WHEN they all awakened next morning, their first ideas were confused.
It is often confusing to wake in a strange bed, much more so when you
have flown through the air, like the king, the queen, and Benson the
butler. For her part, the queen was the most perplexed of all; for she
did undeniably wake, and yet she was not at home, where she had expected
to be. However, she was a determined woman, and stood to it that nothing
unusual was occurring. The butler made up his mind to claim the crown
princeship and the hand of the Lady Molinda; because, as he justly
remarked to William, here was such a chance to better himself as might
not soon come in his way again. As for the king, he was only anxious
to get back to Falkenstein, and have the whole business settled in a
constitutional manner. The ambassador was not sorry to get rid of the
royal party; and it was proposed that they should all sit down on the
flying carpet, and wish themselves at home again. But the queen would
not hear of it: she said it was childish and impossible; so the carriage
was got ready for her, and she started without saying a word of good-bye
to anyone. The king, Benson, and the prince were not so particular, and
they simply flew back to Falkenstein in the usual way, arriving there at
11.35--a week before her majesty.
The king at once held a Court; the horns and tail of the monster were
exhibited amidst general interest, and Benson and the prince were
invited to state their claims.
Benson’s evidence was taken first. He declined to say exactly where
or how he killed the Firedrake. There might be more of them left, he
remarked,--young ones, that would take a lot of killing,--and he refused
to part with his secret. Only he claimed the reward, which was offered,
if you remember, _not_ to the man who killed the beast, but to him wha
brought its horns and tail. This was allowed by the lawyers present
to be very sound law; and Benson was cheered by the courtiers, who
decidedly preferred him to Prigio, and who, besides, thought he was
going to be crown prince. As for Lady Molinda, she was torn by the most
painful feelings; for, much as she hated Prigio, she could not bear the
idea of marrying Benson. Yet one or the other choice seemed certain.
Unhappy lady! Perhaps no girl was ever more strangely beset by
misfortune!
Prince Prigio was now called on to speak.
He admitted that the reward was offered for bringing the horns and tail,
not for killing the monster. But were the king’s _intentions_ to go for
nothing? When a subject only _meant_ well, of course he had to suffer;
but when a king said one thing, was he not to be supposed to have meant
another? Any fellow with a waggon could _bring_ the horns and tail; the
difficult thing was to kill the monster. If Benson’s claim was allowed,
the royal prerogative of saying one thing and meaning something else was
in danger.
On hearing this argument, the king so far forgot himself as to cry,
“Bravo, well said!” and to clap his hands, whereon all the courtiers
shouted and threw up their hats.
The prince then said that whoever had killed the monster could, of
course, tell where to find him, and could bring his hoofs. He was
ready to do this himself. Was Mr. Benson equally ready? On this being
interpreted to him--for he did not speak Pantouflian--Benson grew pale
with horror, but fell back on the proclamation. He had brought the horns
and tail, and so he must have the perquisites, and the Lady Molinda!
The king’s mind was so much confused by this time, that he determined to
leave it to the Lady Molinda herself.
“Which of them will you have, my dear?” he asked, in a kind voice.
But poor Molinda merely cried. Then his majesty was almost _driven_ to
say that he would give the reward to whoever produced the hoofs by that
day week. But no sooner had he said this than the prince brought them
out of his wallet, and displayed them in open Court. This ended the
case; and Benson, after being entertained with sherry and sandwiches
in the steward’s room, was sent back to his master, And I regret to
say that his temper was not at all improved by his failure to better
himself. On the contrary, he was unusually cross and disagreeable
for several days; but we must, perhaps, make some allowance for his
disappointment.
But if Benson was irritated, and suffered from the remarks of his
fellow-servants, I do not think we can envy Prince Prigio. Here he was,
restored to his position indeed, but by no means to _the royal favour_.
For the king disliked him as much as ever, and was as angry as ever
about the deaths of Enrico and Alphonso. Nay, he was even _more_ angry;
and, perhaps, not without reason. He called up Prigio before the whole
Court, and thereon the courtiers cheered like anything, but the king
cried:
“Silence! McDougal, drag the first man that shouts to the serpent-house
in the zoological gardens, and lock him up with the rattlesnakes!”
After that the courtiers were very quiet.
“Prince,” said the king, as Prigio bowed before the throne, “you are
restored to your position, because I cannot break my promise. But your
base and malevolent nature is even more conspicuously manifest in your
selfish success than in your previous dastardly contempt of duty. Why,
confound you!” cried the king, dropping the high style in which he had
been speaking, and becoming the _father_, not the monarch,--“why, if you
_could_ kill the Firedrake, did you let your poor little brothers go and
be b--b--b--broiled? Eh! what do you say, you sneak? ‘You didn’t believe
there _were_ any Firedrakes?’ That just comes of your eternal conceit
and arrogance! If you were clever enough to kill the creature--and I
admit that--you were clever enough to know that what everybody said must
be true. ‘You have not generally found it so?’ Well, you _have_ this
time, and let it be a lesson to you; not that there is much comfort
in that, for it is not likely you will ever have such another
chance”--exactly the idea that had occurred to Benson.
Here the king wept, among the tears of the lord chief justice, the
poet laureate (who had been awfully frightened when he heard of the
rattlesnakes), the maids of honour, the chaplain royal, and everyone
but Colonel McDougal, a Scottish soldier of fortune, who maintained a
military reserve.
When his majesty had recovered, he said to Prigio (who had not been
crying, he was too much absorbed):
“A king’s word is his bond. Bring me a pen, somebody, and my
cheque-book.”
The royal cheque-book, bound in red morocco, was brought in by eight
pages, with ink and a pen. His majesty then filled up and signed the
following satisfactory document--(Ah! my children, how I wish Mr.
Arrowsmith would do as much for _me_!):
[Illustration: The King’s Cheque]
“There!” said his majesty, crossing his cheque and throwing sand over
it, for blotting-paper had not yet been invented; “there, take _that_,
and be off with you!”
Prince Prigio was respectfully but rapidly obeying his royal command,
for he thought he had better cash the royal cheque as soon as possible,
when his majesty yelled:
“Hi! here! come back! I forgot something; you’ve got to marry Molinda!”
[Illustration: Chapter Sixteen]