AND CHRYSEA PLAYING TO THE VILLAGERS _To face_ 44
8. ARASMON PLAYING BEFORE THE KING " 66
9. TAILPIECE 78
10. HEADING AND INITIAL, "THE HEART OF PRINCESS JOAN" 79
11. THE PRINCE AND THE WIZARD _To face_ 87
12. THE PRISON WINDOW " 128
13. TAILPIECE 130
14. HEADING AND INITIAL LETTER, "THE PEDLAR'S PACK" 131
15. THE PEDLAR AND THE DONKEY _To face_ 131
16. TAILPIECE 139
17. HEADING AND INITIAL, "THE BREAD OF DISCONTENT" 140
18. THE IMP AND THE BAKER _To face_ 141
19. TAILPIECE 156
20. HEADING AND INITIAL, "THE THREE CLEVER KINGS" 157
21. THE THREE CLEVER KINGS _To face_ 170
22. TAILPIECE 174
23. HEADING AND INITIAL, "THE WISE PRINCESS" 175
24. THE WISE PRINCESS ON THE SEA-SHORE _To face_ 178
25. TAILPIECE 184
[Illustration]
THE NECKLACE OF PRINCESS FIORIMONDE
[Illustration]
Once there lived a King, whose wife was dead, but who had a most beautiful
daughter--so beautiful that every one thought she must be good as well,
instead of which the Princess was really very wicked, and practised
witchcraft and black magic, which she had learned from an old witch who
lived in a hut on the side of a lonely mountain. This old witch was wicked
and hideous, and no one but the King's daughter knew that she lived there;
but at night, when every one else was asleep, the Princess, whose name was
Fiorimonde, used to visit her by stealth to learn sorcery. It was only the
witch's arts which had made Fiorimonde so beautiful that there was no one
like her in the world, and in return the Princess helped her with all her
tricks, and never told any one she was there.
The time came when the King began to think he should like his daughter to
marry, so he summoned his council and said, "We have no son to reign after
our death, so we had best seek for a suitable prince to marry to our royal
daughter, and then, when we are too old, he shall be king in our stead."
And all the council said he was very wise, and it would be well for the
Princess to marry. So heralds were sent to all the neighbouring kings and
princes to say that the King would choose a husband for the Princess, who
should be king after him. But when Fiorimonde heard this she wept with
rage, for she knew quite well that if she had a husband he would find out
how she went to visit the old witch, and would stop her practising magic,
and then she would lose her beauty.
When night came, and every one in the palace was fast asleep, the Princess
went to her bedroom window and softly opened it. Then she took from her
pocket a handful of peas and held them out of the window and chirruped low,
and there flew down from the roof a small brown bird and sat upon her wrist
and began to eat the peas. No sooner had it swallowed them than it began to
grow and grow and grow till it was so big that the Princess could not hold
it, but let it stand on the window-sill, and still it grew and grew and
grew till it was as large as an ostrich. Then the Princess climbed out of
the window and seated herself on the bird's back, and at once it flew
straight away over the tops of the trees till it came to the mountain where
the old witch dwelt, and stopped in front of the door of her hut.
The Princess jumped off, and muttered some words through the keyhole, when
a croaking voice from within called,
"Why do you come to-night? Have I not told you I wished to be left alone
for thirteen nights; why do you disturb me?"
"But I beg of you to let me in," said the Princess, "for I am in trouble
and want your help."
"Come in then," said the voice; and the door flew open, and the Princess
trod into the hut, in the middle of which, wrapped in a gray cloak which
almost hid her, sat the witch. Princess Fiorimonde sat down near her, and
told her, her story. How the King wished her to marry, and had sent word to
the neighbouring princes, that they might make offers for her.
"This is truly bad hearing," croaked the witch, "but we shall beat them
yet; and you must deal with each Prince as he comes. Would you like them to
become dogs, to come at your call, or birds, to fly in the air, and sing of
your beauty, or will you make them all into beads, the beads of such a
necklace as never woman wore before, so that they may rest upon your neck,
and you may take them with you always."
"The necklace! the necklace!" cried the Princess, clapping her hands with
joy. "That will be best of all, to sling them upon a string and wear them
around my throat. Little will the courtiers know whence come my new
jewels."
"But this is a dangerous play," quoth the witch, "for, unless you are very
careful, you yourself may become a bead and hang upon the string with the
others, and there you will remain till some one cuts the string, and draws
you off."
"Nay, never fear," said the Princess, "I will be careful, only tell me what
to do, and I will have great princes and kings to adorn me, and all their
greatness shall not help them."
Then the witch dipped her hand into a black bag which stood on the ground
beside her, and drew out a long gold thread.
The ends were joined together, but no one could see the joins, and however
much you pulled, it would not break. It would easily go over Fiorimonde's
head, and the witch slipped it on her neck saying,
"Now mind, while this hangs here you are safe enough, but if once you join
your fingers around the string you too will meet the fate of your lovers,
and hang upon it yourself. As for the kings and princes who would marry
you, all you have to do is to make them close their fingers around the
chain, and at once they will be strung upon it as bright hard beads, and
there they shall remain, till it is cut and they drop off."
"This is really delightful," cried the Princess; "and I am already quite
impatient for the first to come that I may try."
"And now," said the witch, "since you are here, and there is yet time, we
will have a dance, and I will summon the guests." So saying, she took from
a corner a drum and a pair of drum-sticks, and going to the door, began to
beat upon it. It made a terrible rattling. In a moment came flying through
the air all sorts of forms. There were little dark elves with long tails,
and goblins who chattered and laughed, and other witches who rode on
broom-sticks. There was one wicked fairy in the form of a large cat, with
bright green eyes, and another came sliding in like a long shining viper.
Then, when all had arrived, the witch stopped drumming, and, going to the
middle of the hut, stamped on the floor, and a trap-door opened in the
ground. The old witch stepped through it, and led the way down a narrow
dark passage, to a large underground chamber, and all her strange guests
followed, and here they all danced and made merry in a terrible way, but at
first sound of cock-crow all the guests disappeared with a whiff, and the
Princess hastened up the dark passage again, and out of the hut to where
her big bird still waited for her, and mounting its back she flew home in a
trice. Then, when she had stepped in at her bedroom window, she poured into
a cup from a small black bottle, a few drops of magic water, and gave it to
the bird to drink, and as it sipped it grew smaller, and smaller, till at
last it had quite regained its natural size, and hopped on to the roof as
before, and the Princess shut her window, and got into bed, and fell
asleep, and no one knew of her strange journey, or where she had been.
Next day Fiorimonde declared to her father the King, that she was quite
willing to wed any prince he should fix upon as a husband for her, at which
he was much pleased, and soon after informed her, that a young king was
coming from over the sea to be her husband. He was king of a large rich
country, and would take back his bride with him to his home. He was called
King Pierrot. Great preparations were made for his arrival, and the
Princess was decked in her finest array to greet him, and when he came all
the courtiers said, "This is truly a proper husband for our beautiful
Princess," for he was strong and handsome, with black hair, and eyes like
sloes. King Pierrot was delighted with Fiorimonde's beauty, and was happy
as the day is long; and all things went merrily till the evening before the
marriage. A great feast was held, at which the Princess looked lovelier
than ever dressed in a red gown, the colour of the inside of a rose, but
she wore no jewels nor ornaments of any kind, save one shining gold string
round her milk-white throat.
When the feast was done, the Princess stepped from her golden chair at her
father's side, and walked softly into the garden, and stood under an
elm-tree looking at the shining moon. In a few moments King Pierrot
followed her, and stood beside her, looking at her and wondering at her
beauty.
"To-morrow, then, my sweet Princess, you will be my Queen, and share all I
possess. What gift would you wish me to give you on our wedding day?"
"I would have a necklace wrought of the finest gold and jewels to be found,
and just the length of this gold cord which I wear around my throat,"
answered Princess Fiorimonde.
"Why do you wear that cord?" asked King Pierrot; "it has no jewel nor
ornament about it."
"Nay, but there is no cord like mine in all the world," cried Fiorimonde,
and her eyes sparkled wickedly as she spoke; "it is as light as a feather,
but stronger than an iron chain. Take it in both hands and try to break it,
that you may see how strong it is;" and King Pierrot took the cord in both
hands to pull it hard; but no sooner were his fingers closed around it than
he vanished like a puff of smoke, and on the cord appeared a bright,
beautiful bead--so bright and beautiful as was never bead before--clear as
crystal, but shining with all colours--green, blue, and gold.
Princess Fiorimonde gazed down at it and laughed aloud.
"Aha, my proud lover! are you there?" she cried with glee; "my necklace
bids fair to beat all others in the world," and she caressed the bead with
the tips of her soft, white fingers, but was careful that they did not
close round the string. Then she returned into the banqueting hall, and
spoke to the King.
"Pray, sire," said she, "send some one at once to find King Pierrot, for,
as he was talking to me a minute ago, he suddenly left me, and I am afraid
lest I may have given him offence, or perhaps he is ill."
The King desired that the servants should seek for King Pierrot all over
the grounds, and seek him they did, but nowhere was he to be found, and the
old King looked offended.
"Doubtless he will be ready to-morrow in time for the wedding," quoth he,
"but we are not best pleased that he should treat us in this way."
Princess Fiorimonde had a little maid called Yolande. She was a
bright-faced girl with merry brown eyes, but she was not beautiful like
Fiorimonde, and she did not love her mistress, for she was afraid of her,
and suspected her of her wicked ways. When she undressed her that night she
noticed the gold cord, and the one bright bead upon it, and as she combed
the Princess's hair she looked over her shoulder into the looking-glass,
and saw how she laughed, and how fondly she looked at the cord, and
caressed the bead, again and again with her fingers.
"That is a wonderful bead on your Highness's cord," said Yolande, looking
at its reflection in the mirror; "surely it must be a bridal gift from King
Pierrot."
"And so it is, little Yolande," cried Fiorimonde, laughing merrily; "and
the best gift he could give me. But I think one bead alone looks ugly and
ungainly; soon I hope I shall have another, and another, and another, all
as beautiful as the first."
Then Yolande shook her head, and said to herself, "This bodes no good."
Next morning all was prepared for the marriage, and the Princess was
dressed in white satin and pearls with a long white lace veil over her, and
a bridal wreath on her head, and she stood waiting among her grandly
dressed ladies, who all said that such a beautiful bride had never been
seen in the world before. But just as they were preparing to go down to the
fine company in the hall, a messenger came in great haste summoning the
Princess at once to her father the King, as he was much perplexed.
"My daughter," cried he, as Fiorimonde in all her bridal array entered the
room where he sat alone, "what can we do? King Pierrot is nowhere to be
found; I fear lest he may have been seized by robbers and basely murdered
for his rich clothes, or carried away to some mountain and left there to
starve. My soldiers are gone far and wide to seek him--and we shall hear
of him ere day is done--but where there is no bridegroom there can be no
bridal."
"Then let it be put off, my father," cried the Princess, "and to-morrow we
shall know if it is for a wedding, or a funeral, we must dress;" and she
pretended to weep, but even then could hardly keep from laughing.
So the wedding guests went away, and the Princess laid aside her bridal
dress, and all waited anxiously for news of King Pierrot; and no news came.
So at last every one gave him up for dead, and mourned for him, and
wondered how he had met his fate.
Princess Fiorimonde put on a black gown, and begged to be allowed to live
in seclusion for one month in which to grieve for King Pierrot; but when
she was again alone in her bedroom she sat before her looking-glass and
laughed till tears ran down her cheeks; and Yolande watched her, and
trembled, when she heard her laughter. She noticed, too, that beneath her
black gown, the Princess still wore her gold cord, and did not move it
night or day.
The month had barely passed away when the King came to his daughter, and
announced that another suitor had presented himself, whom he should much
like to be her husband. The Princess agreed quite obediently to all her
father said; and it was arranged that the marriage should take place. This
new prince was called Prince Hildebrandt. He came from a country far north,
of which one day he would be king. He was tall, and fair, and strong, with
flaxen hair and bright blue eyes. When Princess Fiorimonde saw his portrait
she was much pleased, and said, "By all means let him come, and the sooner
the better." So she put off her black clothes, and again great preparations
were made for a wedding; and King Pierrot was quite forgotten.
Prince Hildebrandt came, and with him many fine gentlemen, and they brought
beautiful gifts for the bride. The evening of his arrival all went well,
and again there was a grand feast, and Fiorimonde looked so beautiful that
Prince Hildebrandt was delighted; and this time she did not leave her
father's side, but sat by him all the evening.
Early next morning at sunrise, when every one was still sleeping, the
Princess rose, and dressed herself in a plain white gown, and brushed all
her hair over her shoulders, and crept quietly downstairs into the palace
gardens; then she walked on till she came beneath the window of Prince
Hildebrandt's room, and here she paused and began to sing a little song as
sweet and joyous as a lark's. When Prince Hildebrandt heard it he got up
and went to the window and looked out to see who sang, and when he saw
Fiorimonde standing in the red sunrise-light, which made her hair look
gold, and her face rosy, he made haste to dress himself and go down to meet
her.
"How, my Princess," cried he, as he stepped into the garden beside her.
"This is indeed great happiness to meet you here so early. Tell me why do
you come out at sunrise to sing by yourself?"
"I come that I may see the colours of the sky--red, blue, and gold,"
answered the Princess. "Look, there are no such colours to be seen
anywhere, unless, indeed, it be in this bead which I wear here on my
golden cord.
"What is that bead, and where did it come from?" asked Hildebrandt.
"It came from over the sea, where it shall never return again," answered
the Princess. And again her eyes began to sparkle with eagerness, and she
could scarcely conceal her mirth. "Lift the cord off my neck and look at it
near, and tell me if you ever saw one like it."
Hildebrandt put out his hands and took hold of the cord, but no sooner were
his fingers closed around it than he vanished, and a new bright bead was
slung next to the first one on Fiorimonde's chain, and this one was even
more beautiful than the other.
The Princess gave a long low laugh, quite terrible to hear.
"Oh, my sweet necklace," cried she, "how beautiful you are growing! I think
I love you more than anything in the world besides." Then she went softly
back to bed, without any one hearing her, and fell sound asleep, and slept
till Yolande came to tell her it was time for her to get up and dress for
the wedding.
The Princess was dressed in gorgeous clothes, and only Yolande noticed that
beneath her satin gown, she wore the golden cord, but now there were two
beads upon it instead of one. Scarcely was she ready when the King burst
into her room in a towering rage.
"My daughter," cried he, "there is a plot against us. Lay aside your bridal
attire and think no more of Prince Hildebrandt, for he too has disappeared,
and is nowhere to be found."
At this the Princess wept, and entreated that Hildebrandt should be sought
for far and near, but she laughed to herself, and said, "Search where you
will, yet you shall not find him;" and so again a great search was made,
and when no trace of the Prince was found, all the palace was in an uproar.
The Princess again put off her bride's dress and clad herself in black, and
sat alone, and pretended to weep, but Yolande, who watched her, shook her
head, and said, "More will come and go before the wicked Princess has done
her worst."
A month passed, in which Fiorimonde pretended to mourn for Hildebrandt,
then she went to the King and said,
"Sire, I pray that you will not let people say that when any bridegroom
comes to marry me, as soon as he has seen me he flies rather than be my
husband. I beg that suitors may be summoned from far and near that I may
not be left alone unwed."
The King agreed, and envoys were sent all the world over to bid any who
would come and be the husband of Princess Fiorimonde. And come they did,
kings and princes from south and north, east and west,--King Adrian, Prince
Sigbert, Prince Algar, and many more,--but though all went well till the
wedding morning, when it was time to go to church, no bridegroom was to be
found. The old King was sadly frightened, and would fain have given up all
hope of finding a husband for the Princess, but now she implored him, with
tears in her eyes, not to let her be disgraced in this way. And so suitor
after suitor continued to come, and now it was known, far and wide, that
whoever came to ask for the hand of Princess Fiorimonde vanished, and was
seen no more of men. The courtiers were afraid and whispered under their
breath, "It is not all right, it cannot be;" but only Yolande noticed how
the beads came upon the golden thread, till it was well-nigh covered, yet
there always was room for one bead more.
So the years passed, and every year Princess Fiorimonde grew lovelier and
lovelier, so that no one who saw her could guess how wicked she was.
In a far off country lived a young prince whose name was Florestan. He had
a dear friend named Gervaise, whom he loved better than any one in the
world. Gervaise was tall, and broad, and stout of limb, and he loved Prince
Florestan so well, that he would gladly have died to serve him.
It chanced that Prince Florestan saw a portrait of Princess Fiorimonde, and
at once swore he would go to her father's court, and beg that he might
have her for his wife, and Gervaise in vain tried to dissuade him.
"There is an evil fate about the Princess Fiorimonde," quoth he; "many have
gone to marry her, but where are they now?"
"I don't know or care," answered Florestan, "but this is sure, that I will
wed her and return here, and bring my bride with me."
So he set out for Fiorimonde's home, and Gervaise went with him with a
heavy heart.
When they reached the court, the old King received them and welcomed them
warmly, and he said to his courtiers, "Here is a fine young prince to whom
we would gladly see our daughter wed. Let us hope that this time all will
be well." But now Fiorimonde had grown so bold, that she scarcely tried to
conceal her mirth.
"I will gladly marry him to-morrow, if he comes to the church," she said;
"but if he is not there, what can I do," and she laughed long and merrily,
till those who heard her shuddered.
When the Princess's ladies came to tell her that Prince Florestan was
arrived, she was in the garden, lying on the marble edge of a fountain,
feeding the gold fish who swam in the water.
"Bid him come to me," she said, "for I will not go any more in state to
meet any suitors, neither will I put on grand attire for them. Let him come
and find me as I am, since all find it so easy to come and go." So her
ladies told the prince that Fiorimonde waited for him near the fountain.
She did not rise when he came to where she lay, but his heart bounded with
joy, for he had never in his life beheld such a beautiful woman.
She wore a thin soft white dress, which clung to her lithe figure. Her
beautiful arms and hands were bare, and she dabbled with them in the water,
and played with the fish. Her great blue eyes were sparkling with mirth,
and were so beautiful, that no one noticed the wicked look hid in them; and
on her neck lay the marvellous many-coloured necklace, which was itself a
wonder to behold.
"You have my best greetings, Prince Florestan," she said. "And you, too,
would be my suitor. Have you thought well of what you would do, since so
many princes who have seen me have fled for ever, rather than marry me?"
and as she spoke, she raised her white hand from the water, and held it out
to the Prince, who stooped and kissed it, and scarcely knew how to answer
her for bewilderment at her great loveliness.
