“Reuben would be the person for this,” said Francis. “I don’t believe

he’s read _anything_!”

“Well, we haven’t read much,” said Cathay comfortably; “at least, not

about nasty people.”

“I wish I hadn’t,” sighed the Princess through the noise of the voices

outside the gate. “I know them all. You hear that cold squeak? That’s

Mrs. Fairchild. And that short, sharp, barking sound—that’s Aunt

Fortune. The sort of growl that goes on all the time is Mr. Murdstone,

and that icy voice is Rosamund’s mother—the one who was so hateful

about the purple jar.”

“I’m afraid we know some of those,” said Mavis.

“Then be careful not to say you don’t. There are heaps you don’t

know—John Knox and Machiavelli and Don Diego and Tippoo Sahib and

Sally Brass and—I _must_ go back. If anything should happen, fling your

arms round the nearest Porpoise and trust to luck. These Book People

can’t kill—they can only stupefy.”

“But how do you know them all?” Mavis asked. “Do they often attack you?”

“No, only when the sky falls. But they always howl outside the gate at

the full moon.”

So saying she turned away and disappeared in the crowd of faithful

Porpoises.

And outside the noise grew louder and the words more definite.

“I am Mrs. Randolph. Let me in!”

“I am good Mrs. Brown. Let me in!”

“I am Eric, or Little by Little. I _will_ come in!”

“I am Elsie, or Like a Little Candle. Let me in—let me in!”

“I am Mrs. Markham.”

“I am Mrs. Squeers.”

“I am Uriah Heep.”

“I am Montdidier.”

“I am King John.”

“I am Caliban.”

“I am the Giant Blunderbore.”

“I am the Dragon of Wantley.”

And they all cried, again and again: “Let us in! Let me in! Let me in!”

The strain of listening for the names and calling out “I don’t know

you!” when they didn’t, and saying nothing when they did, became almost

unbearable. It was like that horrid game with the corners of the

handkerchief, “Hold fast” and “Let loose,” and you have to remember to

do the opposite. Sooner or later an accident is bound to happen, and

the children felt a growing conviction that it would be sooner.

“What will happen if they do get in?” Cathay asked a neighboring

Porpoise.

“Can’t say, miss, I’m sure,” it answered.

“But what will you do?”

“Obstruct them in the execution of our duty,” it answered. “You see,

miss, they can’t kill; they can only stupefy, and they can’t stupefy

us, ’cause why? We’re that stupid already we can’t hold no more. That’s

why they trust us to defend the golden gate,” it added proudly.

The babel of voices outside grew louder and thicker, and the task of

knowing when to say “I don’t know you,” and so wound the vanity of the

invaders, grew more and more difficult. At last the disaster, foreseen

for some time, with a growing plainness, came upon them.

“I am the Great Seal,” said a thick, furry voice.

“I don’t know you,” cried Cathay.

“You do—he’s in history. James the Second dropped him in the Thames,”

said Francis. “Yes, you’ve done it again.”

“Shut up,” said Bernard.

The last two remarks were made in a deep silence, broken only by the

heavy breathing of the Porpoises. The voices behind the golden gate had

died down and ceased. The Porpoises massed their heavy bulk close to

the door.

“Remember the Porpoises,” said Francis. “Don’t forget to hold on to a

Porpoise.”

Four of these amiable if unintellectual creatures drew away from their

companions, and one came to the side of each child.

Every eye was fixed on the golden door, and then slowly—very slowly,

the door began to open. As it opened it revealed the crowd that stood

without—cruel faces, stupid faces, crafty faces, sullen faces, angry

faces, not a single face that you ever could wish to see again.

Then slowly, terribly, without words, the close ranks of the Book

People advanced. Mrs. Fairchild, Mrs. Markham, and Mrs. Barbauld led

the van. Closely following came the Dragon of Wantley, the Minotaur,

and the Little Man that Sintram knew. Then came Mr. Murdstone, neat in

a folded white neckcloth, and clothes as black as his whiskers. Miss

Murdstone was with him, every bead of her alight with gratified malice.

The children found that they knew, without being told, the name of each

foe now advancing on them. Paralyzed with terror, they watched the

slow and terrible advance. It was not till Eric, or Little by Little,

broke the silence with a whoop of joy and rushed upon them that they

remembered their own danger, and clutched the waiting Porpoises. Alas!

it was too late. Mrs. Markham had turned a frozen glare upon them, Mrs.

