[Illustration]
In the middle of the ocean, thousands of miles from any land, a great
ship lay becalmed. It was a passenger ship, bound to the East Indies,
and there were a good many families on board, and a still larger number
of young men who had left their friends behind, and were going out to
see if they could gather some of the famous “riches of the Indies”
into their own pockets. Among these young men was one called Ernest,
who not only had no relatives or near friends on board the ship, but,
so far as he knew, in the wide world. Ever since he could remember he
had been alone, and very lonely; nor did he feel less so now among all
these persons, who each seemed to have some one to love or take an
interest in them, except himself; and so still he was alone.
Day after day passed, and the ship lay becalmed, until the motionless
heat became very oppressive. One night Ernest, strolling languidly up
and down the deck, stopped, and, looking over the taffrail near the
stern of the vessel, saw a little boat, which had been let down that
one of the officers might bathe from it, and which still lay rocking
gently on the little waves; so Ernest, thinking it would be a pleasant
place to lie and dream, clambered down the side of the great ship, and,
stretching himself upon a cloak in the bottom of the boat, soon fell
fast asleep.
Some hours passed, and then Ernest awoke with a start, for a great
wave had broken over his little skiff and drenched him with water.
Sitting upright, he looked about him in silent amazement. During the
night the wind had suddenly risen, and in a few hours increased to a
gale. On board the ship, the sailors who were keeping watch had set
the great sails, glad enough to see them fill once more. But no one
had remembered or noticed the little boat towing astern, which, after
following quietly on for awhile, pulling harder and harder upon the
slender line which held it to the ship, suddenly snapped it in two,
and in a moment was left far behind.
So now, when Ernest sat up and looked about him, he saw nothing but
water; on every side, great black waves with white, foamy crests, came
rolling angrily toward him, as if they would swallow him up; and some
of them, like the one which had awakened him, even broke into the
little boat, so that for some time Ernest was too busy in baling out
the water to have time even to be frightened.
The rest of the night passed in this manner; but just before sunrise
the wind died away to little and less, until, as the first level rays
shot across the ocean, the calm was as intense as it had been the day
before.
The waves continued restless some hours longer; but before noon they
too had sunk to sleep, and the little boat with the lonely youth
remained motionless, the centre of a great, round water-plain extending
on every side to where the burning sky dipped down, trying in vain to
cool itself.
For many hours Ernest had suffered terribly from heat and thirst, and
now that the utter calm increased both, he thought he must surely die.
Wrapping himself again in the thick cloak, and covering his head from
the blistering rays of the sun, he lay many hours motionless in a sort
of swoon. When he recovered consciousness, night had come again; the
fierce sun had given way to the cool, pitying moon, which, round and
full, beamed kindly down upon him; and a little breath of air, not
enough to make the gentlest breeze, just rippled the surface of the
water, and gave a faint, delightful motion to the little boat.
Ernest, faint and exhausted, sat up and looked about him. The scene was
delightful, but he hardly knew it, his sufferings from thirst and fever
were so intense; he looked toward the east and shuddered,--a few hours
more and the sun would rise, burning and scorching all before him, and
Ernest felt that then he must die.
With a low moan he stretched himself again in the bottom of the boat,
and lay there still, with half-closed eyes, listening to the soft
ripple of the tiny wavelets upon the side, and soothed by the faint
motion of the little skiff.
Suddenly he perceived that this motion had increased; that it had
become a gentle, regular rocking, although the noise of the water
against the side was rather less than more. Raising his languid
eyes, what was Ernest’s astonishment to see a row of little white
hands clasping the edge of the boat on each side, and rocking it
as if it were a cradle. Softly putting out his own hand, Ernest
cautiously touched one of those nearest to him; yes, they were real
fingers,--cool, white, and soft.
Rising upon his elbow, the young man peeped over the gunwale of his
boat. Oh, what a singular picture met his view! The world beneath the
sea had come up to visit the world above the sea. Strange, beautiful
fishes, such as no man’s eye ever saw before, glittered and swam on
every side; great whales, white as milk, too cautious ever to appear
by day, moved in stately measure beneath the moon; the sea-serpent
undulated his miles of glossy length, coiling himself up, and suddenly
whirling into the air and down again in a great, gleaming arch to the
water; far away in lonely grandeur, vast, white, and motionless, lay
the great Kraken, that mysterious, traditional inhabitant of the sea,
only known to men through the wild stories which ancient mariners will
sometimes tell around the evening fire. Wonderful enough it was to see
all these; but Ernest hardly glanced at them,--for, close about his
boat on every side crowded beautiful forms, with fair, childlike faces
and long, golden hair, which floated and glittered upon the moon-lit
waves, as they swam gracefully hither and thither. Ernest knew them
at once; they were the mer-maidens, the children of the sea, of whom
he had often heard, and for whom he had often vainly gazed across the
midnight ocean.