Gervaise followed his master at a short distance, but he was ill at ease,
and trembled for fear of what should come.
"Come, bid your friend leave us," said Fiorimonde, looking at Gervaise,
"and sit beside me, and tell me of your home, and why you wish to marry me,
and all pleasant things."
Florestan begged that Gervaise would leave them for a little, and he walked
slowly away, in a very mournful mood.
He went on down the walks, not heeding where he was going, till he met
Yolande, who stood beneath a tree laden with rosy apples, picking the
fruit, and throwing it into a basket at her feet. He would have passed her
in silence, but she stopped him, and said,
"Have you come with the new Prince? Do you love your master?"
"Ay, better than any one else on the earth," answered Gervaise. "Why do you
ask?"
"And where is he now," said Yolande, not heeding Gervaise's question.
"He sits by the fountain with the beautiful Princess," said Gervaise.
"Then, I hope you have said good-bye to him well, for be assured you shall
never see him again," said Yolande nodding her head.
"Why not, and who are you to talk like this?" asked Gervaise.
"My name is Yolande," answered she, "and I am Princess Fiorimonde's maid.
Do you not know that Prince Florestan is the eleventh lover who has come to
marry her, and one by one they have disappeared, and only I know where they
are gone."
"And where are they gone?" cried Gervaise, "and why do you not tell the
world, and prevent good men being lost like this?"
"Because I fear my mistress," said Yolande, speaking low and drawing near
to him; "she is a sorceress, and she wears the brave kings and princes who
come to woo her, strung upon a cord round her neck. Each one forms the bead
of a necklace which she wears, both day and night. I have watched that
necklace growing; first it was only an empty gold thread; then came King
Pierrot, and when he disappeared the first bead appeared upon it. Then came
Hildebrandt, and two beads were on the string instead of one; then followed
Adrian, Sigbert, and Algar, and Cenred, and Pharamond, and Baldwyn, and
Leofric, and Raoul, and all are gone, and ten beads hang upon the string,
and to-night there will be eleven, and the eleventh will be your Prince
Florestan."
"If this be so," cried Gervaise, "I will never rest till I have plunged my
sword into Fiorimonde's heart;" but Yolande shook her head.
"She is a sorceress," she said, "and it might be hard to kill her; besides,
that might not break the spell, and bring back the princes to life. I wish
I could show you the necklace, and you might count the beads, and see if I
do not speak truth, but it is always about her neck, both night and day, so
it is impossible."
"Take me to her room to-night when she is asleep, and let me see it there,"
said Gervaise.
"Very well, we will try," said Yolande; "but you must be very still, and
make no noise, for if she wakes, remember it will be worse for us both."
When night came and all in the palace were fast asleep, Gervaise and
Yolande met in the great hall, and Yolande told him that the Princess
slumbered soundly.
"So now let us go," said she, "and I will show you the necklace on which
Fiorimonde wears her lovers strung like beads, though how she transforms
them I know not."
"Stay one instant, Yolande," said Gervaise, holding her back, as she would
have tripped upstairs. "Perhaps, try how I may, I shall be beaten, and
either die or become a bead like those who have come before me. But if I
succeed and rid the land of your wicked Princess, what will you promise me
for a reward?"
"What would you have?" asked Yolande.
"I would have you say you will be my wife, and come back with me to my own
land," said Gervaise.
"That I will promise gladly," said Yolande, kissing him, "but we must not
speak or think of this till we have cut the cord from Fiorimonde's neck,
and all her lovers are set free."
So they went softly up to the Princess's room, Yolande holding a small
lantern, which gave only a dim light. There, in her grand bed, lay Princess
Fiorimonde. They could just see her by the lantern's light, and she looked
so beautiful that Gervaise began to think Yolande spoke falsely, when she
said she was so wicked.
Her face was calm and sweet as a baby's; her hair fell in ruddy waves on
the pillow; her rosy lips smiled, and little dimples showed in her cheeks;
her white soft hands were folded amidst the scented lace and linen of which
the bed was made. Gervaise almost forgot to look at the glittering beads
hung round her throat, in wondering at her loveliness, but Yolande pulled
him by the arm.
"Do not look at her," she whispered softly, "since her beauty has cost dear
already; look rather at what remains of those who thought her as fair as
you do now; see here," and she pointed with her finger to each bead in
turn.
"This was Pierrot, and this Hildebrandt, and these are Adrian, and Sigbert,
and Algar, and Cenred, and that is Pharamond, and that Raoul, and last of
all here is your own master Prince Florestan. Seek him now where you will
and you will not find him, and you shall never see him again till the cord
is cut and the charm broken."
"Of what is the cord made?" whispered Gervaise.
"It is of the finest gold," she answered. "Nay, do not you touch her lest
she wake. I will show it to you." And Yolande put down the lantern and
softly put out her hands to slip the beads aside, but as she did so, her
fingers closed around the golden string, and directly she was gone. Another
bead was added to the necklace, and Gervaise was alone with the sleeping
Princess. He gazed about him in sore amazement and fear. He dared not call
lest Fiorimonde should wake.
"Yolande," he whispered as loud as he dared, "Yolande where are you?" but
no Yolande answered.
Then he bent down over the Princess and gazed at the necklace. Another bead
was strung upon it next to the one to which Yolande had pointed as Prince
Florestan. Again he counted them. "Eleven before, now there are twelve. Oh
hateful Princess! I know now where go the brave kings and princes who came
to woo you, and where, too, is my Yolande," and as he looked at the last
bead, tears filled his eyes. It was brighter and clearer than the others,
and of a warm red hue, like the red dress Yolande had worn. The Princess
turned and laughed in her sleep, and at the sound of her laughter Gervaise
was filled with horror and loathing. He crept shuddering from the room, and
all night long sat up alone, plotting how he might defeat Fiorimonde, and
set Florestan and Yolande free.
[Illustration: "Next morning when Fiorimonde dressed she looked at her
necklace and counted its beads, but she was much perplexed, for a new bead
was added to the string."--P. 29.]
Next morning when Fiorimonde dressed she looked at her necklace and counted
its beads, but she was much perplexed, for a new bead was added to the
string.
"Who can have come and grasped my chain unknown to me?" she said to
herself, and she sat and pondered for a long time. At last she broke into
weird laughter.
"At any rate, whoever it was, is fitly punished," quoth she. "My brave
necklace, you can take care of yourself, and if any one tries to steal you,
they will get their reward, and add to my glory. In truth I may sleep in
peace, and fear nothing."
The day passed away and no one missed Yolande. Towards sunset the rain
began to pour in torrents, and there was such a terrible thunderstorm that
every one was frightened. The thunder roared, the lightning gleamed flash
after flash, every moment it grew fiercer and fiercer. The sky was so dark
that, save for the lightning's light, nothing could be seen, but Princess
Fiorimonde loved the thunder and lightning.
She sat in a room high up in one of the towers, clad in a black velvet
dress, and she watched the lightning from the window, and laughed at each
peal of thunder. In the midst of the storm a stranger, wrapped in a cloak,
rode to the palace door, and the ladies ran to tell the Princess that a new
prince had come to be her suitor. "And he will not tell his name," said
they, "but says he hears that all are bidden to ask for the hand of
Princess Fiorimonde, and he too would try his good fortune."
"Let him come at once," cried the Princess. "Be he prince or knave what
care I? If princes all fly from me it may be better to marry a peasant."
So they led the new-comer up to the room where Fiorimonde sat. He was
wrapped in a thick cloak, but he flung it aside as he came in, and showed
how rich was his silken clothing underneath; and so well was he disguised,
that Fiorimonde never saw that it was Gervaise, but looked at him, and
thought she had never seen him before.
"You are most welcome, stranger prince, who has come through such
lightning and thunder to find me," said she. "Is it true, then, that you
wish to be my suitor? What have you heard of me?"
"It is quite true, Princess," said Gervaise. "And I have heard that you are
the most beautiful woman in the world."
"And is that true also?" asked the Princess. "Look at me now, and see."
Gervaise looked at her and in his heart he said, "It is quite true, oh
wicked Princess! There never was woman as beautiful as you, and never
before did I hate a woman as I hate you now;" but aloud he said,
"No, Princess, that is not true; you are very beautiful, but I have seen a
woman who is fairer than you for all that your skin looks ivory against
your velvet dress, and your hair is like gold."
"A woman who is fairer than I?" cried Fiorimonde, and her breast began to
heave and her eyes to sparkle with rage, for never before had she heard
such a thing said. "Who are you who dares come and tell me of women more
beautiful than I am?"
"I am a suitor who asks to be your husband, Princess," answered Gervaise,
"but still I say I have seen a woman who was fairer than you."
"Who is she--where is she?" cried Fiorimonde, who could scarcely contain
her anger. "Bring her here at once that I may see if you speak the truth."
"What will you give me to bring her to you?" said Gervaise. "Give me that
necklace you wear on your neck, and then I will summon her in an instant;"
but Fiorimonde shook her head.
"You have asked," said she, "for the only thing from which I cannot part,"
and then she bade her maids bring her her jewel-casket, and she drew out
diamonds, and rubies, and pearls, and offered them, all or any, to
Gervaise. The lightning shone on them and made them shine and flash, but he
shook his head.
"No, none of these will do," quoth he. "You can see her for the necklace,
but for nothing else."
"Take it off for yourself then," cried Fiorimonde, who now was so angry
that she only wished to be rid of Gervaise in any way.
"No, indeed," said Gervaise, "I am no tire-woman, and should not know how
to clasp and unclasp it;" and in spite of all Fiorimonde could say or do,
he would not touch either her or the magic chain.
At night the storm grew even fiercer, but it did not trouble the Princess.
She waited till all were asleep, and then she opened her bedroom window and
chirruped softly to the little brown bird, who flew down from the roof at
her call. Then she gave him a handful of seeds as before, and he grew and
grew and grew till he was as large as an ostrich, and she sat upon his back
and flew out through the air, laughing at the lightning and thunder which
flashed and roared around her. Away they flew till they came to the old
witch's cave, and here they found the witch sitting at her open door
catching the lightning to make charms with.
"Welcome, my dear," croaked she, as Fiorimonde stepped from the bird; "here
is a night we both love well. And how goes the necklace?--right merrily I
see. Twelve beads already--but what is that twelfth?" and she looked at it
closely.
"Nay, that is one thing I want you to tell me," said Fiorimonde, drying the
rain from her golden hair. "Last night when I slept there were eleven, and
this morning there are twelve; and I know not from whence comes the
twelfth."
"It is no suitor," said the witch, "but from some young maid, that that
bead is made. But why should you mind? It looks well with the others."
"Some young maid," said the Princess. "Then, it must be Cicely or Marybel,
or Yolande, who would have robbed me of my necklace as I slept. But what
care I? The silly wench is punished now, and so may all others be, who
would do the same."
"And when will you get the thirteenth bead, and where will he come from?"
asked the witch.
"He waits at the palace now," said Fiorimonde, chuckling. "And this is why
I have to speak to you;" and then she told the witch of the stranger who
had come in the storm, and of how he would not touch her necklace, nor take
the cord in his hand, and how he said also that he knew a woman fairer than
she.
"Beware, Princess, beware," cried the witch in a warning voice, as she
listened. "Why should you heed tales of other women fairer than you? Have I
not made you the most beautiful woman in the world, and can any others do
more than I? Give no ear to what this stranger says or you shall rue it."
But still the Princess murmured, and said she did not love to hear any one
speak of others as beautiful as she.
"Be warned in time," cried the witch, "or you will have cause to repent it.
Are you so silly or so vain as to be troubled because a Prince says idly
what you know is not true? I tell you do not listen to him, but let him be
slung to your chain as soon as may be, and then he will speak no more." And
then they talked together of how Fiorimonde could make Gervaise grasp the
fatal string.
Next morning when the sun rose, Gervaise started off into the woods, and
there he plucked acorns and haws, and hips, and strung them on to a string
to form a rude necklace. This he hid in his bosom, and then went back to
the palace without telling any one.
When the Princess rose, she dressed herself as beautifully as she could,
and braided her golden locks with great care, for this morning she meant
her new suitor to meet his fate. After breakfast, she stepped into the
garden, where the sun shone brightly, and all looked fresh after the storm.
Here from the grass she picked up a golden ball, and began to play with it.
"Go to our new guest," cried she to her ladies, "and ask him to come here
and play at ball with me." So they went, and soon they returned bringing
Gervaise with them.
"Good morrow, prince," cried she. "Pray, come and try your skill at this
game with me; and you," she said to her ladies, "do not wait to watch our
play, but each go your way, and do what pleases you best." So they all went
away, and left her alone with Gervaise.
"Well, prince," cried she as they began to play, "what do you think of me
by morning light? Yesterday when you came it was so dark, with thunder and
clouds, that you could scarcely see my face, but now that there is bright
sunshine, pray look well at me, and see if you do not think me as beautiful
as any woman on earth," and she smiled at Gervaise, and looked so lovely as
she spoke, that he scarce knew how to answer her; but he remembered
Yolande, and said,
"Doubtless you are very beautiful; then why should you mind my telling you
that I have seen a woman lovelier than you?"
At this the Princess again began to be angry, but she thought of the
witch's words and said,
"Then, if you think there is a woman fairer than I, look at my beads, and
now, that you see their colours in the sun, say if you ever saw such jewels
before."
"It is true I have never seen beads like yours, but I have a necklace here,
which pleases me better;" and from his pocket he drew the haws and acorns,
which he had strung together.
"What is that necklace, and where did you get it? Show it to me!" cried
Fiorimonde; but Gervaise held it out of her reach, and said,
"I like my necklace better than yours, Princess; and, believe me, there is
no necklace like mine in all the world."
"Why; is it a fairy necklace? What does it do? Pray give it to me!" cried
Fiorimonde, trembling with anger and curiosity, for she thought, "Perhaps
it has power to make the wearer beautiful; perhaps it was worn by the woman
whom he thought more beautiful than I, and that is why she looked so fair."
"Come, I will make a fair exchange," said Gervaise. "Give me your necklace
and you shall have mine, and when it is round your throat I will truthfully
say that you are the fairest woman in the world; but first I must have your
necklace."
[Illustration: "Then he picked up the necklace on the point of his sword
and carried it, slung thereon, into the council chamber."--P. 39.]
"Take it, then," cried the Princess, who, in her rage and eagerness, forgot
all else, and she seized the string of beads to lift it from her neck, but
no sooner had she taken it in her hands than they fell with a rattle to the
earth, and Fiorimonde herself was nowhere to be seen. Gervaise bent down
over the necklace as it lay upon the grass, and, with a smile, counted
thirteen beads; and he knew that the thirteenth was the wicked Princess,
who had herself met the evil fate she had prepared for so many others.
"Oh, clever Princess!" cried he, laughing aloud, "you are not so very
clever, I think, to be so easily outwitted." Then he picked up the necklace
on the point of the sword and carried it, slung thereon, into the council
chamber, where sat the King surrounded by statesmen and courtiers busy with
state affairs.
"Pray, King," said Gervaise, "send some one to seek for Princess
Fiorimonde. A moment ago she played with me at ball in the garden, and now
she is nowhere to be seen."
The King desired that servants should seek her Royal Highness; but they
came back saying she was not to be found.
"Then let me see if I cannot bring her to you; but first let those who have
been longer lost than she, come and tell their own tale." And, so saying,
Gervaise let the necklace slip from his sword on to the floor, and taking
from his breast a sharp dagger, proceeded to cut the golden thread on which
the beads were strung and as he clave it in two there came a mighty noise
like a clap of thunder.
"Now;" cried he, "look, and see King Pierrot who was lost," and as he spoke
he drew from the cord a bead, and King Pierrot, in his royal clothes, with
his sword at his side, stood before them.
"Treachery!" he cried, but ere he could say more Gervaise had drawn off
another bead, and King Hildebrandt appeared, and after him came Adrian, and
Sigbert, and Algar, and Cenred, and Pharamond, and Raoul, and last of the
princes, Gervaise's own dear master Florestan, and they all denounced
Princess Fiorimonde and her wickedness.
"And now," cried Gervaise, "here is she who has helped to save you all,"
and he drew off the twelfth bead, and there stood Yolande in her red
dress; and when he saw her Gervaise flung away his dagger and took her in
his arms, and they wept for joy.
The King and all the courtiers sat pale and trembling, unable to speak for
fear and shame. At length the King said with a deep groan,
"We owe you deep amends, O noble kings and princes! What punishment do you
wish us to prepare for our most guilty daughter?" but here Gervaise stopped
him, and said,
"Give her no other punishment than what she has chosen for herself. See,
here she is, the thirteenth bead upon the string; let no one dare to draw
it off, but let this string be hung up where all people can see it and see
the one bead, and know the wicked Princess is punished for her sorcery, so
it will be a warning to others who would do like her."
So they lifted the golden thread with great care and hung it up outside the
town-hall, and there the one bead glittered and gleamed in the sunlight,
and all who saw it knew that it was the wicked Princess Fiorimonde who had
justly met her fate.
Then all the kings and princes thanked Gervaise and Yolande, and loaded
them with presents, and each went to his own land.
And Gervaise married Yolande, and they went back with Prince Florestan to
their home, and all lived happily to the end of their lives.
[Illustration]
THE WANDERINGS OF ARASMON
[Illustration]
Long ago there lived a wandering musician and his wife, whose names were
Arasmon and Chrysea. Arasmon played upon a lute to which Chrysea sang, and
their music was so beautiful that people followed them in crowds and gave
them as much money as they wanted. When Arasmon played all who heard him
were silent from wonder and admiration, but when Chrysea sang they could
not refrain from weeping, for her voice was more beautiful than anything
they had ever heard before.
Both were young and lovely, and were as happy as the day was long, for they
loved each other dearly, and liked wandering about seeing new countries
and people and making sweet music. They went to all sorts of places,
sometimes to big cities, sometimes to little villages, sometimes to lonely
cottages by the sea-shore, and sometimes they strolled along the green
lanes and fields, singing and playing so exquisitely, that the very birds
flew down from the trees to listen to them.
One day they crossed a dark line of hills, and came out on a wild moorland
country, where they had never been before. On the side of the hill they saw
a little village, and at once turned towards it, but as they drew near
Chrysea said,
"What gloomy place is this? See how dark and miserable it looks."
[Illustration: "One by one the villagers came out of their cottages, and
gathered round them to listen."--P. 44.]