Fairchild had wagged an admonitory forefinger, wave on wave of sheer

stupidity swept over them, and next moment they lost consciousness

and sank, each with his faithful Porpoise, into the dreamless sleep

of the entirely unintelligent. In vain the main body of the Porpoises

hurled themselves against the intruders; their heroism was fruitless.

Overwhelmed by the heavy truisms wielded by the enemy, they turned and

fled in disorder, and the conquering army entered Merland.

Francis was the first to recover consciousness. The Porpoise to which

he had clung was fanning him with its fin, and imploring him, for its

sake, to look up, to speak.

“All right, old chap,” said Francis. “I must have fallen asleep. Where

are the others?”

They were all there, and the devoted Porpoises quickly restored them to

consciousness.

[Illustration: _Book Hatefuls._]

The four children stood up and looked at each other.

“I wish Reuben was here,” said Cathay. “He’d know what to do.”

“He wouldn’t know any more than we do,” said Francis haughtily.

“We _must_ do _something_,” said Mavis. “It’s our fault again.”

“It’s mine,” said Cathay, “but I couldn’t help it.”

“If you hadn’t, one of us would have,” said Bernard, seeking to

console. “I say, why do only the nasty people come out of the books?”

“_I_ know that,” said his Porpoise, turning his black face eagerly

toward them. “The stupidest people can’t help knowing something. The

Under Folk get in and open the books—at least, they send the Bookworms

in to open them. And, of course, they only open the pages where the

enemies are quartered.”

“Then—” said Bernard, looking at the golden gate, which swung open, its

lock hanging broken and useless.

“Yes,” said Mavis, “we could, couldn’t we? Open the other books, we

mean!” She appealed to her Porpoise.

“Yes,” it said, “perhaps you could. Human children can open books, I

believe. Porpoises can’t. And Mer-people can’t open the books in the

Cave of Learning, though they can unlock them. If they want to open

them they have to get them from the Public Mer Libraries. I can’t help

knowing that,” it added. The Porpoises seemed really ashamed of not

being thoroughly stupid.

“Come on,” said Francis, “we’ll raise an army to fight these Book

People. Here’s something we can do that _isn’t_ mischief.”

“You shut up,” said Bernard, and thumping Cathay on the back told her

to never mind.

They went toward the golden gate.

“I suppose all the nasty people are out of the books by now?” Mavis

asked her Porpoise, who followed her with the close fidelity of an

affectionate little dog.

“_I_ don’t know,” it said, with some pride. “I’m stupid, I am. But I

can’t help knowing that no one can come out of books unless they’re

called. You’ve just got to tap on the back of the book and call the

name and then you open it, and the person comes out. At least, that’s

what the Bookworms do, and I don’t see why you should be different.”

What _was_ different, it soon appeared, was the water in the stream

in the Cave of Learning, which was quite plainly still water in some

other sense than that in which what they were in was water. That is,

they could not walk in it; they had to swim. The cave seemed dark,

but enough light came from the golden gate to enable them to read the

titles of the books when they had pulled away the seaweed which covered

many of them. They had to hold on to the rocks—which were books—with

one hand, and clear away the seaweed with the other.

You can guess the sort of books at which they knocked—Kingsley and

Shakespeare and Marryat and Dickens, Miss Alcott and Mrs. Ewing, Hans

Andersen and Stevenson, and Mayne Reid—and when they had knocked they

called the name of the hero whose help they desired, and “Will you help

us,” they asked, “to conquer the horrid Book People, and drive them

back to cover?”

And not a hero but said, “Yes, indeed we will, with all our hearts.”

And they climbed down out of the books, and swam up to the golden gate

and waited, talking with courage and dignity among themselves, while

the children went on knocking at the backs of books—which are books’

front doors—and calling out more and more heroes to help in the fight.

Quentin Durward and Laurie were the first to come out, then Hereward

and Amyas and Will Cary, David Copperfield, Rob Roy, Ivanhoe, Caesar

and Anthony, Coriolanus and Othello; but you can make the list for

yourselves. They came forth, all alive and splendid, with valor and the

longing to strike once more a blow for the good cause, as they had been

used to do in their old lives.

“These are enough,” said Francis, at last. “We ought to leave some, in

case we want more help later.”

You see for yourselves what a splendid company it was that swam

to the golden gate—there was no other way than swimming, except

for Perseus—and awaited the children. And when the children joined

them—rather nervous at the thought of the speeches they would have to

make to their newly recruited regiment—they found that there was no

need of speeches. The faithful Porpoises had not been too stupid to

explain the simple facts of danger and rescue.