These it were, who, grasping with white fingers the little boat, had
rocked it softly to the cadence of an inarticulate song. As the youth
arose and looked at them, they gently loosed their hold, and sunk
beneath the water; but in an instant he heard them again behind him,
and, turning suddenly, saw them surrounding a great sea-shell, white
without, and of an exquisite pink within, which they were softly moving
on across the water toward his own boat, while they sung in unison
their mysterious, wordless song. But Ernest neither looked nor listened
to the mer-maidens, for within the shell, robed in the rich abundance
of her own golden hair, reclined the loveliest creature that the youth
had ever seen, with fair, pale face and great, dreamy eyes, blue as the
sea itself. Upon her head was set a crown, and about her neck and
arms were strings of enormous pearls, perfect in form and color, and
yet no whiter or rounder than the throat and arms which they encircled.
[Illustration]
In her hands she carried a little golden harp, and when she had
approached within a few feet of Ernest’s boat, gently motioning her
maidens to pause, she raised it and swept her tiny hand across the
strings; a faint, sweet sound, like summer wind sighing through summer
woods, met the young man’s ear, and then in a soft, low voice she sung.
The words were in the same unknown tongue with which the mer-maidens
had chanted his lullaby, but as Ernest listened they shaped themselves
into meaning in his mind; and this was the song of the sea-princess:--
Come with me! Come with me!
To the world beneath the sea.
There live we, with mirth and glee,
Oh, ’tis pleasant there to be!
Pearls so rare, jewels fair,
Gather we to deck our hair;
Toil nor care, dwell not there,
Come then, mortal, if thou dare!
The song was repeated over and over, and each moment Ernest longed
more to go and dwell in this fair world beneath the sea. At last the
shell-boat was pushed close to his own; and all the little white hands
of the mer-maidens, clasping one side of his skiff, tipped it more and
more, until half unconsciously he slid from his own to the boat of the
beautiful maiden, who clasped him in her arms, murmuring her soft song
dreamily into his ear, while the great pink shell began first slowly,
then more and more swiftly, to spin round and round, sinking at the
same time until it was countless fathoms beneath the sea.
Ernest awoke as from a dream, to find himself laid upon a couch
of soft, many colored sea-mosses, heaped high in the centre of a
grotto-like chamber, whose walls of red and white coral were curiously
cut, by the labor of the sword-fish employed as decorator in the royal
palace, into the delicate and fanciful images of all the beautiful
flowers and leaves which grow far beneath the sea, and are never seen
by men. A cool, green light diffused itself through the chamber, and
showed to Ernest the figure of the princess seated beside him, and
gazing at him with loving eyes.
“What is your name, fair queen?” asked the young man softly.
“I am the Princess Su-le-mair, daughter of the great King Maro,”
replied the maiden, a little proudly; but added, in a more tender
voice, “And you, beautiful mortal,--what do they call you, above there?”
“My name is Ernest; but no mortal will ever call me so again, for I
will live here always with you, beautiful Sulemair,” and the youth
timidly kissed the rose-red lips of the fair sea-maiden.
“Then come with me and see our palace,--your home, now,” said Sulemair,
bashfully drawing back, but holding out her cool, white hand to take
that of her lover.
So Ernest went, guided by the princess, from one curious and beautiful
room to another, until he had seen all the wonders of the palace in
which he was now to dwell. Then Sulemair proposed that he should come
with her to see her father and mother, who lived at some distance; for
each of the princes and princesses had a palace to themselves; and as
the royal family was very large, the king was obliged to keep a large
corps of sword-fish coral-cutters constantly at work.
The young couple found that King Maro was just presiding at his council
table, so that he could not receive them; but Queen Nymphia, Sulemair’s
mother, professed herself very much pleased with their visit, and
welcomed Ernest to the kingdom under the sea very warmly and gracefully.
After this, it being dinner time, the two returned to their own palace,
and spent the rest of the day very happily in telling each other the
history of their previous lives.