"Let us try to cheer it with some music," said Arasmon, and began to play
upon his lute, while Chrysea sang. One by one the villagers came out of
their cottages and gathered round them to listen, but Chrysea thought she
had never before seen such forlorn-looking people. They were thin and bent,
their faces were pale and haggard, also their clothes looked old and
threadbare, and in some places were worn into holes. But they crowded about
Arasmon and Chrysea, and begged them to go on playing and singing, and as
they listened the women shed tears, and the men hid their faces and were
silent. When they stopped, the people began to feel in their pockets as if
to find some coins, but Arasmon cried,
"Nay, good friends, keep your money for yourselves. You have not too much
of it, to judge by your looks. But let us stay with you for to-night, and
give us food and lodging, and we shall think ourselves well paid, and will
play and sing to you as much as you like."
"Stay with us as long as you can, stay with us always," begged the people;
and each one entreated to be allowed to receive the strangers and give them
the best they had. So Arasmon and Chrysea played and sang to them till they
were tired, and at last, when the heavy rain began to fall, they turned
towards the village, but as they passed through its narrow streets they
thought the place itself looked even sadder than its inmates. The houses
were ill-built, and seemed to be almost tumbling down. The streets were
uneven and badly kept. In the gardens they saw no flowers, but dank dark
weeds. They went into a cottage which the people pointed out to them, and
Arasmon lay down by the fire, calling to Chrysea to rest also, as they had
walked far, and she must be weary. He soon fell asleep, but Chrysea sat at
the door watching the dark clouds as they drifted over the darker houses.
Outside the cottage hung a blackbird in a cage, with drooping wings and
scanty plumage. It was the only animal they had yet seen in the village,
for of cats or dogs or singing-birds there seemed to be none.
When she saw it, Chrysea turned to the woman of the house, who stood beside
her, and said,
"Why don't you let it go? It would be much happier flying about in the
sunshine."
"The sun never shines here," said the woman sadly. "It could not pierce
through the dark clouds which hang over the village. Besides, we do not
think of happiness. It is as much as we can do to live."
"But tell me," said Chrysea, "what is it that makes you so sad and your
village such a dreary place? I have been to many towns in my life, but to
none which looked like this."
"Don't you know," said the woman, "that this place is spell-bound?"
"Spell-bound?" cried Chrysea. "What do you mean?"
The woman turned and pointed towards the moor. "Over yonder," she said,
"dwells a terrible old wizard by whom we are bewitched, and he has a number
of little dark elves who are his servants, and these are they who make our
village what you see it. You don't know how sad it is to live here. The
elves steal our eggs, and milk, and poultry, so that there is never enough
for us to eat, and we are half-starved. They pull down our houses, and undo
our work as fast as we do it. They steal our corn when it is standing in
sheaves, so that we find nothing but empty husks;" and as she ceased
speaking the woman sighed heavily.
"But if they do all this harm," said Chrysea, "why do not some of you go
to the moor and drive them away?"
"It is part of the spell," said the woman, "that we can neither hear nor
see them. I have heard my grandfather say that in the old time this place
was no different to others, but one day this terrible old magician came and
offered the villagers a great deal of money if they would let him dwell
upon the moor; for before that it was covered with golden gorse and
heather, and the country folk held all their merrymakings there, but they
were tempted with the gold, and sold it, and from that day the elves have
tormented us; and as we cannot see them, we cannot get rid of them, but
must just bear them as best we may."
"That is a sad way to speak," said Chrysea. "Cannot you find out what the
spell really is and break it?"
"It is a song," said the woman, "and every night they sing it afresh. It is
said that if any one could go to the moor between midnight and dawn, and
could hear them singing it, and then sing through the tune just as they
themselves do, the charm would be broken, and we should be free. But it
must be some one who has never taken their money, so we cannot do it, for
we can neither see nor hear them."
"But I have not taken their money," said Chrysea. "And there is no tune I
cannot sing when I have heard it once. So I will go to the moor for you and
break the spell."
"Nay, do not think of such a thing," cried the woman. "For the elves are
most spiteful, and you don't know what harm they might do to you, even if
you set us free."
Chrysea said no more, but all the evening she thought of what the woman had
told her, and still stood looking out into the dismal street. When she went
to bed she did not sleep, but lay still till the clock struck one. Then she
rose softly, and wrapping herself in a cloak, opened the door and stepped
out into the rain. As she passed, she looked up and saw the blackbird
crouching in the bottom of its cage. She opened the cage door to let it
fly, but still it did not move, so she lifted it out in her hand.
"Poor bird!" said she gently; "I wish I could give this village its liberty
as easily as I can give you yours," and carrying it with her she walked on
towards the moor. It was a large waste piece of land, and looked as though
it had been burnt, for the ground was charred and black, and there was no
grass or green plant growing on it, but there were some blackened stumps of
trees, and to these Chrysea went, and hid herself behind one to wait and
see what would come. She watched for a long time without seeing any one,
but at last there rose from the ground not far from her a lurid gleam,
which spread and spread until it became a large circle of light, in the
midst of which she saw small dark figures moving, like ugly little men. The
light was now so bright that she could distinguish each one quite plainly,
and never before had she seen anything so ugly, for they were black as ink,
and their faces were twisted and looked cruel and wicked.
They joined hands, and, forming a ring, danced slowly round, and, as they
did so, the ground opened, and there rose up in their centre a tiny
village exactly like the spell-bound village, only that the houses were but
a few inches high. Round this the elves danced, and then they began to
sing. Chrysea listened eagerly to their singing, and no sooner had they
done, than she opened her lips and sang the same tune through from
beginning to end just as she had heard it.
Her voice rang out loud and clear, and at the sound the little village
crumbled and fell away as though it had been made of dust.
The elves stood silent for a moment, and then with a wild cry they all
rushed towards Chrysea, and at their head she saw one about three times the
size of the others, who appeared to be their chief.
"Come, quickly, let us punish the woman who has dared to thwart us," he
cried. "What shall we change her to?"
"A frog to croak on the ground," cried one.
"No, an owl to hoot in the night," cried another.
"Oh, for pity's sake," implored Chrysea, "don't change me to one of these
loathsome creatures, so that, if Arasmon finds me, he will spurn me."
"Hear her," cried the chief, "and let her have her will. Let us change her
to no bird or beast, but to a bright golden harp, and thus shall she
remain, until upon her strings some one shall play our tune, which she has
dared to sing."
"Agreed!" cried the others, and all began to dance round Chrysea and to
sing as they had sung around the village. She shrieked and tried to run,
but they stopped her on every side. She cried, "Arasmon! Arasmon!" but no
one came, and when the elves' song was done, and they disappeared, all that
was left was a little gold harp hanging upon the boughs of the tree, and
only the blackbird who sat above knew what had come of poor Chrysea.
When morning dawned, and the villagers awoke, all felt that some great
change had taken place. The heavy cloud which hung above the village had
cleared away; the sun shone brightly, and the sky was blue; streams which
had been dry for years, were running clear and fresh: and the people all
felt strong, and able to work again; the trees were beginning to bud, and
in their branches sang birds, whose voices had not been heard there for
many a long year. The villagers looked from one to another and said,
"Surely the spell is broken; surely the elves must have fled;" and they
wept for joy.
Arasmon woke with the first beam of the sun, and finding Chrysea was not
there, he rose, and went to seek her in the village, calling, "Chrysea,
Chrysea! the sun is up and we must journey on our way;" but no Chrysea
answered, so he walked down all the streets, calling "Chrysea! come,
Chrysea!" but no Chrysea came. Then he said,
"She has gone into the fields to look for wild flowers, and will soon be
back." So he waited for her patiently, but the sun rose high, the villagers
went to their work, and she did not return. At this Arasmon was frightened,
and asked every one he met if they had seen her, but each one shook his
head and said "No, they had seen nothing of her."
Then he called some of the men together and told them that his wife had
wandered away, and he feared lest she might lose herself and go still
farther, and he asked them to help him to look for her. So some went one
way, and some another, to search, and Arasmon himself walked for miles the
whole country round, calling "Chrysea! Chrysea!" but no answer came.
The sun was beginning to set and twilight to cover the land, when Arasmon
came on to the moor where Chrysea had met her fate. That, too, was changed.
Flowers and grass were already beginning to grow there, and the children of
the village, who till now had never dared to venture near it, were playing
about it. Arasmon could hear their voices as he came near the tree against
which Chrysea had leaned, and on which now hung the golden harp. In the
branches above sat the blackbird singing, and Arasmon stopped and listened
to its song, and thought he had never heard a bird sing so sweetly before.
For it sang the magic song by which Chrysea had broken the elves' spell,
the first tune it had heard since it regained its liberty.
"Dear blackbird," said Arasmon, looking up to it, "I wish your singing
could tell me where to find my wife Chrysea;" and as he looked up he saw a
golden harp hanging upon the branches, and he took it down and ran his
fingers over the strings. Never before did harp give forth such music. It
was like a woman's voice, and was most beautiful, but so sad that when
Arasmon heard it he felt inclined to cry. It seemed to be calling for help,
but he could not understand what it said, though each time he touched the
strings it cried, "Arasmon, Arasmon, I am here! It is I, Chrysea;" but
though Arasmon listened, and wondered at its tones, yet he did not know
what it said.
He examined it carefully. It was a beautiful little harp, made of pure
gold, and at the top was a pair of golden hands and arms clasped together.
"I will keep it," said Arasmon, "for I never yet heard a harp with such a
tone, and when Chrysea comes she shall sing to it."
But Chrysea was nowhere to be found, and at last the villagers declared she
must be lost, or herself have gone away on purpose, and that it was vain to
seek her farther. At this Arasmon was angry, and saying that he would seek
Chrysea as long as he had life, he left the village to wander over the
whole world till he should find her. He went on foot, and took with him the
golden harp.
He walked for many, many miles far away from the village and the moor, and
when he came to any farmhouses, or met any country people on the road he
began to play, and every one thronged round him and stared, in breathless
surprise at his beautiful music. When he had done he would ask them, "Have
you seen my wife Chrysea? She is dressed in white and gold, and sings more
sweetly than any of the birds of heaven."
But all shook their heads and said, "No, she had not been there;" and
whenever he came to a strange village, where he had not been before, he
called, "Chrysea, Chrysea, are you here?" but no Chrysea answered, only the
harp in his hands cried whenever he touched its strings, "It is I, Arasmon!
It is I, Chrysea!" but though he thought its notes like Chrysea's voice, he
never understood them.
He wandered for days and months and years through countries and villages
which he had never known before. When night came and he found himself in
the fields alone, he would lie down upon his cloak and sleep with his head
resting upon the harp, and if by chance one of its golden threads was
touched it would cry, "Arasmon, awake, I am here!" Then he would dream that
Chrysea was calling him, and would wake and start up to look for her,
thinking she must be close at hand.
One day, towards night, when he had walked far, and was very tired, he came
to a little village on a lonely, rocky coast by the sea, and he found that
a thick mist had come up, and hung over the village, so that he could
barely see the path before him as he walked. But he found his way down on
to the beach, and there stood a number of fisherwomen, trying to look
through the mist towards the sea, and speaking anxiously.
"What is wrong, and for whom are you watching, good folk?" he asked them.
"We are watching for our husbands," answered one. "They went out in their
boats fishing in the early morning, when it was quite light, and then
arose this dreadful fog, and they should have come back long ago, and we
fear lest they may lose their way in the darkness and strike on a rock and
be drowned."
"I too, have lost my wife Chrysea," cried Arasmon. "Has she passed by here?
She had long golden hair, and her gown was white and gold, and she sang
with a voice like an angel's."
The women all said, "No, they had not seen her;" but still they strained
their eyes towards the sea, and Arasmon also began to watch for the return
of the boats.
They waited and waited, but they did not come, and every moment the
darkness grew thicker and thicker, so that the women could not see each
other's faces, though they stood quite near together.
Then Arasmon took his harp and began to play, and its music floated over
the water for miles through the darkness, but the women were weeping so for
their husbands, that they did not heed it.
"It is useless to watch," said one. "They cannot steer their boats in such
a darkness. We shall never see them again."
"I will wait all night till morning," said another, "and all day next day,
and next night, till I see some sign of the boats, and know if they be
living or dead," but as she stopped speaking, there rose a cry of "Here
they are," and two or three fishing-boats were pushed on to the sand close
by where they stood, and the women threw their arms round their husbands'
necks, and all shouted for joy.
The fishermen asked who it was who had played the harp; "For," they said,
"it was that which saved us. We were far from land, and it was so dark that
we could not tell whether to go to left or to right, and had no sign to
guide us to shore; when of a sudden we heard the most beautiful music, and
we followed the sound, and came in quite safely.
"'Twas this good harper who played while we watched," said the women, and
one and all turned to Arasmon, and told him with tears of their gratitude,
and asked him what they could do for him, or what they could give him in
token of their thankfulness; but Arasmon shook his head and said, "You can
do nothing for me, unless you can tell me where to seek my wife Chrysea. It
is to find her I am wandering;" and when the women shook their heads, and
said again they knew nothing of her, the harp-strings as he touched them
cried again,
"Arasmon! Arasmon! listen to me. It is I, Chrysea;" but again no one
understood it, and though all pitied him, no one could help him.
Next morning when the mist had cleared away, and the sun was shining, a
little ship set sail for foreign countries, and Arasmon begged the captain
to take him in it that he might seek Chrysea still farther.
They sailed and sailed, till at last they came to the country for which
they were bound; but they found the whole land in confusion, and war and
fighting everywhere, and all the people were leaving their homes and hiding
themselves in the towns, for fear of a terrible enemy, who was invading
them. But no one hurt Arasmon as he wandered on with his harp in his hand,
only no one would stop to answer him, when he asked if Chrysea had been
there, for every one was too frightened and hurried to heed him.
At last he came to the chief city where the King dwelt, and here he found
all the men building walls and fortresses, and preparing to defend the
town, because they knew their enemy was coming to besiege it, but all the
soldiers were gloomy and low-spirited.
"It is impossible for us to conquer," they said, "for there are three of
them to every one of us, and they will take our city and make our King
prisoner."
That night as the watchmen looked over the walls, they saw in the distance
an immense army marching towards them, and their swords and helmets
glittered in the moonlight.
Then they gave the signal, and the captains gathered together their men to
prepare them for fighting; but so sure were they of being beaten that it
was with difficulty their officers could bring them to the walls.
"It would be better," said the soldiers, "to lay down our arms at once and
let the enemy enter, for then we should not lose our lives as well as our
city and our wealth."
When Arasmon heard this he sat upon the walls of the town, and began to
play upon his harp, and this time its music was so loud and clear, that it
could be heard far and wide, and its sound was so exultant and joyous, that
when the soldiers heard it they raised their heads, and their fears
vanished, and they started forward, shouting and calling that they would
conquer or be killed.
Then the enemy attacked the city, but the soldiers within met them with so
much force that they were driven back, and had to fly, and the victorious
army followed them and drove them quite out of their country, and Arasmon
went with them, playing on his harp, to cheer them as they went.
When they knew the victory was theirs, all the captains wondered what had
caused their sudden success, and one of the lieutenants said, "It was that
strange harper who went with us, playing on his harp. When our men heard
it, they became as brave as lions." So the captains sent for Arasmon, but
when he came they were astonished to see how worn and thin he looked, and
could scarcely believe it was he who had made such wonderful music, for his
face had grown thin and pale, and there were gray locks in his hair.
They asked him what he would like to have, saying they would give him
whatever he would choose, for the great service he had done them.
Arasmon only shook his head and said,
"There is nothing I want that you can give me. I am seeking the whole world
round to find my wife Chrysea. It is many many years since I lost her. We
two were as happy as birds on the bough. We wandered over the world singing
and playing in the sunshine. But now she is gone, and I care for nothing
else." And the captains looked pityingly at him, for they all thought him
mad, and could not understand what the harp said when he played on it
again, and it cried,
"Listen, Arasmon! I too am here--I, Chrysea."
So Arasmon left that city, and started again, and wandered for days and
months and years.
He came by many strange places, and met with many strange people, but he
found no trace of Chrysea, and each day he looked older and sadder and
thinner.
At length he came to a country where the King loved nothing on earth so
much as music. So fond of it was he, that he had musicians and singers by
the score, always living in his palace, and there was no way of pleasing
him so well as by sending a new musician or singer. So when Arasmon came
into the country, and the people heard how marvellously he played, they
said at once, "Let us take him to the King. The poor man is mad. Hear how
he goes on asking for his wife; but, mad or not, his playing will delight
the King. Let us take him at once to the palace." So, though Arasmon would
have resisted them, they dragged him away to the court, and sent a
messenger to the King, to say they had found a poor mad wandering harper,
who played music the like of which they had never heard before.
The King and Queen, and all the court, sat feasting when the messenger came
in saying that the people were bringing a new harper to play before his
majesty.
"A new harper!" quoth he. "That is good hearing. Let him be brought here to
play to us at once."
So Arasmon was led into the hall, and up to the golden thrones on which sat
the King and Queen. A wonderful hall it was, made of gold and silver, and
crystal and ivory, and the courtiers, dressed in blue and green and gold
and diamonds, were a sight to see. Behind the throne were twelve young
maids dressed in pure white, who sang most sweetly, and behind them were
the musicians who accompanied them on every kind of instrument. Arasmon had
never in his life seen such a splendid sight.
"Come here," cried the King to him, "and let us hear you play." And the
singers ceased singing, and the musicians smiled scornfully, for they could
not believe Arasmon's music could equal theirs. For he looked to be in a
most sorry plight. He had walked far, and the dust of the roads was on him.
His clothes were worn threadbare, and stained and soiled, while his face
was so thin and anxious and sad that it was pitiful to see; but his harp of
pure shining gold was undulled, and untarnished. He began to play, and then
all smiles ceased, and the women began to weep, and the men sat and stared
at him in astonishment. When he had done the King started up, and throwing
his arms about his neck, cried, "Stay with me. You shall be my chief
musician. Never before have I heard playing like yours, and whatever you
want I will give you." But when he heard this, Arasmon knelt on one knee
and said,
"My gracious lord, I cannot stay. I have lost my wife Chrysea. I must
search all over the world till I find her. Ah! how beautiful she was, and
how sweetly she sang; her singing was far sweeter than even the music of my
harp."
"Indeed!" cried the King. "Then I too would fain hear her. But stay with
me, and I will send messengers all over the world to seek her far and near,
and they will find her much sooner than you."