It was a proud moment for the children when they marched toward the

Palace at the head of the band of heroes whom they had pressed into the

service of the Merland. Between the clipped seaweed hedges they went,

and along the paths paved with pearl and marble, and so, at last, drew

near the Palace. They gave the watchword “Glory.”

“Or Death,” said the sentry. And they passed on to the Queen.

“We’ve brought a reinforcement,” said Francis, who had learned the word

from Quentin Durward as they came along. And the Queen gave one look at

her reinforcement’s faces and said simply:

“We are saved.”

The horrible Book People had not attacked the Palace; they had gone

furtively through the country killing stray fish and destroying any

beautiful thing they happened to find. For these people hate beauty

and happiness. They were now holding a meeting in the Palace gardens,

near the fountain where the Princesses had been wont to do their

source-service, and they were making speeches like mad. You could hear

the dull, flat murmur of them even from the Palace. They were the sort

of people who love the sound of their own silly voices.

The newcomers were ranged in orderly ranks before the Queen, awaiting

her orders. It looked like a pageant or a fancy-dress parade. There

was St. George in his armor, and Joan of Arc in hers—heroes in plumed

hats and laced shirts, heroes in ruffs and doublets—brave gentlemen of

England, gallant gentlemen of France. For all the differences in their

dress, there was nothing motley about the band which stood before the

Queen. Varied as they were in dress and feature, they had one quality

in common, which marked them as one company. The same light of bravery

shone on them all, and became them like a fine uniform.

“Will you,” the Queen asked of their leader—a pale, thin-faced man in

the dress of a Roman—“will you do just as you think best? I would not

presume,” she added, with a kind of proud humility, “to teach the game

of war to Caesar.”

“Oh, Queen,” he answered, “these brave men and I will drive back the

intruders, but, having driven them back, we must ourselves return

through those dark doors which we passed when your young defenders

called our names. We will drive back the _men_—and by the look of them

’twill be an easy task. But Caesar wars not with women, and the women

on our side are few, though each, I doubt not, has the heart of a

lioness.”

He turned toward Joan of Arc with a smile and she gave him back a smile

as bright as the sword she carried.

“How many women are there among you?” the Queen asked, and Joan

answered:

“Queen Boadicea and Torfrida and I are but three.”

“But we three,” cried Torfrida, “are a match for three hundred of such

women as those. Give us but whips instead of swords, and we will drive

them like dogs to their red and blue cloth-bound kennels.”

“I’m afraid,” said the Queen, “they’d overcome you by sheer weight.

You’ve no idea how heavy they are.” And then Kathleen covered herself

with glory by saying, “Well, but what about Amazons?”

“The very thing,” said Caesar kindly. “Would you mind running back?

You’ll find them in the third book from the corner where the large

purple starfish is; you can’t mistake it.”

The children tore off to the golden gate, rushed through it, and

swam to the spot where, unmistakably, the purplish starfish spread

its violet rays. They knocked on the book, and Cathay, by previous

arrangement, called out—

“Come out, please, Queen of the Amazons, and bring all your fighting

ladies.”

Then out came a very splendid lady in glorious golden armor. “You’d

better get some boats for us,” she said, standing straight and splendid

on a ledge of rock, “enough to reach from here to the gate, or a

bridge. There are all these things in Caesar’s books. I’m sure he

wouldn’t mind your calling them out. We must not swim, I know, because

of getting our bowstrings wet.”

So Francis called out a bridge, and when it was not long enough to

reach the golden gate he called another. And then the Queen called her

ladies, and out came a procession, which seemed as though it would

never end, of tall and beautiful women armed and equipped for war. They

carried bows, and the children noticed that one side of their chests

was flatter than the other. And the procession went on and on, passing

along the bridge and through the golden gate, till Cathay grew quite

dizzy; and at last Mavis said, “Oh, your Majesty, do stop them. I’m

sure there are heaps, and we shall be too late if we wait for any more.”

So the Queen stopped the procession and they went back to the Palace,

where the Queen of the Amazons greeted Joan of Arc and the other ladies

as though they were old acquaintances.

In a few moments their plans were laid. I wish I could describe to you

the great fight between the Nice Book People and the others. But I

have not time, and besides, the children did not see all of it, so I

don’t see why _you_ should. It was fought out in the Palace gardens.

The armies were fairly evenly matched as to numbers, because the

Bookworms had let out a great many Barbarians, and these, though not so

unpleasant as Mr. Murdstone and Mrs. Fairchild, were quite bad enough.

The children were not allowed to join in the battle, which they would

dearly have liked to do. Only from a safe distance they heard the

sound of steel on steel, the whir of arrows, and the war cries of the

combatants. And presently a stream of fugitives darkened the pearly

pathways, and one could see the heroes with drawn swords following in

pursuit.