So the days went dreamily on. Sometimes Sulemair sung to her golden
harp love-songs, or ballads of sea-life; sometimes she and her maidens
danced with Ernest, who soon learned their strange and fanciful
figures, while a band of conchs, carefully graduated in tone, played
each on his own shell; sometimes the princess, or one of the maidens,
told strange stories of wonderful sights and romantic adventures in
their own country, to which Ernest replied with stories of the world
above the sea, which made the mer-maidens open their blue eyes wide
with astonishment.
These and other amusements filled the day; yet sometimes Ernest would
find time to wonder if matters went on above as they had done in his
own time, and to wish occasionally that he and Sulemair could make a
little visit to earth, just to see how it looked once more. He never
mentioned this fancy to his beautiful bride, however, lest she should
think him discontented; but keeping it to himself, he dwelt upon it
more and more, until at last he thought of hardly any thing else, and
at times was so absent and dreamy that he forgot to listen to the songs
and stories, or to dance when it was his turn to do so.
Sulemair was not slow to notice and to suspect the cause of this
alteration in her beloved Ernest, and she, too, grew silent,
thoughtful, and abstracted. At last, one day, Ernest, rousing suddenly
from a reverie, found the princess seated beside him gazing into his
face, while great tears, rolling down her cheeks and dropping off her
chin, fell in round, white pearls at her feet.
“Dearest, sweetest, what is the matter?” asked Ernest, anxiously; for
he had never seen the princess cry before.
“It is--it is, that Ernest wishes to leave me,” sobbed the poor little
sea-nymph.
“Leave you! leave my Sulemair!” exclaimed Ernest, kissing her over and
over; “I never dreamed of such a thing. But if you and I together,
dearest, could make just a little visit up above,--eh, Susu?”
“Listen, dear,” said the princess, sitting up, and wiping her eyes;
“for I have something to tell you. I never can visit the world above
and return here--never. But I have one chance to exchange this life for
that, if I choose, though I never thought of wishing it before. Are
you sure, very sure, dear Ernest, that you wish me to come too? Will
it not be enough if you can return alone? Perhaps, after a while, you
would grow tired of your poor Sulemair, and then what should she do,
all alone in a strange world?”
It required several words and a great many kisses to convince the
princess of the absurdity of this idea; but at last she continued:--
“We daughters of the royal house have a privilege not shared by any
other of the maidens of the sea. On the night we are sixteen (our
birthdays always come in the full moon), if we can by any means
persuade a mortal maiden to leap into the sea, and catch her in our
arms as she falls, we are able to change conditions with her,--she
becoming a mer-maiden, and we a child of earth. This is possible, but
rarely attempted by us; partly because we love our own natures so well
we do not care to change, and partly from the difficulty of inducing
any earthly maiden to make the exchange. Sometimes, however, one of us
has done it; my eldest sister did. She ascended to the upper waters on
her birth-night, and found herself near a ship moving slowly through
the sea; floating quietly about it she perceived a beautiful girl
leaning over the side, and looking sadly into the water. My sister, who
had a harp like mine, began to play and sing softly, and the maiden,
fixing her eyes upon the spot where my sister’s hair, floating behind
her, looked like what the sailors call a moon-glade, drooped lower and
lower over the side of the vessel, until Neria, holding out her arms,
the maiden sunk into them, and in the next moment floated away a
mer-maiden, while my sister clambered into the ship and took her place.”
“But did they look alike?” asked Ernest.
“Oh, the two change faces as well as forms, you understand.”
“But then you would not be my Sulemair any more,” said Ernest,
discontentedly.
“Foolish boy, you will find some one so much more beautiful to take my
place, that you will be glad to make the change,” said the princess,
laughing merrily.
“_I_ shall find, little Susu? What does that mean?” asked the
lover.
“Why, my plan is, that you shall return immediately to the earth, and
spend the time from now to my birthday, which will not be for ten more
full moons, in trying to find a maiden (a beautiful one, mind--I
won’t change with an ugly one), who will leap into the sea of her own
freewill. I don’t think it right to charm one, as Neria did, although I
dare say I could”--
“As you charmed me,” suggested Ernest.
“No, I didn’t charm you, I only sung to you,” replied Sulemair
innocently.
“All the same; but go on with your little plan, darling.”