[Illustration: "He began to play, and then all smiles ceased."--P. 66.]
So Arasmon stayed at the court, but he said that if Chrysea did not come
soon he must go farther to seek her himself.
The King gave orders that he should be clad in the costliest clothes and
have all he could want given to him, and after this he would hear no music
but Arasmon's playing, so all the other musicians were jealous, and wished
he had never come to the palace. But the strangest thing was that no one
but Arasmon could play upon his golden harp. All the King's harpers tried,
and the King himself tried also, but when they touched the strings there
came from them a strange, melancholy wailing, and no one but Arasmon could
bring out its beautiful notes.
But the courtiers and musicians grew more and more angry with Arasmon, till
at last they hated him bitterly, and only wanted to do him some harm; for
they said,
"Who is he, that our King should love and honour him before us? After all,
it is not his playing which is so beautiful; it is chiefly the harp on
which he plays, and if that were taken from him he would be no better than
the rest of us;" and then they began to consult together as to how they
should steal his harp.
One hot summer evening Arasmon went into the palace gardens, and sat down
to rest beneath a large beech-tree, when a little way off he saw two
courtiers talking together, and heard that they spoke of him, though they
did not see him or know he was there.
"The poor man is mad," said one; "of that there is little doubt, but, mad
or not, as long as he plays on his harp the King will not listen to any one
else."
"The only way is to take the harp from him," said the other. "But it is
hard to know how to get it away, for he will never let it go out of his
hands."
"We must take it from him when he is sleeping," said the first.
"Certainly," said the other; and then Arasmon heard them settle how and
when they would go to his room at night to steal his harp.
He sat still till they were gone, and then he rose, and grasping it
tenderly, turned from the palace and walked away through the garden gates.
"I have lost Chrysea," he said, "and now they would take from me even my
harp, the only thing I have to love in all this world, but I will go away,
far off where they will never find me," and when he was out of sight, he
ran with all his might, and never rested till he was far away on a lonely
hill, with no one near to see him.
The stars were beginning to shine though it was not yet dark. Arasmon sat
on a stone and looked at the country far and near. He could hear the sheep
bells tinkling around him, and far, far off in the distance he could see
the city and the palace he had left.
Then he began to play on his harp, and as he played the sheep stopped
browsing and drew near him to listen.
The stars grew brighter and the evening darker, and he saw a woman carrying
a child coming up the hill.
She looked pale and tired, but her face was very happy as she sat down not
far from Arasmon and listened to his playing, whilst she looked eagerly
across the hill as if she watched for some one who was coming. Presently
she turned and said, "How beautifully you play; I never heard music like it
before, but what makes you look so sad? Are you unhappy?"
"Yes," said Arasmon, "I am very miserable. I lost my wife Chrysea many
years ago, and now I don't know where she can be."
"It is a year since I have seen my husband," said the woman. "He went to
the war a year ago, but now there is peace and he is coming back, and
to-night he will come over this hill. It was just here we parted, and now I
am come to meet him."
"How happy you must be," said Arasmon. "I shall never see Chrysea again,"
and as he spoke he struck a chord on the harp, which cried, "O Arasmon, my
husband! why do you not know me? It is I, Chrysea."
"Do not say that," continued the woman; "you will find her some day. Why do
you sit here? Was it here you parted from her?"
Then Arasmon told her how they had gone to a strange desolate village and
rested there for the night, and in the morning Chrysea was gone, and that
he had wandered all over the world looking for her ever since.
"I think you are foolish," said the woman; "perhaps your wife has been
waiting for you at that village all this time. I would go back to the place
where I parted from her if I were you, and wait there till she returns. How
could I meet my husband if I did not come to the spot where we last were
together? We might both wander on for ever and never find each other; and
now, see, here he is coming," and she gave a cry of joy and ran to meet a
soldier who was walking up the hill.
Arasmon watched them as they met and kissed, and saw the father lift the
child in his arms, then the three walked over the hill together, and when
they were gone he sat down and wept bitterly. "What was it she said?" he
said. "That I ought to go back to the spot where we parted. She will not be
there, but I will go and die at the place where I last saw her." So again
he grasped his harp and started. He travelled many days and weeks by land
and sea, till late one day he came in sight of the hill on which stood the
little village. But at first he could not believe that he had come to the
right place, so changed did all appear. He stopped and looked around him in
astonishment. He stood in a shady lane, the arching trees met over his
head. The banks were full of spring flowers, and either side of the hedge
were fields full of young green corn.
"Can this be the wretched bare road down which we walked together? I would
indeed it were, and that she were with me now," said he. When he looked
across to the village, the change seemed greater still. There were many
more cottages, and they were trim and well kept, standing in neat gardens
full of flowers. He heard the cheerful voices of the peasants, and the
laughter of the village children. The whole place seemed to be full of life
and happiness. He stopped again upon the mound where he and Chrysea had
first played and sung.
"It is many, many a long year since I was here," he said. "Time has changed
all things strangely; but it would be hard to say which is the more
altered, this village or I, for then it was sunk in poverty and
wretchedness, and now it has gained happiness and wealth, and I, who was so
happy and glad, now am broken-down and worn. I have lost my only wealth, my
wife Chrysea. It was just here she stood and sang, and now I shall never
see her again or hear her singing."
There came past him a young girl driving some cows, and he turned and spoke
to her. "Tell me, I beg," he said, "is not your village much changed of
late years? I was here long ago, but I cannot now think it the same place,
for this is as bright and flourishing a town as I have ever seen, and I
remember it only as a dreary tumble-down village where the grass never
grew."
"Oh!" said the girl, "then you were here in our bad time, but we do not now
like to speak of that, for fear our troubles should return. Folks say we
were spell-bound. 'Tis so long ago that I can scarcely remember it, for I
was quite a little child then. But a wandering musician and his wife set us
free; at least, everything began to mend after they came, and now we think
they must have been angels from heaven, for next day they went, and we have
never seen them since."
"It was I and my wife Chrysea," cried Arasmon. "Have you seen her? Has she
been here? I have sought all over the world ever since, but I cannot find
her, and now I fear lest she be dead."
The girl stared at him in surprise. "You? you poor old man! Of what are you
talking? You must surely be mad to say such things. These musicians were
the most beautiful people upon the earth, and they were young and dressed
in shining white and gold, and you are old and gray and ragged, and surely
you are very ill too, for you seem to be so weak that you can scarcely
walk. Come home with me, and I will give you food and rest till you are
better."
Arasmon shook his head. "I am seeking Chrysea," he said, "and I will rest
no more till I have found her;" and the girl, seeing that he was
determined, left him alone and went on her way driving her cows before
her.
When she had gone Arasmon sat by the wayside and wept as though his heart
would break. "It is too true," he said; "I am so old and worn that when I
find her she will not know me," and as he again fell a-weeping his hand
struck the harp-strings, and they cried, "I have watched you through all
these years, my Arasmon. Take comfort, I am very near," and his tears
ceased, and he was soothed by the voice of the harp, though he knew not
why.
Then he rose. "I will go to the moor," he said, "and look for the tree on
which I found my harp, and that will be my last resting-place, for surely
my strength will carry me no farther." So he tottered slowly on, calling,
as he went, in a weak voice, "Chrysea, my Chrysea! are you here? I have
sought you over the world since you left me, and now that I am old and like
to die, I am come to seek you where we parted."
When he came upon the moor, he wondered again at the change of all the
country round. He thought of the charred, blackened waste on which he had
stood before, and now he looked with amazement at the golden gorse, the
purple heather, so thick that he could scarcely pick his way amongst it.
"It is a beautiful place now," he said, "but I liked it better years ago,
deserted and desolate though it was, for my Chrysea was here."
There were so many trees upon the common that he could not tell which was
the one on which his harp had hung, but, unable to go any farther, he
staggered and sank down beneath a large oak-tree, in whose branches a
blackbird was singing most sweetly. The sun was setting just as of yore
when he had found his harp, and most of the birds' songs were over, but
this one bird still sang sweet and clear, and Arasmon, tired and weak
though he was, raised his head and listened.
"I never heard bird sing like that," he said. "What is the tune it sings? I
will play it on my harp before I die." And with what strength remained to
him he reached forth his trembling hand, and grasping his harp struck upon
it the notes of the bird's song, then he fell back exhausted, and his eyes
closed.
At once the harp slid from his hand, and Chrysea stood beside him--Chrysea
dressed as of old, in shining white and gold, with bright hair and eyes.
"Arasmon!" she cried, "see, it is I, Chrysea!" but Arasmon did not move.
Then she raised her voice and sang more sweetly than the bird overhead, and
Arasmon opened his eyes and looked at her.
"Chrysea!" cried he; "I have found my wife Chrysea!" and he laid his head
on her bosom and died. And when Chrysea saw it her heart broke, and she lay
beside him and died without a word.
In the morning when some of the villagers crossed the common they saw
Arasmon and Chrysea lying beneath the oak-tree in each other's arms, and
drew near them, thinking they were asleep, but when they saw their faces
they knew they were dead.
Then an old man stooped and looked at Chrysea, and said,
"Surely it is the woman who came to us and sang long ago, when we were in
our troubles; and, though he is sadly changed and worn, it is like her
husband who played for her singing."
Then came the girl who had driven the cows and told them how she had met
Arasmon, and all he had said to her.
"He searched everywhere for his wife, he said," said she. "I am glad he has
found her. Where could she be?"
"Would that we had known it was he," said they all, "how we would have
greeted him! but see, he looks quite content and as if he wished nothing
more, since he has found his wife Chrysea."
[Illustration]
THE HEART OF PRINCESS JOAN
[Illustration]
Long ago, in the days of fairies, there lived a King and Queen, who were
rich and happy.
But the Queen was a proud, haughty woman, and disliked every one more
powerful than herself. And most of all, she hated the fairy folk, and could
not bear them to come to the castle where she and the King dwelt.
Time passed, and the Queen had a little baby,--a daughter whom they called
Joan--and the bells were rung, and there were great rejoicings all over the
country, and the King and Queen were happy as the day is long.
One day as the Queen sat by the cradle of the little Princess, watching
it, she said, "My pretty babe, when you are grown to be a woman you will be
rich and beautiful, and you shall marry some young Prince, who will love
you dearly, and then in your turn be Queen, and have a fine palace, and
jewels, and lands to your heart's content." Scarcely had she done speaking
when she heard a little noise beside her, and, looking up, saw a woman
dressed in yellow from head to foot standing on the other side of the
cradle. She wore a yellow cap, which covered her head completely, so that
no hair was seen, and her eyes, which looked cunning and fierce, were
yellow as her dress.
"And how do you know, Queen, that your child will be so happy? Whose help
will you seek to get her all these fine things?" said the strange woman.
"I will ask no one's help," said the Queen haughtily, "for I am Queen of
the land, and can have what I please."
The yellow woman laughed, and said, "Don't be too sure, proud Queen; but
the next night that the moon is bright, guard well the Princess when the
clock strikes twelve, lest aught of her's be stolen from her."
"No thief shall come near her," cried the Queen; but ere she had done
speaking the woman had vanished, and the Queen knew it was a fairy.
The sky that night was dark and overcast, and no moon to be seen, and the
next night was the same, but the third night the moon shone bright and
clear, and as the clock struck twelve the Queen awoke and looked at the
baby, who was sleeping peacefully in its cradle; but 'twixt the strokes of
the clock she heard a faint whistling outside the window, which grew louder
and fuller each moment. 'Twas as if some one whistled to decoy away a bird,
and on hearing it the baby awoke and began to cry bitterly. The Queen could
not quiet her, try how she might. At last the little one gave one scream
louder than all the others and then lay quite still, and at that moment the
Queen saw something flutter across the room like a tiny bird, with pink,
soft feathers. It flew straight out of the window, and the whistling
ceased, and all again was quiet as before. The Queen took the baby in her
arms and looked at it anxiously by the light of the moon, but it looked
well and slept calmly, so its mother placed it in its cradle and tried to
forget the yellow fairy and the whistling.
The nurse of the Princess Joan was a very wise old woman who knew a great
deal of fairies and their ways, and as the child grew up she watched her
with an anxious face.
"She is under a charm," she said, "though what it is I don't know; but
before she is a woman they will see how different she is from others."
The nurse's words proved to be true. No one had ever seen a little girl
like the Princess. Nothing troubled her. She never shed one tear. If she
were angry she would stamp her feet and her eyes would flash, but she never
wept, and she loved nobody. When her little dog died she laughed outright;
when the King her father went to the war it did not grieve her; and when he
returned she was no happier than she had been when he was away. She never
kissed her mother, or her ladies, and when they said they loved her, she
stared at them, and asked what they meant. At this the ladies were angry
with her and chid her for being hard-hearted, but the old nurse always
stopped them, saying,
"'Tis not her you should blame. She is enchanted, but 'tis not her fault."
Princess Joan grew up and was the loveliest woman in the land. It was many
long years since any one so fair had been seen, but for all that her mother
mourned over her sorely, and her eyes were red with crying for her
beautiful daughter, who had never yet wept one tear herself.
The neighbouring country was governed by a King and Queen who had only one
son, named Michael, whom everybody loved dearly. He was a handsome young
man, and as good as he was handsome. He was as gracious to the poorest
beggar as to the greatest lord, and all the poor folk came to him to tell
him their troubles, if they thought they were badly treated; and because
he was brave and handsome also, the court people loved him as well as the
peasants.
In this country there stood on a high hill a round tower, and at the top of
it lived an old wizard. No man knew his age, for he had dwelt there for
hundreds of years, and no one knew how the tower had been built, for it was
made of one huge stone, and there were no joins in it at all.
The King and Queen were afraid of the old magician, and never went near
him; indeed, no one in all the country had ever ventured to climb the tower
and see the old man at his work except Prince Michael, who knew the old
sorcerer well and did not fear him at all, but went up and down the tower
as he chose.
One bright moonlight night it chanced that the Prince found himself alone
on the hill-side, and seeing a bright light shining from the top of the
tower he resolved to enter and pay the old man a visit. So he went to a
little door, and pushing it open stepped into a narrow, dark, winding
staircase, that went straight up the centre to the room at the top, in
which the wizard dwelt. The staircase was pitch dark, for there were no
windows. Moreover, it was so narrow that only one person could walk in it
at a time, but Prince Michael knew the way quite well, and climbed and
climbed till he saw a chink of light, and at last trod through a little
doorway into the room in which the sorcerer sat.
This room was as light as day, for it was lit by a lamp which the old man
himself had made, and in which no oil or wick was burning, but every day it
was filled with sunbeams, and held them at night after the sun had set.
So the whole room was brilliant, and in the middle sat the wizard, who was
a wonderful old man to look on, for he was all white. His beard was white
as snow, and from afar you could not tell which was beard and which gown,
but when you came near you saw that the beard flowed nearly to his feet,
and his skin was as white as either beard or gown. And his eyes were quite
colourless, but as bright as two candles.
When Michael entered he sat looking at an enormous book full of coloured
pictures of little men and women about three inches high each. They were
not like other pictures, for they walked and moved over the page as though
they were alive.
"It is I, father. What book are you looking at?" said Michael, stepping up
to the old man's side.
"In this book," said the wizard, "I keep the portraits of all the men and
women in the world, and they are living portraits too, for they move, and
look just like the originals."
"That must be very amusing," cried Michael. "Pray show me the portraits of
all the Kings, and Queens, and Princesses. This will be delightful," and he
knelt down by the old man and looked over his shoulder.
The sorcerer muttered to himself and turned over the pages, and then
stopped at one on which Michael saw little figures of Kings and Queens of
all sorts, some of which he knew, and some of which he had never seen
before.
[Illustration: "'Tis their daughter, Princess Joan," said the wizard with a
sigh. "But do not look at her, my son, for she will bring nothing but
trouble to all who know her."--P. 87.]
"There," he cried, "is old King Réné who came to our court last year, and
that is Queen Constance, and that is their nephew Prince Guilbert, who will
be king when they are dead, and here are our neighbours the King and Queen
of the next country, and oh, my father, who is this lovely Princess next to
them?"
"'Tis their daughter Princess Joan," said the wizard with a sigh. "But do
not look at her, my son, for she will bring nothing but trouble to all who
know her."
"I don't care if she bring trouble or happiness," cried the Prince. "But
for certain she is the most beautiful creature in the world," and he seized
the book and looked long at the tiny figure of the Princess. Truly it was
very beautiful. It was dressed in white, with a golden girdle round the
waist, and a wreath of golden daisies on its head, and as Michael looked,
it turned upon the pages, and smiled at him till he smiled back again, and
could not move his eyes from it.
When the wizard saw this, he took the book from the young man's hands, and
hid it away, saying,
"Think no more of Princess Joan, however beautiful she be, or one day you
will rue it dearly."
Prince Michael made no answer, but he thought all the more of the little
picture of the Princess. After he had left the tower, and returned to the
palace, he could not forget her, but dreamt of her all night, and thought
of her all day.
Next morning he went to the King and said, "My father, I am come to beg
that you will send to the King of the next country and ask if I may have
his daughter, Princess Joan, for my wife, for I have seen her portrait, and
there is no one in the world whom I love so well."
When the King heard this he was delighted.
"Our good neighbours," he said, "are rich and powerful, and it will be a
capital thing for our son to marry their daughter." So he at once sent off
an ambassador to beg for the hand of Princess Joan for Prince Michael.
Joan's father and mother were delighted with the offer, and at once
resolved to accept it; but the Queen's heart sank within her, for she
thought, "Our poor Joan is not like any other maid who ever lived before,
and perhaps when Prince Michael sees her and finds this out, he will refuse
to wed her after all;" but she said nothing of her fears, and the
ambassador returned to the court, loaded with presents, and bearing a
message of acceptance.
Till his return Prince Michael knew no peace or rest, but wandered about
among the hills by himself, thinking of Joan, and still, in his heart, he
wondered what the magician had meant when he said that if he thought much
of Princess Joan, one day he would rue it.
At last he said to himself, "I will disguise myself as a poor man, and go
and see my Princess for myself before the ambassador returns, then shall I
know what the wizard means."
So he dressed himself as a peasant, and started alone without telling any
one whither he went, and he travelled day and night till he came to the
country where Joan dwelt and to her father's palace. Then he walked near
the palace gardens, and no one noticed him, and he saw a group of lovely
ladies, who sat together on the grass.
His heart beat high as he looked at them, for in their midst, most
beautiful of all, sat the Princess Joan. Her yellow hair fell to her waist,
her face was like a blush rose, and her eyes were blue as forget-me-nots,
but when she lifted them, he saw that they were clear and hard as glass,
and her voice when she spoke was like a bright cold bell.