And then, among those who were left, the shouts of war turned suddenly

to shouts of laughter, and the Merlish Queen herself moved toward the

battlefield. And as she drew near she, too, laughed. For, it would

seem, the Amazons had only shot their arrows at the men among their

foes—they had disdained to shoot the women, and so good was their aim

that not a single woman was wounded. Only, when the Book Hatefuls

had been driven back by the Book Heroes, the Book Heroines advanced

and, without more ado, fell on the remaining foes. They did not fight

them with swords or spears or arrows or the short, sharp knives they

wore—they simply picked up the screaming Bookwomen and carried them

back to the books where they belonged. Each Amazon caught up one of

the foe and, disregarding her screaming and scratching, carried her

back to the book where she belonged, pushed her in, and shut the door.

Boadicea carried Mrs. Markham and her brown silk under one bare,

braceleted arm as though she had been a naughty child. Joan of Arc made

herself responsible for Aunt Fortune, and the Queen of the Amazons

made nothing of picking up Miss Murdstone, beads and all, and carrying

her in her arms like a baby. Torfrida’s was the hardest task. She had,

from the beginning, singled out Alftruda, her old and bitter enemy, and

the fight between them was a fierce one, though it was but a battle of

looks. Yet before long the fire in Torfrida’s great dark eyes seemed to

scorch her adversary, she shrank before it, and shrank and shrank till

at last she turned and crept back to her book and went in of her own

accord, and Torfrida shut the door.

“But,” said Mavis, who had followed her, “don’t you live in the same

book?”

Torfrida smiled.

“Not quite,” she said. “That would be impossible. I live in a different

edition, where only the Nice People are alive. In hers it is the nasty

ones.”

“And where is Hereward?” Cathay asked, before Mavis could stop her. “I

do love him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Torfrida, “I love him. But he is not alive in the book

where I live. But he will be—he will be.”

And smiling and sighing, she opened her book and went into it, and the

children went slowly back to the Palace. The fight was over, the Book

People had gone back into their books, and it was almost as though they

had never left them—not quite, for the children had seen the faces of

the heroes, and the books where these lived could never again now be

the same to them. All books, indeed, would now have an interest far

above any they had ever held before—for any of these people might be

found in any book. You never know.

[Illustration: _Book Heroines._]

The Princess Freia met them in the Palace courtyard, and clasped

their hands and called them the preservers of the country, which was

extremely pleasant. She also told them that a slight skirmish had been

fought on the Mussel-beds south of the city, and the foe had retreated.

“But Reuben tells me,” she added—“that boy is really worth his

weight in pearls—that the main body are to attack at midnight. We

must sleep now, to be ready for the call of duty when it comes. Sure

you understand your duties? And the power of your buttons and your

antidotes? I might not have time to remind you later. You can sleep in

the armory—you must be awfully tired. You’ll be asleep before you can

say Jack Sprat.”

So they lay down on the seaweed, heaped along one end of the Oysters’

armory, and were instantly asleep.

It may have been their natures, or it may have been the influence of

the magic coats. But whatever the cause, it is certain that they lay

down without fear, slept without dreams, and awoke without alarm when

an Oyster corporal touched their arms and whispered, “Now!”

They were wide awake on the instant and started up, picking their

oyster shields from the ground beside them.

“I feel just like a Roman soldier,” Cathay said. “Don’t you?”

And the others owned that so far as they knew the feelings of a Roman

soldier, those feelings were their own.

The shadows of the guardroom were changed and shifted and flung here

and there by the torches carried by the busy Oysters. Phosphorescent

fish these torches were, and gave out a moony light like that of the

pillars in the Cave of Learning. Outside the Lobster-guarded arch the

water showed darkly clear. Large phosphorescent fish were twined round

pillars of stone, rather like the fish you see on the lampposts on the

Thames Embankment, only in this case the fish were the lamps. So strong

was the illumination that you could see as clearly as you can on a

moonlit night on the downs, where there are no trees to steal the light

from the landscape and bury it in their thick branches.

All was hurry and bustle. The Salmoners had sent a detachment to harass

the flank of the enemy, and the Sea Urchins, under the command of

Reuben, were ready in their seaweed disguises.

There was a waiting time, and the children used it to practice with

their shells, using the thick stems of seaweed—thick as a man’s arm—to

represent the ankles of the invading force, and they were soon fairly

expert at the trick which was their duty. Francis had just nipped an

extra fat stalk and released it again by touching the secret spring

when the word went around, “Every man to his post!”

