THE WHITE LAMB.
King Brondé and his court reached the end of their homeward journey in
safety.
They arrived safely, but to find their palace in disorder, its beauty
spoiled, its treasures stolen, its walks, gardens, statues, fountains
destroyed.
The good king and queen, however, thought only of Rosebud. Their
well-beloved child,--was she living? And, if yet alive, into whose
hands had she fallen? Messengers were sent far and near throughout
the kingdom. Large rewards were offered, but all in vain. And at the
approach of winter they gladly removed to their city palace, away from
all which so sadly reminded them of that unhappy day on which she was
taken from them.
Now, although it would seem that every possible means had been tried,
and though many weary months had passed, yet the Lily Queen still hoped
that her dear child might be restored to her. And, during the winter
every seer, fortune-teller, witch, or wizard who dwelt in the city, or
who wandered that way, had been consulted. But all had failed to give
true directions for discovering the lost one.
Thus, mid hopes and fears, the winter and spring passed wearily by.
As summer came on, the queen walked much by herself in the gardens of
the palace, that she might, undisturbed, mourn for her lost darling.
Sleepless nights and much weeping had made her a Pale Lady indeed. Her
strength was failing, her step feeble. Still, however, she continued
her daily walks.
And one day, while wandering in the Orange-Grove, she saw, in the path
before her, a white lamb.
“Pretty creature!” she cried, “you are pure and innocent as my own lost
lamb!”
And she followed it to the end of the walk, and so beyond the palace
walls, into a cedar-grove.
Here, close by a ruined hovel, which some poor fagot-gatherer had
deserted, the lamb disappeared. He seemed to have entered the hovel.
But, upon stepping inside the door, she saw only an aged woman, dressed
in dark, flowing robes, who scarcely raised her eyes from the ground.
“I seek,” said the queen, “a white lamb.”
“The Pale Lady,” said the aged woman, still without raising her
eyes,--“the Pale Lady seeks, not a lamb, but a sweet flower. Grief lies
heavy at her heart. Threads of white are among her once fair locks. Her
eye is sunken, her strength gone. All night her tears flow, and the day
brings only weariness.
“No joy, no joy for her;
Sorrow and tears abound.
No smile, no smile for her
Until the lost be found.
But the Wanderer shall return;
The lost shall yet be found;
Then for the sorrowing one
Shall joy and smiles abound!”
The queen sprang forward, her hands clasped, her whole face lighted up
with joy.
“Tell me!--tell me where is my child!” she cried.
The aged woman made no reply. Slowly raising her head, she gazed long
and earnestly in one direction. It seemed as if her pale, filmy blue
eye were fixed upon some object or objects far, far away. Her head
bent forward, her right arm slowly raised itself, while the forefinger
seemed pointing to something in the dim distance.
At length she spoke. The words came slowly, and there was an intent
expression upon her face, as if she were listening to indistinct sounds.
“I hear the distant moaning of the sea. I hear the dash of waves upon
the shore. I see the tall beach-grass bending in the breeze. Shells lie
upon the sands,--pink, purple, and white. Their gleaming is beautiful
in the sunlight. White-sailed ships go by. A boat is tossing upon
the waves. A noble boy pulls the oar. Brave and handsome as a young
prince. How boldly he guides the boat! It touches the shore. A little
girl runs smiling to meet him! Her fair curls stream in the wind. Her
teeth are like pearls; her eye is like the violet; her cheek like the
rose. Gayly flutter her green robes. The boy is glad to see the little
girl, running to meet him. He calls out to her, ‘Rosebud! Rosebud!’”
The queen had stood, bending forward, her eyes fastened upon the
withered face before her, hardly daring to breathe, lest some precious
word be lost. Her excitement grew every moment more intense, and when
the last word, “Rosebud!” was spoken, she uttered a cry of joy, and
sank, half fainting, to the ground.
Upon recovering, the Lily Queen found herself alone in the hovel. No
dark-robed old woman or pretty white lamb was to be seen. Neither could
it be told how long she had lain there.
But she felt sure that, during the time, a form had bent over her, and
spoken these words:--
“Travel towards the setting sun, as far as the shores of Silver Lake.
From this lake flows a stream. Follow this stream to the sea.”