There ran up to her a little serving-maid, crying bitterly, and said,
"I beg of you, Princess, to let me return to my own home for a time, for my
father, the huntsman, has broken his leg and is very ill."
"Why should you cry for that?" said the Princess. "'Tis your father and not
you that is hurt; but you may go, for when you cry and your eyes look red
you are ugly, and I don't like to see you, so be sure that when you return
you are pretty and bright as ever."
When her ladies heard her they looked angry, but no one spoke, and the
little maid went crying away.
Up there came a groom from the palace and said,
"Your Royal Highness, the horse that you rode yesterday is dead, and we
think it is because you would ride so far when it was already tired, as we
told you."
"Dead is it?" cried the Princess. "Then see quickly and get me another,
that I may ride again to-morrow, and be sure this time that it is a good
strong horse, or it may give way beneath me and so my ride be shortened."
The groom went away muttering, and the Princess's ladies looked even graver
than before, but the Princess's own face was bright as a summer sky, and
she talked on without heeding their sad looks.
Prince Michael turned away with a heavy heart.
"The magician spoke truly," he said to himself, "and there will be nothing
but sorrow for all those who love my poor Princess Joan."
Yet he could not bear to leave her and return at once to his own home, and
still he remained near the palace, and for some days watched her
unnoticed, when she walked and rode, and listened to all she said, and each
day he grieved more and more, for she never said one kind loving word to
any one; yet each day when he saw how beautiful she was he loved her more
and more.
When he again returned to his own home he found great rejoicings
everywhere, for the ambassador had returned with a message from Joan's
father promising she should marry the Prince, and everywhere preparations
were being made for the entry of the Princess to her new home.
"And now, my son," said the King, "all is arranged for you to journey in
state to her father's court and bring back your bride, so now I hope that
you are happy and wish for nothing more."
On hearing this Prince Michael's face was sad and grave, and his father and
mother wondered what ailed him. But he said to himself, "I will never marry
my Joan till she loves me as I do her, and how can she ever do that when
she loves no one, not even her own father and mother?"
At the court of Joan's father grand preparations had been made, and all was
in excitement when Prince Michael arrived with servants, and horses, and
presents for the bride.
The King and Queen sat in state to receive him, and beside them was Joan,
and she looked so beautiful, in a dress as blue as her eyes, that every one
said, "How glad he will be when he sees how lovely she is."
There was a blowing of trumpets and ringing of bells when Prince Michael,
followed by his attendants, entered, and the King and Queen and all the
courtiers rose.
He passed up the hall to the thrones on which they sat, and kneeling on one
knee, kissed their hands, and last he kissed the hand of the Princess, but
he did not lift his eyes from the ground or look in her face, and his own
was so sad that the people whispered to each other, and said, "What is the
matter, and why does he look so unhappy? Surely he ought to be content when
he sees how beautiful she is."
At night when the merrymakings were over the Prince sent a message to the
Queen, begging she would speak with him alone, and when she heard this her
heart sank, and she thought, "He must know that there is something amiss
with Joan, and perhaps he comes to say he will not marry her after all."
So she sent every one away, except the old nurse and bid the Prince to
come.
When he came in and saw her sad looks he said, "You have guessed then,
Queen, why I come to speak to you. Tell me truly what ails Princess Joan,
and why is she unlike any one I ever saw." The Queen cried bitterly, and
said, "I know not; would I did!" but the old nurse said,
"I know and will tell you, Prince. Princess Joan is under a spell. A bad
fairy enchanted her when she was a tiny baby, and till this charm is
broken, she will never be like other people."
"And what is the charm?" asked the Prince.
"Nay, that I don't know," said the nurse. Then she told Michael of the
yellow woman and the whistling the Queen had heard at night; and as he
listened the Prince sighed and said, "There is no charm which cannot be
broken if one does but know how, but this is hard to do, for we do not know
what the spell is, or who is the fairy who cast it. But bid the people
cease their preparations, Queen, and stop the wedding rejoicings, for there
will be no wedding. No, not till I have found the fairy who has wronged my
Joan, and made her set her free. To-morrow I shall start at break of day,
and journey to the farthest ends of the world, to search for what can break
the charm. But I pray, Queen, that Joan may wait for me for seven years,
and if, when they are past, I have not returned, and you have heard nothing
of me, you must think that I am dead and gone, and marry her to whom you
will, for if I be alive, I will return before then. And till seven years
are past remember that Joan is still mine."
On hearing this the Queen wept still more, and begged the Prince either to
remain and marry Joan, or to leave her and return to his home and forget
her; but if he wandered away to lands of goblins and fairies, no one would
know what had become of him, and he would never find the fairy who had
charmed Joan or learn how to break the spell; but Prince Michael only shook
his head, and said, "I have sworn that I will not marry Joan till she loves
me as I do her, neither can I return to my home and forget her, so bid her
be ready at dawn to-morrow to bid me farewell, and tell none that I am
going till I have gone. Also I beg you to send a messenger to my father and
mother to tell them why I do not return, for I will not see them first,
lest they too should try to dissuade me." The Queen said no more, but she
cried very bitterly; but the old nurse smiled and nodded to Michael and
said,
"You do well. You are a noble Prince, and would well deserve our Princess's
love."
Next morning at break of day the Queen awoke the Princess and bade her
rise, for Prince Michael waited to bid her good-bye. The Prince stood at
the door of the palace, and when Princess Joan came out looking lovelier
than ever in the dim morning light, the tears filled his eyes, and he
thought, "Most likely I shall never see her again, and then she will never
know how much I have loved her."
"Good-bye, Joan," he said; "do not quite forget me for seven years, for
perhaps I may yet come back and marry you."
"And why do you go?" said Joan; "I had thought there would be a grand
wedding, and I should have all the gifts that are being prepared for me,
and now I shall have nothing; but good-bye, if go you must."
Michael sighed as he mounted his horse and bade her farewell. When he
looked back at the palace, the Queen and Joan still stood at the door, and
the Queen sobbed; but Princess Joan looked quite happy and contented, and
smiled brightly.
Prince Michael rode and rode, till he came to his own home, and then he
turned at once to the tower in which dwelt the magician. He climbed the
tower and found the old man sitting alone as before, but he had no book
before him, and he looked very grave.
"I know why you are come," he said, as soon as Michael entered the room.
"So you have seen Princess Joan; and do you still wish to marry her?"
"I will marry her, or no one," said Michael. "But not till I have found out
who has bewitched her, and have broken the charm."
"You will have to search far for that," said the wizard; "And it may be
years ere you could set her free. Forget her, my son, and return to your
own home, and do not waste your life in a fruitless quest."
"I will seek to break the charm, even if it take my whole life," said
Michael. "But tell me what it is, and how shall I find out how to break
it."
"A fairy has stolen her heart," said the wizard, "and that is why she loves
no one, and can feel no sorrow; she has no heart with which to love or
pity, and till it is found and restored to her, she will be hard and cold
as stone. The fairy swore she would be revenged on her mother for her
pride, and so she is."
"Then I will go and seek her heart, and bring it back to her," said
Michael. "But where shall I look for it? Tell me at least where has the
fairy hidden it."
"She has taken it to a castle in which are kept all the hearts of men and
women, that fairies steal, or that they themselves throw away; and this
castle is very far from here; moreover, it is guarded by an old gnome, who
is spiteful and cruel, and who pays no heed to those who beg him to let
them enter. Give up the Princess and return to your home, for if you go,
you will only die, or be enchanted like poor Princess Joan."
"Nevertheless, I shall go," said Michael. "So tell me what path to take,
and I will start at once."
On hearing this the sorcerer took from his bosom a small round piece of
glass, and gave it to the young man. "Take this," he said; "It is all that
I can give you, to help you, and through it you must look at the stars, and
you will see that they are all of different colours--blue, green, red, and
yellow; look for the one which is the deepest, brightest red, and follow
it; it will lead you many miles both by land and sea, but follow steadily,
and let nothing turn you from your course, and you will surely come to the
castle wherein is imprisoned the heart of your Princess."
The Prince thanked the magician, and took the glass; then bidding him
"Good-bye," he left the strangely lighted chamber, and went down the dark
staircase, and stood again on the hill outside, with the dark sky overhead
filled with shining stars.
Michael raised the glass and looked at them through it, and then he almost
shouted with surprise, for they looked wonderful. They were like jewels of
all colours--green, blue, yellow, pink--and in the south was one of a deep
glowing red, like a blood-red rose, and Michael knew that that was the star
he must follow.
Then he looked back towards his father's palace. "Farewell," he said; "some
day I will return, and bring with me my Princess Joan." So he set off, and
journeyed and journeyed, till he had reached towns and villages which he
had never seen before. All that night he travelled while the stars shone,
and he could see the rosy star to follow. But when the stars grew pale,
and the sun rose, and people began to wake up and turn to their work, he
lay down under a tree and slept soundly. When he woke the day was almost
done, and the sun was sinking. So he went to a little town near and bought
food, and rested till again the stars shone in the sky. Then he rose and
went on all night, still following the crimson star. So passed many days
and nights, and he journeyed through strange lands, and his heart sank when
he thought, "So may I wander all round the world, and come no nearer to the
star, or to the castle where they keep the heart of my poor Joan."
At last he came to the sea-shore, and in front of him lay a great cold sea,
and beyond it he saw no sign of land. But the star shone right over it, and
he knew that he must cross, if he still would follow it. It was in the
evening, the sun had set, but some fishermen still remained on the beach,
resting beside their boats. Michael went up to them, and taking some money
from his pocket, asked for how much they would sell him one of their
boats.
At this the men looked surprised, and one of them said, "Why do you wish to
buy a boat? We use them to fish near the shore, but no boat or ship has
ever crossed this sea, for no one knows what land is beyond."
"Then I will be the first to find out," said Michael. "Tell me how much you
want, and give me your largest boat." On this the men muttered together,
and one said, "He is mad." "Yes," said another, "but his money is good, for
all that. Let the madman have his way. It will hurt him, not us." So they
gave Michael their best boat, and he paid them well, and he set sail and
steered where the red star shone. He sailed all night till he had left
every trace of land behind him, and saw no shore in front, only the cold,
gray sea on every side. By day he kept the boat still, afraid lest he
should get out of the track of the star, but when the second night came he
was so weary that in spite of himself he fell asleep. When he awoke he
found the sun had risen, and his boat was drifting close to land. It was a
flat, lonely shore, without trees or grass growing in sight, and facing
him was an immense castle. It was built of black marble, and a more gloomy
place could not be, for the windows were small and high up, and were all
barred across, with heavy iron bars, and the castle had no spires or
towers, but was one square black block, and looked more like a prison than
a castle. Around it was a high wall, and outside this a moat, without a
bridge.
Michael steered his boat to shore, and stepped from it, and looked about
for some way by which he could cross the moat, and try for entrance to the
castle. Then he saw a little hut near, and beside it lay an old man
apparently fast asleep. He was small and dark, and his face was gray and
wrinkled as a monkey's, and he had no hair on his head. Close beside him
coiled up was a large snake, also asleep. Michael stood watching them both,
afraid to wake them, when, without a word, the gray man raised his head,
and opening a pair of dull, gray eyes, fixed them on him. Still he did not
speak, and at last the Prince, growing impatient, went up to him and said,
"Friend, I beg you to tell me how I am to enter the castle; or if you have
the key, to give it to me."
On this the old man answered, "I have the key, and no one can enter without
my leave. What will you give me for it?"
"Why," said Michael, "I have nothing but money," and he took some coins
from his pocket as he spoke.
At this the old man laughed. "Your money is nothing to me," he said; "But
look yonder. Over there I am building a wall of heavy stones, and I am old,
and my strength fails me; stay and work for me at that wall, and in return
I will give you the key of the castle."
"But how long must I work?" said Michael, "For unless I can enter the
castle before seven years are over, it will be no use to me.
"Look at that serpent," said the old man; "It is sitting on its eggs. When
they are hatched you shall have the key and open the castle door. Till then
you must be my slave."
"Gladly," said Michael, who was delighted; "for no snake could take seven
years hatching its eggs."
Then the old man rose, and beckoning to him to follow, went into the little
cottage. From a nail upon the wall he took a pair of manacles fastened
together by a heavy iron chain. These he slipped over Michael's wrists, and
stooping down over them, muttered a few words, and at once the manacles
fastened together as if they had been locked, and Michael could not move
them, or draw out his hands. Then the old man took down another heavy chain
and passed it over the first and fastened it with more iron rings to his
ankles, so that he could only move his arms and hands a little way, and
could not raise them high, and could only walk with slow careful steps.
This done, he pointed to where, on the wall high up, hung a gleaming golden
sword, the handle of which was set with precious stones.
"That," said he, "is the key of the castle, and you need only push the
doors with its point and they will all fly open; but while your hands are
chained you cannot reach it to lift it down, but when the serpent's eggs
are hatched your iron rings will fall off, and you yourself may take the
sword down from its place, and push your way into the castle. Now get you
to your work, and work hard, or you may rue it."
Then he showed Michael how he was to move the heavy stones, and where to
build with them, and he himself sat down by the serpent and watched him,
while the Prince went to work with a light heart, for he thought, "It is
hard work while it lasts, but 'twill not be for long, and 'tis not much to
do to win my Joan." So he worked hard till the sun had set, and then the
old man rose, saying, "Enough," and called him into the hut and gave him
food and drink, but he ate nothing himself, and then he showed him where he
could sleep in one corner, and Michael lay down and slept soundly and
dreamed of Joan.
At break of day he was waked by the old man, who again gave him plenty to
eat, and again ate nothing, but what he gave to him he took from an urn in
the corner, and when he had done he put into the urn the fragments that
were left.
All day Michael worked hard, and in the evening as he passed by the snake,
he looked at it as it lay coiled over its eggs, and said,
"How soon will your work be done, and mine also, good snake? Make haste, I
pray, that I may find my way into the castle, and return to my Princess."
So the days passed. Each morning the old man awoke Michael and gave him
food, and set him to work, and all day he laboured hard. Then when night
approached, he called "Enough," and beckoning him into the hut, gave him
plenty to eat and drink, but never ate himself, and beside that one word
never spoke, but crouched all day beside the snake, with closed eyes as if
asleep.
Meantime, the doors of the castle never opened, and no one was seen going
in, or coming out; but sometimes, towards night, strange noises might be
heard from within its walls; sometimes there were wails and moans, which it
filled Michael with horror to hear, and sometimes there was sweet singing,
so sweet that it drew tears to his eyes.
But the days passed, and the serpent never moved from its eggs, and
Michael's heart began to be oppressed with fear, lest the old man was
deceiving him, and they should never be hatched at all. As each day passed,
he put aside a stone on a bare rock, and one day when he counted over the
stones to see how many days were gone, he found that more than a year had
passed since his boat had brought him to the shore. His hands had grown
hard and brown and cracked, with working at the heavy stones, and his face
and neck were blistered and sunburnt with the fierce sun that beat upon
them as he worked. His clothes were cut and torn and soiled, and yet he
seemed to be no nearer entering the castle. Then he rose and went into the
cottage, and looked longingly at the sword which hung high up, on the
walls, and raised his arms to try and reach it, but the chains held him
down, and as he turned from it in despair he saw the old man standing in
the doorway watching him with his cold dull eyes.
"What would you do here?" he asked; "have I not bid you serve me till the
serpent's eggs are hatched, and then the sword shall be yours?"
"And when will the serpent's eggs be hatched?" cried Michael in despair.
"That," said the old man, "I cannot tell, but a bargain is a bargain; keep
you your part and I will keep mine." Then he turned again to where the
serpent lay, and lying down beside it closed his eyes, and Michael returned
to his work mournfully.
Time passed, but there came no change. Michael despaired in his heart, but
he could not have escaped even if he would, because of the chains which
hung from his arms.
"I will work here," he said, "till the seven years are out, then I will
climb on the wall which I have built and throw myself into the sea and end
my troubles."
Sometimes at night he would take from his bosom the piece of magic glass
which the wizard had given him and would gaze through it at the star which
still looked a bright crimson colour.
"Why have you led me here, cruel star," he asked sadly, "if you cannot help
me more? Are you shining over my home and my Princess, and does she
remember me? The seven long years will soon be passed, and they will wed
her to another king, and it will be all of no avail that I have given up
everything to find her heart, since I have only broken my own."
So the time passed. Michael worked hard by day, but by night he lay and
wept. One day, when the seven years had nearly worn themselves away, he
bent over a pool of water, and in it saw his own form, and he saw that his
hair was thin and streaked with gray, and his face furrowed and seamed, and
his eyes dim with crying, also his shoulders were bowed with hard work, and
his clothes, once so gorgeous, now hung mere rags upon his bent form.
"Now all is in vain," said he, "for if even I returned to my own home no
one will know me, so changed am I. I will go and kill the snake that has
caused my misery, and then I will slay the old man who has deceived me."
So he went up to the snake, who lay motionless coiled over its eggs as
usual, and reached out his hand to grasp its throat, but as he did so his
tears fell and dropped upon its head, and it writhed fearfully and then
glided away so fast that he could not see where it went, and left the heap
of gray eggs bare beneath his hand. The old man lay beside them as still as
usual, and did not move or open his eyes, even when the snake glided
hissing past him.
"If the snake has escaped me," cried Michael, "then at least I can destroy
the eggs;" and lifting his heel he struck them with all his might, but his
foot left no mark upon them, nor even moved them from their place. They
might have been made of iron, and each one nailed to the ground, so hard
and firm they stood.
Michael burst out weeping afresh. "How foolish I am," he said, "Yes, and
wicked too. It is not the fault of the poor snake that its eggs are not
hatched. Perhaps it is enchanted like me, and waits as patiently for them;"
and he bent his head till his tears fell upon the eggs. No sooner did they
touch them, than the shells broke, and the pieces fell asunder, and from
each egg came a small moving thing, though what it was Michael did not see,
for he leaped to his feet with a shout of joy, which filled the air, and
echoed again from the castle. At this the old man opened his eyes, and
raising himself gazed, as if thunderstruck, with astonishment at the eggs.
"Tis a miracle," he cried, chuckling with joy.
But out of the eggs, there came no one fully formed animal, but from one
egg came a foot, from another a leg, from another a tail, and from one a
head, and each looked as though it belonged to some different beast, yet
all these drew themselves together, and joined so well that the join was
not to be seen. And they made a hideous monster of many colours. Then the
manacles on Michael's wrists burst asunder, and the chains fell to the
ground.