The children proudly took up their post next to the Princess, and

hardly had they done so when a faint yet growing sound knocked gently

at their ears. It grew and grew and grew till it seemed to shake the

ground on which they stood, and the Princess murmured, “It is the tramp

of the army of the Under Folk. Now, be ready. We shall lurk among these

rocks. Hold your good oyster shell in readiness, and when you see a

foot near you clip it, and at the same time set down the base of the

shell on the rock. The trusty shell will do the rest.”

“Yes, we know, thank you, dear Princess,” said Mavis. “Didn’t you see

us practicing?”

But the Princess was not listening; she had enough to do to find cover

for her troops among the limpet-studded rocks.

And now the tramp, tramp, tramp of the great army sounded nearer and

more near, and through the dimly lighted water the children could see

the great Deep Sea People advancing.

Very terrible they were, big beyond man-size, more stalwart and more

finely knit than the Forlorn Hopers who had led the attack so happily

and gloriously frustrated by the Crabs, the Narwhals and the Sea

Urchins. As the advance guard drew near all the children stared, from

their places of concealment, at the faces of these terrible foes of the

happy Merland. Very strong the faces were, and, surprisingly, very,

very sad. They looked—Francis at least was able to see it—like strong

folk suffering proudly an almost intolerable injury—bearing, bravely,

an almost intolerable pain.

“But I’m on the other side,” he told himself, to check a sudden rising

in his heart of—well, if it was not sympathy, what was it?

And now the head of the advancing column was level with the Princess.

True to the old tradition which bids a commander lead and not to follow

his troops, she was the first to dart out and fix a shell to the heel

of the left-rank man. The children were next. Their practice bore its

fruit. There was no blunder, no mistake. Each oyster shell clipped

sharp and clean the attached ankle of an enemy; each oyster shell at

the same moment attached itself firmly to the rock, thus clinging to

his base in the most thorough and military way. A spring of joy and

triumph welled up in the children’s hearts. How easy it was to get the

better of these foolish Deep Sea Folk. A faint, kindly contempt floated

into the children’s minds for the Mer-people, who so dreaded and hated

these stupid giants. Why, there were fifty or sixty of them tied by the

leg already! It was as easy as—

The pleasant nature of these reflections had kept our four rooted to

the spot. In the triumphant performance of one duty they failed to

remember the duty that should have followed. They stood there rejoicing

in their victory, when by all the rules of the Service they should have

rushed back to the armory for fresh weapons.

The omission was fatal. Even as they stood there rejoicing in their

cleverness and boldness and in the helpless anger of the enemy,

something thin and string-like spread itself around them—their feet

caught in string, their fingers caught in string, string tweaked

their ears and flattened their noses—string confined their elbows and

confused their legs. The Lobster-guarded doorway seemed farther off—and

farther, and farther.... They turned their heads; they were following

backward, and against their will, a retreating enemy.

“Oh, why didn’t we do what she said?” breathed Cathay. “Something’s

happened!”

“I should think it had,” said Bernard. “We’re caught—in a net.”

They were. And a tall Infantryman of the Under Folk was towing them

away from Merland as swiftly and as easily as a running child tows a

captive air balloon.

CHAPTER TEN

_The Under Folk_

THOSE OF US who have had the misfortune to be caught in a net in the

execution of our military duty, and to be dragged away by the enemy

with all the helpless buoyancy of captive balloons, will be able to

appreciate the sensations of the four children to whom this gloomy

catastrophe had occurred.

The net was very strong—made of twisted fibrous filaments of seaweed.

All efforts to break it were vain, and they had, unfortunately, nothing

to cut it with. They had not even their oyster shells, the rough edges

of which might have done something to help, or at least would have been

useful weapons, and the discomfort of their position was extreme. They

were, as Cathay put it, “all mixed up with each other’s arms and legs,”

and it was very difficult and painful to sort themselves out without

hurting each other.

“Let’s do it, one at a time,” said Mavis, after some minutes of severe

and unsuccessful struggle. “France first. Get right away, France, and

see if you can’t sit down on a piece of the net that isn’t covered with

_us_, and then Cathay can try.”

It was excellent advice and when all four had followed it, it was found

possible to sit side by side on what may be called the floor of the

net, only the squeezing of the net walls tended to jerk one up from

one’s place if one wasn’t very careful.