“Well, if you can find one who will change with me willingly, bring her
to a place which I will show you, the night of the tenth full moon from
that now shining; let her leap into my arms, and the next moment you
will have me, a mortal maiden, ready to live and die with you in your
own way.”
“Let me set out immediately,” exclaimed Ernest, starting up, “I shall
find not one, but twenty maidens, with whom to purchase my Sulemair’s
life.”
“Not twenty, but one will be enough,” smiled the princess, as, winding
her arms about Ernest, she floated with him to the surface of the
ocean, directing her course obliquely, as if to reach some particular
point. Emerging at length, they found themselves near the shore, and
directly opposite a high cliff of peculiar shape, which overhung the
water like a petrified cataract.
“There, Ernest,” said the princess, pointing at the cliff, “you see
that--we call it ‘the frozen fall’--now if you can find a maiden
willing to exchange with me, bring her there, and let her leap, just as
the moon reaches the summit of the heavens, into my arms, which shall
be open to catch her. Farewell till then.”
And Sulemair, with a little laugh and a playful gesture, sunk beneath
the surface and was gone immediately. Ernest would have followed,
to assure her once more that he would certainly return; but to his
surprise he found the water, which had so long been like a native
element to him, had suddenly become a foreign one, and he was obliged
to swim vigorously to gain the shore, which, while he was floating with
Sulemair, had seemed so near and easy of access.
Once landed, Ernest immediately set out upon his strange search. He
travelled far and wide, and tried to persuade many beautiful maidens
to change their earthly condition for a life beneath the sea. But some
laughed in his face, some told him he was a madman who should be shut
up, some shuddered, and said they were frightened at the very idea,
and some tried to persuade him to stay with them instead.
So one month after another slipped away, until the tenth moon had grown
from a crescent to half its full size, and still the maiden was not
found.
Gloomy and despairing, Ernest had almost abandoned hope; and one day
finding himself in a thick wood just outside a great city, he threw
himself upon the ground, and covering his face with his hands, began to
lament and groan aloud; but after a while, his grief becoming a little
calmer, he lay quite still and quiet; to his great surprise, however,
the sounds of lamentation still echoed through the stillness of the
wood, as if the very trees were mourning with him. Thinking that this
could hardly be the case, Ernest looked about him in every direction,
and presently perceived at a little distance a female figure seated
upon the ground, her face covered with her hands, and her whole form
shaken with the violence of her grief.
Full of compassion and some little curiosity, Ernest arose, and
approaching the stranger, asked kindly what was the matter with her.
Looking up, with a little startled cry, the mourner showed the face of
a young girl, with so striking resemblance to Sulemair, that the lover
uttered an exclamation of astonishment; but without heeding this, the
young girl said sadly,--
“You ask what is the matter, sir, that I thus weep and lament. I
will tell you; for you look kind and good. My father, whom they call
a traitor, though no man is less so, is to be beheaded at sunrise
to-morrow, and I shall be left alone in the wide world.” Saying this,
she burst into fresh tears and sobs. Ernest sat down beside her, and
when her grief had a little subsided, told her how sorry he felt for
her, and that if he could in any way help her or her father, he would
do so. Then he told her his own story, and asked if she could help him.
Veria (this was the maiden’s name) listened attentively to Ernest’s
story, and when he had finished, sat for a moment thinking. Then,
holding out her hand to the youth, she said,--
“I will be the maiden for whom you search, Ernest, if you will find
means to save my father’s life. Gladly will I give mine for his; and if
I can make you and Sulemair happy at the same time, it will be so much
the more joy. Will you try, Ernest?”
“I will try, Veria,” said the young man, sadly; for he did not quite
like the idea, after all, of seeing Veria throw herself into the sea,
and become a mer-maiden.
Nevertheless, he rose, and walked quickly toward the city, leaving the
maiden still weeping in the wood.
Having engaged a lodging at a small inn near the city gate, Ernest
mingled with a group of men at the door of the inn, who were busily
talking in a low voice, and who did not notice that a stranger had
joined them.
“But what will they do for an executioner to-morrow,” said one, “since
Vincent cannot be found?”
“Do you suppose some of Hugo’s friends hired him to run away, that the
execution might be deferred?” asked another.
“Like enough,” responded a third; “and if it could be put off
altogether, I don’t think any one would be sorry; for, after all, what
has this Hugo done, to have his head chopped off? There are more worse
than better men, I’ll be bound.”