"Now," he cried, "I will go and take for myself the sword from the wall,
and win my way into the castle, and nothing shall hinder me more." And he
turned and rushed into the hut. There, upon the wall hung the shining
sword, and Michael reached out his hand and seized it firmly, and drew it
down from its place.
"I will swear a vow," he cried, "upon this sword, that when I enter the
castle, I will say not one word for good or for ill to any one, save to ask
for what I come to seek, lest I should again be kept for years. Moreover, I
will not taste food or drink, till I have found the heart of my Joan to
take back to her." Then, with the sword in his hand, he passed the old man,
who still sat chuckling over the monster, too busy to heed him, and he went
straight on to the bridgeless moat. It was not wide, and he swam it easily,
and scrambled up the bank by the stone wall. He pushed with the point of
the sword at the gate, and it at once flew open, and he stood in the outer
court. Then he saw a heavy door in the wall of the castle, and went up to
it, nothing fearing, and, on touching it with the sword's point, it too
flew open at once, and he entered.
He stepped into a passage filled with flowers and hung with silken
hangings. He trod upon a velvet carpet, and the air was laden with sweet
scents, and from afar he heard sweet voices singing. He strode on through
another door, and yet another, and at each step he took all things became
lovelier, till at last he passed into a splendid chamber, the like of which
he had never seen before. In the ceiling were precious stones set in
patterns of flowers and crowns, on the walls were soft velvet hangings and
embroideries. The furniture was of carven gold and silver and ivory, and
everywhere grew flowers of wonderful beauty, which sprang from the floor
and crept along the walls, and filled the air with sweet scents, and
hanging on the walls were cages which held what Michael thought were birds,
which sang most sweetly.
On a table in the centre of the room was a banquet all laid ready, and as
Michael looked at it and wondered where he should go farther, a curtain was
drawn aside, and there stepped forth a stately dame dressed in black
velvet, who came smiling towards him and held out her hand, saying, "I am
indeed glad to see you, I am mistress of this castle, and you are very
welcome; but I beg that before you tell me from where you come and what you
seek, you will sit down and share this feast with me." Michael was
beginning to answer, when he felt the sword in his hand, and remembered his
oath, and looking full in the face of the new-comer, said, "I seek the
heart of Princess Joan."
"And you shall find it," answered the grand lady. "But first you must rest
and eat, for you must be both tired and hungry;" and so saying she sat at
one end of the table, and signed to Michael to sit at the other, and took
the golden covers from the dishes, and prepared to begin the feast. Michael
knew not what to do, but he sat at the table in silence, and all at once
bethought him of the magic glass in his bosom, and drawing it forth when
she was not looking, gazed through it at her, and then he beheld no
finely-dressed lady, but a wizened old woman, robed in yellow, with an evil
yellow face and evil yellow eyes. He hid the glass again, and sat still as
stone, though the yellow woman pressed on him the different dishes again
and again. He saw that her face grew white with rage. Then all of a sudden
she disappeared, and the lights went out, and he was left alone in the
darkness. He rose and searched for the door by which he had entered, but
could not find it nor any way out of the room; so there he was, a prisoner
alone with the singing-birds.
"Never mind," quoth he to himself cheerily; "I have at last reached the
inside of the castle, and surely shall find the heart of my Joan, and if I
keep my vow and neither eat nor drink here or say aught but ask for that
which I seek, nothing can harm me."
So he sat down contentedly to wait for what might come. There he sat the
whole night, and no one came near him, but the birds sang so beautifully
that he almost forgot how the time passed.
When morning dawned and light again shone through the windows, he searched
everywhere for some way out of the room, but the door had quite
disappeared. Moreover, the feast had gone from the table. The day passed,
and still he was all alone, and as evening again drew in he sat and
lamented, quite wearied out and faint for want of food. But when the
darkness came, the lamps about the room were suddenly lit as if by magic,
and all was brilliant, and a curtain was drawn aside, and there came in a
little child with bright eyes and hair, who held in one hand a goblet and
in the other a well-filled plate. These she placed before Michael, saying,
"My mistress sends you these, and begs that you will eat and drink, for you
must be both hungry and thirsty;" but Michael pushed away the goblet and
the plate, and said,
"I seek the heart of Princess Joan; I beg you to give it to me."
To this the seeming child answered nothing, but still pressed on him the
food and wine. Then Michael took from his bosom the magic glass and looked
through it, and saw no lovely child, but the same yellow hag with
shrivelled face and evil eyes. With a cry of rage she disappeared, and
though Michael searched everywhere, he could not find the way by which she
went.
Now indeed he began to feel that unless he ate he could not live much
longer, and wept from very weakness.
"Still I will neither eat nor drink," he said, "till I have found what I
came to seek, and the fairy cannot refuse me much longer."
Night passed and day came, and he lay upon a couch quite still, too weak to
move, yet he feared to sleep lest some spell should be thrown upon him.
So he lay all day, and as evening again drew near he began to feel despair,
for he knew that in another day he would be dead of hunger.
"Oh! Why have I toiled for seven years," he cried aloud, "and at last won
my way into the castle, if now I am to be starved to death, and Joan will
never know how I have laboured for her sake?"
"And why should you be starved to death, my Prince?" said a voice; and at
once the lights lit themselves, and into the room stepped the figure of
the Princess Joan just as he had seen her last, dressed in white and gold,
and in one hand bearing a golden goblet filled with clear ruby-coloured
wine.
Michael gave a cry of joy and held out his arms to clasp her in them, but
as he did so the sword sprang as it hung at his side, and he remembered his
vow and drew back and gazed at her without speaking.
She knelt down beside him and raised the goblet to his lips, saying softly,
"My poor love, how long you have worked for me! Pray drink now, that you
may be refreshed ere we two start for our home."
Then as he looked at her face and saw how beautiful she was his heart
wavered, and he thought, "Can it be my Joan, and that I have truly won
her?" and almost had he let her place the wine at his lips, while with one
hand she stroked his hair and murmured to him the while in a soft voice,
when the cup struck against the magic glass in his bosom, and he drew it
forth and looked at her, and he trembled with horror and disgust, for there
he saw no lovely Princess Joan, but the same yellow hag, who held in one
skinny hand a goblet, formed from a skull, from which she would have him
drink.
Michael sprang to his feet and dashed it from him, and the ruby wine poured
on the floor, and there followed an awful noise like a peal of thunder, and
the room was full of smoke, and wild cries were heard.
He grasped the sword and sat still, trembling all over; but when the smoke
cleared away the whole aspect of the room was changed; the silken hangings,
and gold, and pearls, and flowers, were all gone, and he was sitting in a
grim gray chamber like a vault, and in front of him stood the yellow hag,
whose eyes shone spitefully and her lips laughed wickedly; but in one hand
she held what it made Michael rejoice to see. It was a soft pink feathery
thing, with wings, but shaped like a heart, and it trembled and quivered in
her hand.
"Take it," she cried, "for well have you won it. Take it, and tell the
Queen how many years of toil and labour her proud words and boasting have
cost. Then when you see her, from whom it was stolen, let it fly, but
first say over it these words:--
"Heart of Joan
Lost and won
Fly back home,
Thy journey's done.
Take back joy
Take back pain
Heart of Joan,
Fly home again."
and it will fly to her side, and you will see it no more; and now begone."
Michael seized the heart with a cry of joy and exultation, and then turned
and fled from the room through an open iron door, and passed through the
passages, no longer softly carpeted and hung with silk, but dreary and
bare, made of cold stone, down which his foot-steps echoed and clashed.
He hurried from the castle as quickly as might be, and once outside did not
stop to look for the old man or the monster, but swam the moat, and went
straight to where his boat lay moored as he had left it, nearly seven years
before, and never paused till he had rowed so far that the gray castle and
the shore had almost passed from view. At last he came again to the shore
where he had bought his boat of the fishermen, and here he went on land,
and started to walk till he had reached Joan's country, and her father's
castle.
He had no money, and his clothes were rags, his hair was thin and gray, and
his shoulders bent. He looked like a poor beggar, and he had to beg food as
he went, or he would have been starved. Still, he was ready to cry for joy,
because he took with him the little soft heart he had gone so far to find.
He trudged on both day and night, making great haste, for he knew that the
seven years were almost gone, and he was afraid lest already he might be
too late, and find that Joan had married some one else. At last, after many
weary miles, he reached her country, and drew near to the palace where she
lived, and here he found that the people were all decorating their houses,
and making preparations as if for some great festival.
He stopped and begged for food from a woman who stood by a cottage door,
and when she had given him some bread, as he ate it he asked her to tell
him what went on in the country, and why there was such rejoicing.
"It is for the marriage of the King's daughter Joan," said the woman;
"To-morrow she is to be married to old King Lambert, and the wedding will
be very grand, but none of the country folk like it, for he is old and
ugly, and they say he does not love her at all, but only marries her that
he may be king of this country as well as his own. The Queen is in sore
distress about it, and for seven years refused her consent; but they will
be over to-morrow, and so they will be wed, and the guests are already
beginning to arrive at the palace, and each one brings some splendid gift."
"I will be a guest at that wedding," cried Michael; "And I bring the best
gift of all for the bride;" and he hurried on again, not heeding the
woman's scorn and laughter.
When he came to the palace, he found that it was hung with flags, and
arches of flowers were erected in front of it, and grand lords and ladies,
and servants stood at the door to receive the guests who came.
Michael went as near as he dared, afraid lest he should be driven away by
the servants, and then he saw a little foot-page, and he went to him and
said,
"Please tell me where is the Princess Joan, and what she is doing."
"She is sitting with the King and Queen and King Lambert in the state-room,
to receive the guests and accept the presents they bring," said the page.
"I am a guest, and I bring a present for her," cried Michael; "Tell me how
I shall get into the palace that I may give it to her."
On hearing this the page burst out laughing, and told the other servants
what he said. And they were very angry, and seized Michael, and some would
have ducked him in the pond, and some would have taken him before the King,
but they said, "Not now--wait till the wedding is over to-morrow, and then
we will see how he will punish the beggar-man for his impertinence."
So they took him off to a stone tower outside the garden gates and thrust
him into it, and locked the door, and there was only one little window high
up and barred across with bars, and from it he could see the palace and the
gardens.
Then at last he gave way to despair. "Of what avail were all my years of
toil, and for what am I gray and old before my time," he cried, "if after
all, when I have earned that for which I worked so long, I may not give it
to Joan, but must remain a prisoner and see her pass by to marry some one
else?" and he threw himself on the ground and cried aloud.
At night as he lay and mourned, he heard sounds of merrymaking, and music
and laughter from the castle. Sometimes he called out, "Joan! Joan! I am
here--I who have worked for you for years, and brought home your stolen
heart, and now will you wed King Lambert in spite of all?" sometimes he
beat against the bars of the prison window, but all in vain, and at last,
when all sound had ceased from the castle, he lay silent upon the ground,
caring no more for life.
When the sun rose, and there was again a stir without, he got up and looked
from the window, and saw the old nurse who walked by herself in the garden,
and she looked very sad. Then Michael called out, "Do you not know me? You
at least, who bid me go, and praised me then, should remember me now." On
hearing this the old nurse drew near the prison window, and looked at him,
and said, "Who are you, and why are you here? My eyes are old, and my ears
are deaf, but I think I have seen you, and heard your voice before."
"Seven years ago," said Michael, "I too was a bridegroom, who came to wed
your Princess, and for seven long years have I worked, that I might bring
home to her the heart she had not. Go and ask your Queen, why she has
broken her pledge to wait for seven years, till Prince Michael should
return."
"Prince Michael! Is it really Prince Michael?" cried the old nurse
joyfully. "And you come in time, for our Princess is not married yet, and
she must pass by here, on her way to church. So you shall call to her as
she passes by, and speak for yourself."
"Then keep near and tell me when she comes," said Michael, "lest she go by
without seeing me."
Presently the whole castle was astir, and trumpets were sounding, and
clarions ringing. Then when the sun was high, Michael heard the tramping of
horses, and the sound of music, and the old nurse said to him, "Here she
is," and he looked between the bars of the prison window and saw a grand
procession, and his heart gave a bound, for in their midst, in a golden
gown, and seated on a white palfrey, was Princess Joan, and she looked just
as lovely as when he went away seven years before.
On one side of her rode her father and mother, and the Queen's face was
most mournful, and her eyes were red with crying. On the other rode an ugly
old man, whom Michael guessed to be King Lambert, and he smiled and bowed
to the people, but they muttered and grumbled, when they looked at him,
and saw how ugly and wicked, he looked.
When Michael saw them coming, he took from his bosom the little pink heart,
and stroked it fondly as he whispered over it,
"Heart of Joan
Lost and won
Fly back home,
Thy journey's done.
Take back joy
Take back pain
Heart of Joan,
Fly home again;"
and at once it spread its wings and fluttered through the bars of the
prison, and over the heads of the people, who shouted, "Look at the pink
bird!" For a moment it rested at the side of the Princess Joan, and then
disappeared. She gave a scream, and cried,
"My mother! My father! What has happened? Oh see, it is Michael who has
returned!" and ere they could stop her she had turned her palfrey's head
towards the prison window, and pushed her white arms through the bars to
clasp the Prince.
[Illustration: ----and ere they could stop her she had turned her palfrey's
head towards the prison window, and pushed her white arms through the bars
to clasp the Prince."--P. 128.]
"Michael, my love!" she cried, "How gray and worn you are now. How hard you
must have laboured for me through these long years. Now, how shall I pay
you, save by loving you all my life!" and she tried to beat down the bars
of the prison window.
When the people heard her, they cried, "It is Prince Michael, who went
seven years ago, and who we all thought was dead, and he is returned in
time to marry our Princess. Now will we indeed have a wedding, and she
shall marry the Prince who has toiled so long for her;" and King and Queen
and people laughed for joy. 'Twas in vain for King Lambert to rage, and cry
that the Princess was betrothed to him.
"Nay!" said the Queen, "She has been pledged to Prince Michael for seven
years. We are grieved for your sake, King Lambert, but we cannot break our
royal word."
Then the people burst into the prison and brought out Michael, all torn and
gray as he was, and Princess Joan kissed him before them all, and begged
that he would marry her at once, that every one might see how well she
loved him and how grateful she was. So they brought a fine white horse with
a grand gold saddle, and jewelled bridle, and placed Michael upon it, and
he rode to church beside the Princess, and married her, and the people
threw flowers before them, and bells rang and trumpets sounded, and all
were glad.
And when it was done Michael was dressed in purple and gold, and messengers
were sent to his father and mother and the old wizard, that they might come
and see how he had come home victorious, and rejoicings filled the whole
country.
"For now we are sure of a good King," the people said. "See, he has already
shown what he can do. Surely no one else could ever have found the heart of
Princess Joan."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Good-day, friend," said he. "If you have nothing to do,
perhaps you would not mind carrying my load for me for a little."--P.
131.]
THE PEDLAR'S PACK
[Illustration]
A pedlar was toiling along a dusty road carrying his pack on his back, when
he saw a donkey grazing by the wayside.
"Good-day, friend," said he. "If you have nothing to do, perhaps you would
not mind carrying my load for me for a little."
"If I do so, what will you give me?" said the donkey.
"I will give you two pieces of gold," said the pedlar, but he did not speak
the truth, for he knew he had no gold to give.
"Agreed," said the donkey. So they journeyed on together in a very
friendly manner, the donkey carrying the pedlar's pack, and the pedlar
walking by his side. After a time they met a raven, who was looking for
worms in the roadside, and the donkey called out to him,
"Good-morrow, black friend. If you are going our way, you would do well to
sit upon my back and drive away the flies, which worry me sadly."
"And what will you pay me to do this?" asked the raven.
"Money is no object to me," said the donkey, "so I will give you three
pieces of gold." And he too knew he was making a false promise, for he had
no gold at all to give.
"Agreed," said the raven. So they went on in high good humour, the donkey
carrying the pedlar's wares, and the raven sitting on the donkey's back
driving away the flies.
After a time they met a hedge-sparrow, and the raven called out to it,
"Good-day, little cousin. Do you want to earn a little money? If so, bring
me some worms from the bank as we go along, for I had no breakfast, and am
very hungry."
"What will you give me for it?" asked the hedge-sparrow.
"Let us say four pieces of gold," said the raven grandly; "for I have saved
more during my long life than I know how to spend." But he knew this was
not true, for he had not saved any gold at all.
"Very well," said the hedge-sparrow, and so on they went, the donkey
carrying the pedlar's pack, and the raven keeping the flies away from the
donkey, and the hedge-sparrow bringing worms to the raven.
Presently they saw in the distance a good-sized town, and the pedlar took
out from his pack, some shawls and stuffs and hung them over the donkey's
back that the passers-by might see, and buy if they were so disposed. On
the top of the other goods lay a small scarlet blanket, and when he saw it
the hedge-sparrow said to the pedlar,
"What will you take for that little blanket? It seems to be a good one.
Name your price and you shall have it whatever it is, for I am badly in
want of a blanket just now;" but as the hedge-sparrow had not a penny in
the world, he knew he could not pay for it.
"The price of the blanket is five pieces of gold," said the pedlar.
"That seems to me to be very dear," said the hedge-sparrow. "I don't mind
giving you four pieces of gold for it, but five is too much."
"Agreed," said the pedlar, and he chuckled to himself and thought, "Now I
shall be able to pay the donkey, otherwise I might have had some trouble in
getting rid of him."
The hedge-sparrow flew to the raven's side and whispered in his ear,
"Please to pay me the four pieces of gold you owe me, for we are coming to
a town, and I must be turning back."
"Four pieces of gold is really too much for bringing a few worms," said the
raven. "It is absurd to expect such payment, but I will give you three, and
you shall have them almost immediately," and he bent down over the donkey's
ear and whispered,
"My friend, it is time you paid me the three pieces of gold which you
promised, for the pedlar will stop at this town, and you will not have to
go farther with him."
"On thinking it over," said the donkey, "I have come to the conclusion that
three pieces of gold are really a great deal too much to give for having a
few flies driven away. You must have known that I was only joking when I
said it, but I will let you have two, though I consider that it is much
more than the job was worth;" and the donkey turned again to the pedlar,
saying, "Now, good sir, your two pieces of gold, if you please."
"In a moment," said the pedlar, and turning to the hedge-sparrow, said, "I
really must have the money for the blanket at once."