By the time the rearrangement was complete, and they were free to look

about them, the whole aspect of the world had changed. The world, for

one thing, was much darker, in itself that is, though the part of it

where the children were was much lighter than had been the sea where

they were first netted. It was a curious scene—rather like looking down

on London at night from the top of St. Paul’s. Some bright things,

like trams or omnibuses, were rushing along, and smaller lights, which

looked mighty like cabs and carriages, dotted the expanse of blackness

till, where they were thick set, the darkness disappeared in a blaze of

silvery light.

Other light-bearers had rows of round lights like the portholes of

great liners. One came sweeping toward them, and a wild idea came

to Cathay that perhaps when ships sink they go on living and moving

underwater just as she and the others had done. Perhaps they do.

Anyhow, this was not one of them, for, as it came close, it was plainly

to be perceived as a vast fish with phosphorescent lights in rows along

its gigantic sides. It opened its jaws as it passed, and for an instant

everyone shut their eyes and felt that all was over. When the eyes

were opened again, the mighty fish was far away. Cathay, however, was

discovered to be in tears.

“I wish we hadn’t come,” she said; and the others could not but feel

that there was something in what she said. They comforted her and

themselves as best they could by expressing a curious half-certainty

which they had that everything would be all right in the end. As I

said before, there are some things so horrible that if you can bring

yourself to face them you see at once that they can’t be true. The

barest idea of poetic justice—which we all believe in at the bottom

of our hearts—made it impossible to think that the children who had

nobly (they couldn’t help feeling it _was_ noble) defended their

friends, the Mer Folk, should have anything really dreadful happen to

them in consequence. And when Bernard talked about the fortunes of war

he did it in an unconvinced sort of way and Francis told him to shut up.

[Illustration: _In the net._]

“But what are we to do,” sniffed Cathay for the twentieth time, and all

the while the Infantryman was going steadily on, dragging the wretched

netful after him.

“Press our pearl buttons,” suggested Francis hopefully. “Then we shall

be invisible and unfeelable and we can escape.” He fumbled with the

round marble-like pearl.

“No, no,” said Bernard, catching at his hand, “don’t you see? If we

do, we may never get out of the net. If they can’t see us or feel us

they’ll think the net’s empty, and perhaps hang it up on a hook or put

it away in a box.”

“And forget it while years roll by. _I_ see,” said Cathay.

“But we can undo them the minute we’re there. Can’t we?” said Mavis.

“Yes, of course,” said Bernard; but as a matter of fact they couldn’t.

At last the Infantryman, after threading his way through streets of

enormous rocky palaces, passed through a colossal arch, and so into a

hall as big as St. Paul’s and Westminster Abbey into one.

A crowd of Under Folk, who were seated on stone benches around rude

tables, eating strange luminous food, rose up, and cried, “What news?”

“Four prisoners,” said the Infantryman.

“Upper Folk,” the Colonel said; “and my orders are to deliver them to

the Queen herself.”

He passed to the end of the hall and up a long wide flight of steps

made of something so green and clear that it was plainly either glass

or emerald, and I don’t think it could have been glass, because how

could they have made glass in the sea? There were lights below it which

shone through the green transparency so clear and lovely that Francis

said dreamily—

“‘_Sabrina fair,

Listen where thou art sitting,

Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave_,’”

and quite suddenly there was much less room in the net, and they were

being embraced all at once and with tears of relief and joy by the

Princess Freia—their own Mer Princess.

“Oh, I _didn’t_ mean to—Princess dear, I _didn’t_,” said Francis. “It

was the emerald steps made me think of translucent.”

“So they are,” she said, “but oh, if you knew what I’ve felt—you, our

guests, our knights-errant, our noble defenders—to be prisoners and

all of us safe. I did so hope you’d call me. And I’m so proud that you

didn’t—that you were brave enough not to call for me until you did it

by accident.”

“We never thought of doing it,” said Mavis candidly, “but I hope we

shouldn’t have, if we _had_ thought of it.”

“Why haven’t you pressed your pearl buttons?” she asked, and they told

her why.

“Wise children,” she said, “but at any rate we must all use the charm

that prevents our losing our memories.”

“I shan’t use mine,” said Cathay. “I don’t want to remember. If I

didn’t remember I should forget to be frightened. Do please let

me forget to remember.” She clung pleadingly to the Princess, who

whispered to Mavis, “Perhaps it would be best,” and they let Cathay

have her way.

The others had only just time to swallow their charms before the

Infantryman threw the net onto a great table, which seemed to be cut

out of one vast diamond, and fell on his face on the ground. It was his

way of saluting his sovereign.

“Prisoners, your Majesty,” he said when he had got up again. “Four of

the young of the Upper Folk—” and he turned to the net as he spoke,

and stopped short—“there’s someone else,” he said in an altered voice,

“someone as wasn’t there when we started, I’ll swear.”