“Yes,” said the first cautiously, “and I, for my part, would gladly
help to set him free, if it could be done.”
“Aye,” responded the second, “but how is that to be accomplished?”
“I will tell you, good friends,” interrupted Ernest, “_I_ will set
him free, if you will only help me.”
“You, young man? How will you do it?”
“Come close to me, and I will tell you my plan.”
The citizens crowded about Ernest, who in a very low voice told them a
plan which had just occurred to him, and which they all agreed was an
excellent one. Each promised to help him in every way that he should
point out, and all kept their word.
That very night Ernest presented himself to the governor of the city
as an executioner from another town, who was willing to take the
place of Vincent, the missing officer, who had suddenly disappeared.
The governor asked, of course, for his certificates of character and
ability, but Ernest was ready for him; for his good friends of the
tavern had provided him with papers, which, if not quite as genuine,
were just as good looking as any executioner could have shown.
The governor read all the papers carefully, examined the signatures,
asked Ernest a good many questions, and finished by engaging him,
offering to pay him half the price for which they agreed in advance;
but Ernest, who was too honest to take money for work which he never
meant to do, said he preferred to wait, and have it altogether.
The next morning at sunrise was the time appointed, and a great crowd
had collected to witness the execution; but Ernest saw with pleasure
that his new friends had contrived to get places next the scaffold, and
all looked determined and ready.
Presently the criminal, Hugo, as he was called, was brought from the
interior of the prison, and Ernest felt a double longing to save him
when he saw how much he resembled Veria.
Making a pretence of arranging his dress that it might not interfere
with the blow, he whispered rapidly that he was no executioner, but
was there to save him; and as he stood close behind him he slyly cut
the cords which bound Hugo’s arms, and, slipping a strong knife into
his hand, bid him do just as he did.
Hugo, although startled for a moment, soon recovered his
self-possession, and, in a whisper, said he was ready.
Then Ernest, springing from the scaffold into the midst of the group of
friends who were waiting for him, brandished his axe about his head,
crying,--
“Rescue! rescue! Good men, rescue!”
Hugo, flourishing his knife, and crying out, “Help! friends, help!”
followed immediately; and the little group, each of whom drew a knife,
a dagger, a pistol, or some other weapon, closed about them, all
crying, “Rescue! rescue!” which induced many others to join them.
More than this, the people, who all wished well to Hugo, made way for
him and his friends to pass, but closed up when the soldiers tried to
follow them, which caused much delay and vexation to the pursuers.
Reaching the city gates, Hugo, Ernest, and one or two others, rushed
out, and their friends, snatching the keys from the astonished guard,
locked the gates, and threw the keys over the wall; then, hiding their
weapons and mingling in the crowd, they escaped unrecognized.
The little group outside meantime had gained the wood, where horses
were waiting for them; and Hugo, with one hurried kiss and good-by
to Veria (who also was there waiting for him), mounted with one or
two friends and rode off at full speed, and that same night left the
country forever.
Ernest and Veria, at the same time mounting the two remaining horses,
set out in another direction, and when the angry soldiers from the
city had at last forced the gate and reached the forest, they found it
silent and deserted; nor did they ever again see one of the fugitives.
Ernest and Veria, saying but little to each other, and both exceedingly
sorrowful, rode all that day, and the next, and the next, until, the
very evening when the tenth full moon was rising majestically from the
sea, they turned loose their exhausted horses at the foot of the cliff
which Sulemair had named the Frozen Fall.
Silently the two climbed the cliff, until they had nearly reached its
crest, and then, Ernest motioning his companion to seat herself on
a flat, gray rock which lay there, threw himself at her feet, and,
looking up in her face, said,--
“Veria, I will not have it so. Why are you to sacrifice yourself that
Sulemair should be happy? She has never known any other life than that
beneath the sea, and she will soon forget me and her wild dream of
becoming a mortal. I will stay with you, Veria, and we shall all be
happy in our own way.”
Veria smiled sadly in the moonlight.
“No, Ernest,” said she, “I have bought my father’s life, and I will pay
the price. Sulemair trusted you, and brought you back to earth that you
might win for her the means of living always with you. Shall we be so
base as to deceive and defraud her?”
Ernest, covering his face, groaned aloud, but did not speak; nor did
either utter another word until the moon, sailing slowly through the
calm, blue ocean of heaven, stood in the zenith smiling down at the
twin moon, which smiled up to her from the ocean of waters beneath.