"So you shall," answered the hedge-sparrow, and cried angrily to the raven,
"I want my money now, and cannot wait."
"In an instant," answered the raven, and again whispered to the donkey,
"Why can't you pay me honestly? I should be ashamed of trying to slip out
of my debts in such a way."
"I won't keep you waiting a second," said the donkey, and he turned once
more to the pedlar and cried, "Come, give me my money. For shame! a man
like you trying to cheat a poor beast like me."
Then the pedlar said to the hedge-sparrow, "Pay me for my blanket, or I'll
wring your neck."
And the hedge-sparrow cried to the raven, "Give me my money or I'll peck
out your eyes."
And the raven croaked to the donkey, "If you don't pay me, I'll bite off
your tail."
And the donkey again cried to the pedlar, "You dishonest wretch, pay me my
money or I'll kick you soundly."
And they made such an uproar outside the walls of the town, that the beadle
came out to see what it was all about. Each turned to him and began to
complain of the other loudly.
"You are a set of rogues and vagabonds," said the beadle, "and you shall
all come before the mayor, and he'll settle your quarrels pretty quickly,
and treat you as you deserve."
At this they all begged to be allowed to go away, each one saying he did
not care about being paid at all. But the beadle would not listen to them,
and led them straight away to the market-place, where the mayor sat judging
the people.
"Now, whom have we here?" cried he. "A pedlar, a donkey, a raven, and a
hedge-sparrow. A set of worthless vagabonds, I'll be bound! Let us hear
what they have to say for themselves."
On this the pedlar began to complain of the hedge-sparrow, and the
hedge-sparrow of the raven, and the raven of the donkey, and the donkey of
the pedlar.
The mayor did not heed them much, but he eyed the pedlar's pack, and at
length interrupted them, and said,
"I am convinced that you are a set of good-for-nothing fellows, and one is
quite as bad as the other, so I order that the pedlar be locked up in the
prison, that the donkey be soundly well thrashed, and that the raven and
the hedge-sparrow both have their tail-feathers pulled out, and then be
turned out of the town. As for the blanket, it seems to me to be the only
good thing in the whole matter, and as I cannot allow you to keep the cause
of such a disturbance, I will take it for myself. Beadle, lead the
prisoners away."
So the beadle did as he was told, and the pedlar was locked up for many
days in the prison.
"It is very sad to think to what straits an honest man may be brought," he
sighed to himself as he sat lamenting his hard fate. "In future this will
be a warning to me to keep clear of hedge-sparrows. If the hedge-sparrow
had paid me as he ought, I should not be here now."
Meantime the donkey was being soundly well thrashed, and after each blow he
cried,
"Alas! alas! See what comes to an innocent quadruped for having to do with
human beings. Had the pedlar given me the money he owed, I should not now
be beaten thus. In future I will never make a bargain with men."
The raven and the hedge-sparrow hopped out of the town by different roads,
and both were very sad, for they had lost all their tail feathers, which
the beadle had pulled out.
"Alas!" croaked the raven, "my fate is indeed a hard one. But it serves me
right for trusting a donkey who goes on his feet and cannot fly. It is
truly a warning to me never again to trust anything without a beak."
The hedge-sparrow was quite crestfallen, and could scarcely keep from
tears. "It all comes of my being so taken in by that raven," he sighed.
"But I should have known that these large birds are never honest. In future
I will be wise, and never make a bargain with anything bigger or stronger
than myself."
[Illustration]
THE BREAD OF DISCONTENT
[Illustration]
Once there was a baker who had a very bad, violent temper, and whenever a
batch of bread was spoiled he flew into such a rage, that his wife and
daughters dared not go near him. One day it happened that all his bread was
burnt, and on this he stamped and raved with anger. He threw the loaves all
about the floor, when one, burnt blacker than the rest, broke in half, and
out of it crept a tiny thin black man, no thicker than an eel, with long
arms and legs.
"What are you making all this fuss about, Master Baker?" said he. "If you
will give me a home in your oven I will see to the baking of your bread,
and will answer for it that you shall never have so much as a loaf
spoiled."
[Illustration: "If you will give me a home in your oven I will see to the
baking of your bread, and will answer for it that you shall never have so
much as a loaf spoiled."--P. 141.]
"And pray what sort of bread would it be, if you were in the oven, and
helped to bake it?" said the baker; "I think my customers might not like to
eat it."
"On the contrary," said the imp, "they would like it exceedingly. It is
true that it would make them rather unhappy, but that will not hurt you, as
you need not eat it yourself."
"Why should it make them unhappy?" said the baker. "If it is good bread it
won't do any one harm, and if it is bad they won't buy it."
"It will taste very good," replied the imp, "but it will make all who eat
it discontented, and they will think themselves very unfortunate whether
they are so or no; but this will not do you any harm, and I promise you
that you shall sell as much as you wish."
"Agreed!" said the baker. So the little imp crept into the oven and curled
himself into the darkness behind, and the baker saw no more of him.
But next day he made a great batch of bread, and though he took no heed of
the time when he put it in, and drew it out, just as he wanted it, it was
done quite right--neither too dark nor too light--and the baker was in high
good humour.
The first person who tasted the bread was the chief justice. He came down
to breakfast in high spirits, for he had just heard that an old aunt was
dead, and had left him a great deal of money. So he kissed his wife and
chucked his daughters under the chin, and told them that he had good news
for them. His old aunt had left him twenty thousand pounds in her will. On
this his wife clapped her hands for joy, and his daughters ran to him and
kissed him, and begged him to let them have some of it. So they all sat
down to breakfast in great glee, but no sooner had the justice tasted the
bread than his face fell.
"This is excellent bread," he said, taking a large slice; "I wish
everything else were as good;" and he heaved a deep sigh.
"Why?" cried his wife, who had not yet begun to eat. "This morning, I am
sure, there is nothing for you to complain of."
"Nay!" said the mayor; "it is very nice to have twenty thousand pounds, but
think how much nicer it would have been if it had been thirty. How much
more one could have done with that! Or even if it had been twenty-five
thousand pounds, or even twenty-one. Twenty-one thousand pounds is a very
nice sum of money, but twenty thousand pounds is no good at all. I am not
sure that it would not be better not to have had any."
"Nonsense!" cried his wife, who was now eating her breakfast also; "you are
very wicked to be so discontented; but one thing I do say. It would have
been much nicer if we had had it when we were young and better able to
enjoy it. Money is very little use to people at our time of life. It would
have been really nice if we had had it fifteen years ago. As it is, I can't
say I care much for it, and it makes me sad to think we did not get it
before."
"Nay," cried the daughters; "in that case how much better it would have
been for us to have it instead of you; we are young, and able to enjoy
ourselves, and we could have given you a little of it if you'd liked, but
we could have been very happy with the rest; as it is, it is no pleasure to
us."
So they fell to quarrelling about the money, and by the time breakfast was
done, they all had tears in their eyes, and felt discontented and unhappy.
The next person to eat the bread was the village doctor. All night long he
had been sitting up with a man who had broken his leg, and he had feared
lest he should die, but as morning came he saw he would live, so he
returned home to his wife in very good spirits, although he was sadly
tired. The wife had already had her breakfast, but she had made all ready
for her husband, with a loaf of the baker's new bread.
"See, dear husband," she said, "here is your breakfast, and some nice bread
quite new, because I know you like it. How glad we ought to be, that this
poor man is likely to live."
"Yes, indeed," said the doctor; "being up all night is tiring work, but I
don't grudge it when I know that it does some good," and then he began to
eat. "I am not sure, after all, that I have done such a good thing in
curing this man. It is true that his broken leg hurt him very much, but
perhaps when he is well again, he may break his back, and that would be
much worse. Perhaps I had better have left him to die. I daresay when he is
quite well, all kinds of misfortunes will befall him; I had much better
have let him alone."
"Why," cried his wife in surprise, "what are you saying, husband? Are you
not a doctor, and is it not your business to cure people? And when you
succeed ought you not to be glad?"
"I wish I were not a doctor," said the husband, sighing. "It would be much
better if there were no doctors at all;" and he sat and lamented, and
nothing his wife could say, could cheer him.
In a pretty little cottage near the doctor's house lived a young couple,
who were newly married, and were as happy as the day was long. Their
cottage was covered with roses, and filled with pretty things, and they
had everything their hearts could desire. This morning they both came down
smiling and happy, and the young wife kissed her husband, and sang for joy.
So they sat down to breakfast, chattering like two birds in a nest; but no
sooner had the husband tasted the bread than his face fell, and he was
silent for a time; then he said,
"It is a very terrible thing to think how happy we are, for it cannot last.
Something melancholy is sure to happen to us, and till it comes we shall
live in dread of it; for we know happiness never lasts, and this is a
thought that makes me very sad."
The wife had now also taken some bread.
"What is this you are saying?" she said. "How can you think such dreadful
things? I do not like you when you talk like that; and I think it is very
hard for me to be married to a man who wants to be unhappy."
"The best thing we can hope for," said the husband, sighing, "is for some
great misfortune to befall us; then we should be all right, for we should
know then, that we knew the worst that could come. As it is we shall live
in suspense all our days."
"Now," cried his wife, "I am indeed unfortunate. What could be worse than
to have a husband who does not like being happy? I wish I had married some
one else; or indeed had no husband at all."
So both began to grumble, and at last to quarrel, and finally both were
crying with anger.
Not far out of the village was a large pleasant farmhouse, standing amongst
fields, and the farmer was a hale, bright man, with a good wife and pretty
children. He was very busy just now getting in the corn, for it was autumn,
and he stood among his men, directing them as they worked in the fields. He
had not had time to have a proper breakfast before going to work, but his
wife sent some out to him with some of the baker's new bread, and he sat
down under a tree to eat it. As he did so he looked up at the farmhouse,
and thought, with pride, that it was the largest farm in all the country
round, and that it had belonged to his father, and his grandfather, and
his great-grandfather, before him.
"'Tis a fine old house, for sure," thought he, as he took a large piece of
bread, "'Tis so well built and strong;" but no sooner had he swallowed a
mouthful than his thoughts changed.
"What should I do if it were to fall down and crush me some day," he said
to himself. "After all, 'tis only built of brick, and might tumble any day.
How much stronger it would have been if it had been built of stone. Then it
would not have been nearly so likely to give way. Really when my
great-grandfather built it he should have thought of this. How selfish all
men are;" and he became quite unhappy lest his house should fall, and
lamented while he ate.
In the kitchen the farmer's wife was very busy cooking and cleaning, and
scarcely stopped to eat till near mid-day. Then she took up a piece of
bread and cheese, and leant against the window as she ate it, that she
might watch for her eldest girl and boy, Janey and Jimmy, who would now be
returning from school.
"Our baker really bakes very decent bread," said she; "'tis almost as good
as my own;" and she went on eating till she saw her two children coming
through the fields together.
"Here they come," said she; "How bonny they look. Really I ought to be very
proud of them. I don't know which is the prettier, Janey or Jimmy, but 'tis
a pity, for sure, that Janey is the eldest. It would be much better if
Jimmy were older than she. 'Tis a bad thing for the sister to be older than
the brother. Now, if he were her age, and she were his, that would be
really nice, for then he could take care of her and see after her; but, as
it is, she will try to direct him, and boys never like to obey their
sisters; I really almost think I had better not have had any children at
all," and the tears filled her eyes, and when her girl and boy ran in to
her, her face was very sad, and she seemed to be scarcely glad to see them.
So things went on all over the village. Each one as he tasted the bread
grew discontented and angry, till at last all the people went about
grumbling and complaining, or else shedding tears outright. Only the baker
himself was cheerful and merry, and sang as he kneaded his dough, and sold
it to his customers with a light heart, for his trade had never been so
good. Every atom of bread he made was sold at once, so he cared not one
whit for the trouble of the other people, and laughed to himself when he
heard them complaining, and thought of the words of the dark little elf.
One day as he stood kneading at the door and whistling to himself, the
doctor walked past and looked angrily at him.
"What on earth are you making that whistling for?" he asked. "I declare one
would think that you were as happy as a man could be."
"And so I am," said the baker, "And so I should think were you too, for you
have nothing to trouble you."
"Nothing to trouble me, forsooth!" cried the doctor in a rage. "How dare
you insult me in this way? I tell you what it is, my fine fellow, I think
you are very impertinent, and if I have any more of your impudence I will
take my stick and thrash you soundly. It really is not to be borne, that
one man should be allowed to tell another that he has nothing to complain
of."
"Nay, _you_ can have as much to complain of as you like, so long as I have
not," cried the baker, and he laughed loudly. This only made the doctor
angrier still, and he was just going to seize the baker when up came the
farmer.
"Was there ever such a village as this?" he cried. "It is not fit for any
one to live in, there is always such fighting and quarrelling going on.
What is the matter here?"
"Matter enough," cried the doctor. "Here is a fellow dares to tell me I
have nothing to complain of, nor he either."
"This is monstrous!" said the farmer; "he deserves to be hung. How dares he
say such a thing on such a wretched day as this, with such a blue sky and
such a bright sun?"
"Why, Master Farmer," cried the baker, "yesterday you grumbled because it
was raining, and now you grumble because it is fine."
"And I tell you that it is enough to make one grumble," said the farmer.
"It should have been fair yesterday, and should have rained to-day. You
ought to be ashamed of such talk, Master Baker, and I think it would serve
you justly right if we took you before the Justice and let us see what he
thinks of your conduct."
"Nay!" cried the baker, beginning to be frightened, "what have I done that
I am to be taken before the Justice?"
"What have you done, indeed!" said the doctor. "We will see if the Justice
cannot find that out pretty quickly." So they seized the baker and dragged
him away in spite of himself, and as they pulled him through the village
the people thronged about them, and followed till there was quite a large
crowd.
The Justice sat at his door smoking a pipe, with tears in his eyes.
"Now what is all this uproar for?" cried he. "Am I never to be left in
peace? How hard is the life of a Justice!" but he got up and came out on
the steps to meet them.
"See here," cried the doctor; "here is a man who says he has nothing to
complain of, and we have brought him to you, to know if he is to be
punished, or to be allowed to go on talking like this."
"Certainly not," cried the Justice, "or we shall soon have the whole
village in an uproar. Let him be taken to the market-place, and I will
order that he be publicly flogged by the soldiers."
At this the poor baker burst out crying, and entreated to be let off,
saying that now indeed he had plenty to complain of, but at this the
justice was angrier still. "Then," said he, "you certainly deserve to be
flogged for having told an untruth before, when you said you had not. Take
him away, and do as I bid."
So they dragged the baker off to the market-place, and made a ring round
him, so that he could not escape, and then there came down two or three
soldiers with ropes in their hands, and they seized him, and began to beat
him before all the crowd.
But by this time all the people were so enraged against him, that a number
of them cried, "Let us go to his house and pull it down." So off they ran
to the baker's house, and broke the windows and knocked about the
furniture, and then some of them fell on the oven, and wrenched off the
door, and others seized the pokers and tongs, and smashed in its sides, and
in the hurry and scuffle, the little dark man crept out of the oven and
scuttled away unseen by any one. But no sooner had he gone than a great
change came across the people.
The soldiers on the green stopped beating the baker, and looked at each
other aghast, and the Justice called out,
"Stop! What is all this uproar about? And what has this man done that you
are beating him without my orders?" and the people in the crowd whispered
to each other; "It is true,--what has he done?" and they slunk away,
looking ashamed.
The Justice also at first looked somewhat ashamed of himself, but he drew
himself up, and looking very important, said, "There, my man, you are
forgiven for this once, and now go your way, and see that you behave better
in future;" and then he walked away with much dignity.
So the baker was left alone in the market-place, and he cried for rage and
pain.
"This all comes of the oven imp," cried he, as he limped home. "Directly I
get home I will drive him out of my oven, and away from my house. Better to
have a hundred batches of bread spoiled than to be flogged for saying one
is happy." But when he reached his house the little dark man was nowhere to
be found; there was nought but the broken oven with its sides battered in.
The baker mended the oven, and from that time forth his bread was just like
other people's; but for all that he had learnt to be quite contented, for
now he knew that there were worse things than having his loaves burnt
black, and he was only too well pleased to take his chance with other
people, without the help of fairy folk. As for the little black imp, he was
never heard of more, and the people in the village soon recovered their
good humour, and were just as happy and contented as they had been before
they tasted the bread of discontent.
[Illustration]
YE THREE CLEVER KINGS
[Illustration]
Old King Roland lay upon his death-bed, and as he had no son to reign after
him he sent for his three nephews, Aldovrand, Aldebert, and Alderete, and
addressed them as follows:--
"My dear nephews, I feel that my days are now drawing to an end, and one of
you will have to be King when I am dead. But there is no pleasure in being
King. My people have been difficult to govern and never content with what I
did for them, so that my life has been a hard one, and though I have
watched you all closely, still I know not, which is most fit to wear the
crown; so my wish is that you should each try it in turn. You, Aldovrand,
as you are the oldest, shall be King first, and if you reign happily, all
well and good; but if you fail, let Aldebert take your place; and if he
fail, let him give it up to Alderete, and then you will know which is the
best fitted to govern."
On this the three young men all thanked their uncle, and each one declared
that he would do his best, and soon after old King Roland died and was
buried with great state and ceremony.
So now Aldovrand was to be King, and he was crowned, and there were great
rejoicings everywhere.
"'Tis a fine thing to be King," cried he in much glee; "Now I can amuse
myself and do just as I please, and there will be no one to stop me, and I
will lie in bed as late as I like in the morning, for who dares blame one,
if one is King?"
Next morning the Prime Minister and the Chancellor came to the palace to
see the new King and settle affairs of state, but they were told that his
majesty was in bed and had given orders that no one should disturb him.
"This is a bad beginning," sighed the Prime Minister.
"Very bad," echoed the Chancellor.
When they came back to the palace later in the day the King was playing at
battledore and shuttlecock with some of his gentlemen, and was very angry
at being interrupted in his game.
"A pretty thing," he cried, "That I the King am to be sent for hither and
thither as if I were a lacquey. They must go away and come another time;"
and on hearing this the Prime Minister and Chancellor looked graver still.
But next morning there came the Commander-in-Chief and the Lord High
Admiral, as well as the Prime Minister and the Chancellor, all wanting to
have an audience with the King, and as he was not out of bed and they could
not wait any longer, they all stood outside his bedroom door, and knocked
to gain admittance, and at last he came out in a towering rage, and
throwing them his crown, cried,
"Here, let one of my cousins be King, for I will not bear this longer. It
is much more trouble than it is worth, so Aldebert or Alderete may try it
and see how they like it, but as for me, I have had enough of it," and he
ran downstairs and out of the palace door, leaving the Prime Minister and
the Chancellor and the General and Admiral staring at each other in dismay.