“Open the net,” said a strong, sweet voice, “and bid the prisoners

stand up that I may look upon them.”

“They might escape, my love,” said another voice anxiously, “or perhaps

they bite.”

“Submersia,” said the first voice, “do you and four of my women stand

ready. Take the prisoners one by one. Seize each a prisoner and hold

them, awaiting my royal pleasure.”

The net was opened and large and strong hands took Bernard, who was

nearest the mouth of the net back, and held him gently but with extreme

firmness in an upright position on the table. None of them could stand

because of their tails.

They saw before them, on a throne, a tall and splendid Queen, very

beautiful and very sad, and by her side a King (they knew the royalty

by their crowns), not so handsome as his wife, but still very different

from the uncouth, heavy Under Folk. And he looked sad too. They were

clad in robes of richest woven seaweed, sewn with jewels, and their

crowns were like dreams of magnificence. Their throne was of one clear

blood-bright ruby, and its canopy of green drooping seaweed was gemmed

with topazes and amethysts. The Queen rose and came down the steps of

the throne and whispered to her whom she had called Submersia, and she

in turn whispered to the four other large ladies who held, each, a

captive.

And with a dreadful unanimity the five acted; with one dexterous

movement they took off the magic jackets, and with another they removed

the useful tails. The Princess and the four children stood upon the

table on their own ten feet.

“What funny little things,” said the King, not unkindly.

“Hush,” said the Queen, “perhaps they can understand what you say—and

at any rate that Mer-girl can.”

The children were furious to hear their Princess so disrespectfully

spoken of. But she herself remained beautifully calm.

“Now,” said the Queen, “before we destroy your memories, will you

answer questions?”

“Some questions, yes—others, no,” said the Princess.

“Are these human children?”

“Yes.”

“How do they come under the sea?”

“Mer-magic. You wouldn’t understand,” said the Princess haughtily.

“Were they fighting against us?”

“Yes,” cried Bernard and Mavis before the Princess answered.

“And lucky to do it,” Francis added.

“If you will tell us the fighting strength of the Merlanders, your

tails and coats shall be restored to you and you shall go free. Will

you tell?”

“Is it likely?” the Princess answered. “I am a Mer-woman, and a

Princess of the Royal House. Such do not betray their country.”

“No, I suppose not,” said the Queen. And she paused a moment before she

said, “Administer the cup of forgetfulness.”

The cup of forgetfulness was exceedingly pleasant. It tasted of toffee

and coconuts, and pineapple ices, and plum cake, and roast chicken,

with a faint underflavor of lavender, rose leaves and the very best

_eau de cologne_.

The children had tasted cider-cup and champagne-cup at parties, and

had disliked both, but oblivion-cup was delicious. It was served in

a goblet of opal color, in dreamy pink and pearl—and green and blue

and gray—and the sides of the goblet were engraved with pictures of

beautiful people asleep. The goblet passed from hand to hand, and

when each had drunk enough the Lord High Cupbearer, a very handsome,

reserved-looking fish, laid a restraining touch on the goblet and,

taking it between his fins, handed it to the next drinker. So, one by

one, each took the draught. Kathleen was the last.

The draught had no effect on four out of the five—but Kathleen changed

before their eyes, and though they had known that the draught of

oblivion would make her forget, it was terrible to see it do its fell

work.

Mavis had her arm protectingly around Kathleen, and the moment the

draught had been swallowed Kathleen threw off that loving arm and drew

herself away. It hurt like a knife. Then she looked at her brothers and

sisters, and it is a very terrible thing when the eyes you love look at

you as though you were a stranger.

Now, it had been agreed, while still the captives were in the net, that

all of them should pretend that the cup of oblivion had taken effect,

that they should just keep still and say nothing and look as stupid

as they could. But this coldness of her dear Cathay’s was more than

Mavis could bear, and no one had counted on it. So when Cathay looked

at Mavis as at a stranger whom she rather disliked, and drew away from

her arm, Mavis could not bear it, and cried out in heart-piercing

tones, “Oh, Cathay, darling, what is it? What’s the matter?” before the

Princess or the boys could stop her. And to make matters worse, both

boys said in a very loud, plain whisper, “Shut up, Mavis,” and only the

Princess kept enough presence of mind to go on saying nothing.

Cathay turned and looked at her sister.

“Cathay, darling,” Mavis said again, and stopped, for no one could go

on saying “darling” to anyone who looked at you as Cathay was looking.

She turned her eyes away as Cathay looked toward the Queen—looked, and

went, to lean against the royal knee as though it had been her mother’s.