Aldovrand walked out of the town unnoticed, and turned towards the country,
whistling cheerily to himself. When he had gone some way in the fields, he
came to a farmhouse, and in a meadow near, the farmer stood talking to his
men. Aldovrand went straight up to him, and, touching his hat, asked if he
could give him any work.
"Work?" cried the farmer, little thinking he was talking to his late king.
"Why, what sort of work can you do?"
"Well," said Aldovrand, "I am not very fond of running about, but if you
want any one to mind your sheep, or keep the birds from your corn, I could
do that nicely."
"I tell you what you can do if you like," said the farmer. "I am wanting a
goose-boy to take care of my geese. See, there they are on the common. All
you will have to do is to see that they don't stray away, and to drive them
in at night."
"That will suit me exactly," cried Aldovrand. "I will begin at once;" and
he went straight on to the common, and when he had collected the geese
together lay down to watch them in high good humour.
"This is capital," he cried, "and much better than being King at the
palace. Here there is no Prime Minister or Chancellor to come worrying;"
and he lay watching the geese all day very contentedly.
When the Prime Minister and the Chancellor knew that Aldovrand was really
gone, they went in a great hurry to Aldebert to tell him that it was his
turn to be King. But when he heard how his cousin had run away, he looked
frightened.
"I will do my best," quoth he; "but I really know very little about the
matter. However, you must tell me, and I will do whatever you direct."
At hearing this the Prime Minister and the Chancellor were delighted.
"Now we have got the right sort of King," they said; and both wagged their
heads with joy.
So King Aldebert was crowned, and there were great rejoicings all over the
country.
Early next morning he was up all ready to receive his Ministers, and first
came the Prime Minister.
"Your Majesty," said he, "I come to you on an affair of much importance. A
great part of our city is falling down, and it is very necessary that we
should rebuild it at once. If you will command it, therefore, I will see
that it is done."
"I have no doubt you are right," said the King; "pray let them begin
building at once;" and the Prime Minister went away delighted.
Scarcely had he gone when in came the Commander-in-Chief.
"Your Majesty," said he, "I wish to lay before you the state of our army.
Our soldiers have had a great deal of fighting to do lately, and are
beginning to be discontented, but the late King, your uncle, would never
attend to their wants."
"Pray do what you like," said King Aldebert.
"To satisfy them," said the Commander-in-Chief, "I think that we should
double their pay. This would keep them in a good humour, and all will go
well."
"By all means, that will certainly be the best way," said Aldebert. "Let it
be given to them at once;" and on hearing this, the Commander-in-Chief went
away right merrily.
When he had gone, there came in the Chancellor with a long face.
"Your Majesty," he said, "I have this morning been to the treasury, and I
find that there is scarcely any money left. The late King, your uncle,
spent so much in spite of all I could say, that now it is almost all gone.
Your Majesty must now save all you can for the next year or two, and you
ought also to lower the soldiers' pay, and stop all public works."
"I have no doubt you are quite right," cried the King. "You know best, let
it be done as you wish."
But next morning in came the Prime Minister with a frowning face. "How is
this, your Majesty?" cried he. "Just as we are beginning our buildings, the
Chancellor comes and tells us that we are not to have any money to build
with." He had not done speaking when the Commander-in-Chief burst into the
room unable to conceal his rage.
"Yesterday your Majesty told me that all the soldiers should have double
pay, and this morning I hear, that instead of that, their wages are to be
lowered!" Here he was interrupted by the Chancellor, who came running in
looking much excited,
"Your Majesty," he cried, "did you not yesterday say we were now to begin
saving, and that I was not to allow any more money to be spent, and that
the army must do with less pay?"
And then all three began to quarrel among themselves. When he saw how angry
they were, King Aldebert took off his crown and said, "I am sure you are
each of you quite right; but I think I am scarcely fit to be a King. Indeed
I think you had better find my cousin Alderete, and let him be crowned, and
I will seek my fortune elsewhere." And he had slipped out of the room, and
run downstairs and out of the palace, before they could stop him.
He went briskly down the highroad into the country, the same way that
Aldovrand had gone.
After he had gone some way, he met a travelling tinker who sat by the
roadside mending tin cans, with his little fire at his side.
Aldebert stood watching him, and at last said, "How cleverly you mend those
holes! You must lead a pleasant life, going from house to house in the
green lanes mending wares. Do you think I could learn how to do it if you
would teach me?"
The tinker, who was an old man, looked at him and said,
"Well, I don't mind giving you a trial if you like to come with me, for I
want a strong young man sometimes to help me wheel my little cart, and
I'll teach you my trade, and we'll see what you can make of it."
So Aldebert was delighted, and went with the tinker.
When they knew he was really gone the Prime Minister and the Chancellor
looked at each other in dismay.
"This will never do," cried they; "we must go at once to Prince Alderete;
and let us hope he may do better than his cousins."
When Prince Alderete heard that it was his turn to reign he jumped for joy.
"Now," cried he, "at last I will show what a king should really be like. My
cousins were neither of them any good, but they shall now see how different
I will be."
So he was crowned, and again there were great rejoicings all over the
country.
Next day he sat in state to receive the Chancellor and Prime Minister and
hear what they had to say.
"My friends," said he to them, "a good King ought to be like a father to
his people, and this is what I mean to be. I mean to arrange everything
for them myself, and if they will only obey me, and do as I direct, they
are sure to be both prosperous and happy."
On hearing this both Prime Minister and Chancellor looked anxious, and the
Chancellor said,
"I fear, your Majesty, your people will not like to be too much meddled
with." At this the King was very angry, and bid them see about their own
business, and not presume to teach him his.
When they had gone he went to take a drive in his city, that he might see
it and know it well; but directly he returned to the palace he sent for the
Prime Minister, and when he had arrived, said,
"I already see much to be altered in my kingdom. I do not like the houses
in which many of the people dwell, nor indeed the dresses they wear; but
what strikes me most of all is, that wherever I go I smell a strong smell
of pea soup. Now, nothing is so unwholesome as pea soup, and therefore it
would not be right in me to allow the people to go on eating it. I
command, therefore, that no one shall again make, or eat pea soup, within
my realm on pain of death."
Again the Prime Minister looked very grave, and began to say,
"Your Majesty, your subjects will surely not like to be hindered from
eating and drinking what pleases them!" But the King cried out in a rage,
"Go at once and do as I bid you." So the Prime Minister had to obey.
Early next morning when the King arose he heard a great hubbub under his
window, and when he went to see what it was, he saw a vast mob of people
all shouting, "The King, the King! Where is this King who would dictate to
us what we shall eat and drink?"
When he saw them he was terribly frightened, and at once sent off for the
Prime Minister and Chancellor to come to his aid.
"Pray go and tell them to eat what they like," he cried when they arrived;
"But, do you know, I find it will not at all suit me to be King. You had
best try Aldovrand, or Aldebert, again;" and, so saying, he took off his
crown and laid it down, and slipped away out of the palace before either
Prime Minister or Chancellor could stop him.
He went out of the back door, and ran, and ran, and ran, till he had left
the town far behind, and came to the country fields and lanes--the same way
that his two cousins had gone; and as he went he met a sweep trudging along
carrying his long brooms over his shoulder.
"My friend," cried Alderete, stopping him, "Of all things in the world I
should like to be a sweep and learn how to sweep chimneys. May I go with
you, and will you teach me your trade?"
The sweep looked surprised, but said, "Yes, Alderete could go with him if
he chose, and as he was now going on to the farmhouses, on the road, to
sweep the chimneys, he could begin at once." So Alderete went with the
sweep, carrying some of his brooms for him.
After a time the people outside the palace grew quiet, when they heard that
the King would not interfere with them further. And when all was again
still, the Prime Minister and Chancellor went to seek the King, but he was
nowhere to be found in the palace.
"This will never do," cried they. "We must have a King somehow, so we had
best have back one of the others." So they started to look for Aldovrand or
Aldebert.
They sought them all over the city, and at last they came into the same
country road down which the three cousins had gone, and there they saw
Aldovrand lying in a meadow watching his flock of geese.
"Good day, my friends," cried he when he saw them; "And how are things
going on at the palace? I hope my cousins like reigning better than I did.
Now, here I lie peacefully all day long and watch my geese, and it is much
nicer than being King."
Then the Prime Minister and Chancellor told him all that had happened, and
begged that he would come back with them to the palace again, but at this
Aldovrand laughed outright.
[Illustration: "Now, here I lie peacefully all day long and watch my geese,
and it is much nicer than being King."--P. 170.]
"No indeed!" cried he, "I would not be King again for any man living. You
had best go and seek my cousin Aldebert, and ask him. I saw him go down the
road with a tinker, helping him to mend his tins. So go and ask him, and
leave me to mind my geese in peace."
So the Prime Minister, and the Chancellor had to seek still farther.
They trudged on and on, till at last they met Aldebert, who sat by the side
of the road mending a tin kettle, and whistling cheerily.
"Heyday, whom have we here?" cried he. "The Prime Minister and the
Chancellor! And I am right glad to see you both. See how clever I have
grown; I am learning to be a tinker, and I mended that hole all myself."
Then the Prime Minister and Chancellor begged him to leave his pots, and
come back to the palace and be King, but he fell to work again, harder than
ever, and said,
"No indeed; go and ask my cousins, who are both much cleverer than I. I
really don't do for it at all, but I make a very good tinker, and I like
that much better."
"Then what can we do?" cried the Prime Minister, "for we don't know where
Alderete has gone."
"I saw him go by here with a sweep a little time ago," said Aldebert; "and
he went into that farmhouse yonder, so you had best seek him there."
So the Prime Minister and the Chancellor went on to the farmhouse. At the
door stood the farmer's wife, but when they asked her if she had seen the
King go by, she stared with surprise.
"Nay," said she; "no one has been here but our sweep and his apprentice. He
is in there sweeping the chimney now." On hearing this, the Prime Minister
and Chancellor at once ran into the farmhouse, and saw the old sweep
standing by the kitchen fire-place. "And where is the other sweep?" cried
they. "He is gone up the chimney, and is just going to begin sweeping,"
said the old man. "So if you want to speak to him you must shout." So they
shouted and called,
"King Alderete, King Alderete!" as loud as ever they could, but he did not
hear. Then the Chancellor knelt in front of the grate, and put his head up
the chimney, and called,
"King Alderete, King Alderete! It is the Prime Minister and I, the
Chancellor, come to fetch your Majesty back to the palace."
When Alderete heard him up the chimney, he trembled in every limb, but he
replied,
"I'm not going to come down; I don't want to be King. I am going to be a
sweep, and I like that much better. I shan't come down till you are gone
away, and now you had best go quickly, for I am going to begin sweeping,
and all the soot will fall on your head," and then they heard the rattle of
the broom in the chimney, and a whole shower of soot fell on the
Chancellor's head.
The Prime Minister and the Chancellor turned back to the city very
disconsolately. "We must go and look for a King elsewhere," they said. "It
is no use troubling about Aldovrand, Aldebert, and Alderete." So they left
the one to his geese, and one to his tins, and the other to sweep chimneys,
and that was the end of the three clever Kings.
[Illustration]
THE WISE PRINCESS
[Illustration]
Once upon a time lived a King whose wife was dead and who had one little
daughter who was named Fernanda. She was very good and pretty, but when she
was a child she vexed all her ladies by asking them questions about
everything she saw.
"Your Highness should not wish to know too much," they told her, whereat
Princess Fernanda threw up her little head, and said,
"I want to know everything."
As she grew up she had masters and mistresses to teach her, and learnt
every language and every science; but still she said, "It is not enough; I
want to know more."
In a deep cave underground there lived an old Wizard who was so wise that
his face was well-nigh black with wrinkles, and his long white beard flowed
to his feet. He knew all sorts of magic, and every day and night sat poring
over his books till now there seemed to be nothing left for him to learn.
One night after every one was asleep, Princess Fernanda rose and slipped
softly down the stairs and out of the palace unheard by any one, and stole
away to the Wizard's cave.
The old man was sitting on his low stool reading out of an immense book by
a dim green light, but he raised his eyes as the Princess entered at the
low doorway, and looked at her. She wore a blue and silver robe, but her
bright hair was unbound, and fell in ripples to her waist.
"Who are you, and what do you want with me?" he asked shortly.
"I am the Princess Fernanda," she said, "and I wish to be your pupil. Teach
me all you know."
"Why do you wish for that?" said the Wizard: "you will not be better or
happier for it."
"I am not happy now," said the Princess sighing wearily. "Teach me and you
shall find me an apt pupil, and I will pay you with gold."
"I will not have your gold," said the Wizard, "but come to me every night
at this hour, and in three years you shall know all I do."
So every night the Princess went down to the Wizard's cave while all the
court were sleeping. And the people wondered at her more and more, and
said, "How much she knows! How wise she is!"
When the three years had gone by the Wizard said to her, "Go! I can teach
you no more now. You are as wise as I." Then the Princess thanked him and
went back to her father's palace.
She was very wise. She knew the languages of all animals. The fishes came
from the deep at her call, and the birds from the trees. She could tell
when the winds would rise, and when the sea would be still. She could have
turned her enemies to stone, or given untold wealth to her friends. But
for all that, when she smiled, her lips were very sad, and her eyes were
always full of care. She said she was weary, and her father thought she was
sick, and would have sent for the physicians, but she stopped him.
"How should physicians help me, my father," she said, "seeing that I know
more than they?"
One night, a year after she had taken her last lesson from the Wizard, she
arose and returned to his cave, and he raised his eyes and saw her standing
before him as formerly.
"What do you want?" he said. "I have taught you all I know."
"You have taught me much," she said, falling on her knees beside him, "yet
I am ignorant of one thing--teach me that also--_how to be happy_.'
"Nay," said the Wizard with a very mournful smile; "I cannot teach you
that, for I do not know it myself. Go and ask it of them who know and are
wiser than I."
[Illustration: "Then the Princess left the cave and wandered down to the
sea-shore."--P. 178.]
Then the Princess left the cave and wandered down to the sea-shore. All
that night she spent sitting on a rock that jutted out into the sea,
watching the wild sky and the moon coming and going behind the clouds. The
sea dashed up around her, and the wind blew, but she did not fear them, and
when the sun rose the waters were still and the wind fell. A skylark rose
from the fields and flew straight up to heaven, singing as though his heart
would burst with pure joy.
"Surely that bird is happy," said the Princess to herself; and she called
it in its own tongue.
"Why do you sing?" she asked.
"I sing because I am so happy," answered the lark.
"And why are you so happy?" asked the Princess.
"So happy?" said the lark. "God is so good. The sky is so blue, and the
fields are so green. Is that not enough to make me happy?"
"Teach me, then, that I may be happy too," said Princess Fernanda.
"I cannot," said the lark; "I don't know how to teach;" and then he rose,
singing, into the blue overhead, and Princess Fernanda sighed and turned
back towards the palace.
Outside her door she met her little lap-dog, who barked and jumped for joy
on seeing her.
"Little dog," she said; "poor little dog, are you so glad to see me? Why
are you so happy?"
"Why am I so happy?" said the little dog, surprised. "I have plenty to eat,
and a soft cushion to rest upon, and you to caress me. Is not it enough to
make me happy?"
"It is not enough for me," said the Princess, sighing; but the little dog
only wagged his tail and licked her hand.
Inside her room was the Princess's favourite little maid Doris, folding up
her dresses.
"Doris," she said, "you look very merry. Why are you so happy?"
"Please your Royal Highness, I am going to the fair," answered Doris, "and
Luke is to meet me there; only," she added, pouting a little, "I wish I had
a pretty new hat to wear with my new dress."
"Then you are not perfectly happy, so you cannot teach me," said Princess
Fernanda, and then she sighed again.
In the evening at sunset she arose, and went out into the village, and at
the door of the first cottage to which she came, sat a woman nursing a
baby, and hushing it to sleep. The baby was fat and rosy, and the mother
looked down at it proudly.
The Princess stopped, and spoke to her.
"You have a fine little child there," she said. "Surely you must be very
happy."
The woman smiled.
"Yes," she said, "so I am; only just now my goodman is out fishing, and as
he's rather late, it makes me anxious."
"Then you could not teach me," said the Princess, sighing to herself as she
moved away. She wandered on till she came to a church, which she entered.
All was still within, for the church was empty; but before the altar, on a
splendid bier, lay the body of a young man, who had been killed in the war.
He was dressed in his gay uniform, and his breast was covered with medals,
and his sword lay beside him. He was shot through the heart, but his face
was peaceful and his lips were smiling. The Princess walked to his side,
and looked at the quiet face. Then she stooped and kissed the cold
forehead, and envied the soldier. "If he could speak," she said, "he surely
could teach me. No living mouth could ever smile like that." Then she
looked up and saw a white angel standing on the other side of the bier, and
she knew it was Death.
"You have taught him," she said, holding out her arms. "Will you not teach
me to smile like that?"
"Nay," said Death, pointing to the medals on the dead man's breast, "I
taught him whilst he was doing his duty. I cannot teach you." And so saying
he vanished from her sight.
She went out from the church down to the sea-shore. There was a high sea,
and a great wind, a little child had been playing on a row of rocks, and
had slipped off them into the water, and was struggling among the waves,
and would soon be drowned, for he was beyond his depth in the water.
When the Princess saw him, she plunged into the water and swam to where the
child was, and taking him in her arms, placed him safely on the rocks
again, but the waves were so strong that she could scarcely keep above
them. As she tried to seize the rocks, she saw Death coming over the water
towards her, and she turned to meet him gladly.
"Now," said he, clasping her in his arms, "I will teach you all you want to
know;" and he drew her under the water, and she died.
* * * * *
The Kings servants found her lying on the shore, with her face white and
her lips cold, but smiling as they had never smiled before, and her face
was very calm. They carried her home, and she was laid out in great state,
covered with gold and silver.
"She was so wise," sobbed her little maid, as she placed flowers in the
cold hand, "she knew everything."
"Not everything," said the skylark from the window; "for she asked me,
ignorant though I am, to teach her how to be happy."
"That was the one thing I could not teach her," said the old Wizard,
looking at the dead Princess's face. "Yet I think now she must be wiser
than I, and have learned that too. For see how she smiles."
[Illustration]
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Necklace of Princess Fiorimonde and Other Stories" ***
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