“Dear little thing,” said the Queen; “see, it’s quite tame. I shall

keep it for a pet. Nice little pet then!”

“You shan’t keep her,” cried Mavis, but again the Princess hushed her,

and the Queen treated her cry with contemptuous indifference. Cathay

snuggled against her new mistress.

“As for the rest of you,” said the Queen, “it is evident from your

manner that the draught of oblivion has not yet taken effect on you.

So it is impossible for me to make presents of you to those prominent

members of the nobility, who are wanting pets, as I should otherwise

have done. We will try another draught tomorrow. In the meantime ...

the fetters, Jailer.”

A tall sour-looking Under-man stepped forward. Hanging over his arm

were scaly tails, which at first sight of the children’s hearts leaped,

for they hoped they were their own. But no sooner were the tails fitted

on than they knew the bitter truth.

“Yes,” said the Queen “they are false tails. You will not be able to

take them off, and you can neither swim nor walk with them. You can,

however, move along quite comfortably on the floor of the ocean. What’s

the matter?” she asked the Jailer.

“None of the tails will fit this prisoner, your Majesty,” said the

Jailer.

“I am a Princess of the reigning Mer House,” said Freia, “and your

false, degrading tails cannot cling to me.”

“Oh, put them all in the lockup,” said the King, “as sullen a lot of

prisoners as ever I saw—what?”

The lockup was a great building, broader at the top than at the bottom,

which seemed to be balanced on the sea floor, but really it was propped

up at both ends with great chunks of rock. The prisoners were taken

there in the net, and being dragged along in nets is so confusing, that

it was not till the Jailer had left them that they discovered that the

prison was really a ship—an enormous ship—which lay there, perfect in

every detail as on the day when it first left dock. The water did not

seem to have spoiled it at all. They were imprisoned in the saloon,

and, worn out with the varied emotions of the day, they lay down on the

comfortable red velvet cushions and went to sleep. Even Mavis felt that

Kathleen had found a friend in the Queen, and was in no danger.

The Princess was the last to close her eyes. She looked long at the

sleeping children.

“Oh, _why_ don’t they think of it?” she said, “and why mustn’t I tell

them?”

There was no answer to either question, and presently she too slept.

I must own that I share the Princess’s wonder that the children did not

spend the night in saying “Sabrina fair” over and over again. Because

of course each invocation would have been answered by an inhabitant of

Merland, and thus a small army could easily have been collected, the

Jailer overpowered and a rush made for freedom.

I wish I had time to tell you all that happened to Kathleen, because

the daily life of a pampered lap-child to a reigning Queen is one that

you would find most interesting to read about. As interesting as your

Rover or Binkie would find it to read—if he could read—about the life

of one of Queen Alexandra’s Japanese Spaniels. But time is getting on,

and I must make a long story short. And anyhow you can never tell all

about everything, can you?

The next day the Jailers brought food to the prison, as well as a

second draught of oblivion, which, of course, had no effect, and they

spent the day wondering how they could escape. In the evening the

Jailer’s son brought more food and more oblivion-cup, and he lingered

while they ate. He did not look at all unkind, and Francis ventured to

speak to him.

“I say,” he said.

“What do you say?” the Under-lad asked.

“Are you forbidden to talk to us?”

“No.”

“Then do tell us what they will do with us.”

“I do not know. But we shall have to know before long. The prisons are

filling up quickly—they will soon be quite full. Then we shall have to

let some of you out on what is called ticket-of-leave—that means with

your artificial tails on, which prevent you getting away, even if the

oblivion-cup doesn’t take effect.”

“I say,” it was Bernard’s turn to ask.

“What do you say?”

“Why don’t the King and Queen go and fight, like the Mer Royal Family

do?”

“Against the law,” said the Under-lad. “We took a King prisoner once,

and our people were afraid our King and Queen might be taken, so they

made that rule.”

“What did you do with him—the prisoner King?” the Princess asked.

“Put him in an Iswater,” said the lad, “a piece of water entirely

surrounded by land.”

“I should like to see him,” said the Princess.

“Nothing easier,” said the Under-lad, “as soon as you get your

tickets-of-leaves. It’s a good long passage to the lake—nearly all

water, of course, but lots of our young people go there three times

a week. Of course, he can’t be a King anymore now—but they made him

Professor of Conchology.”

“And has he forgotten he was a _King_?” asked the Princess.

“Of course: but he was so learned the oblivion-cup wasn’t deep enough

to make him forget everything: that’s why he’s a Professor.”

“What was he King of?” the Princess asked anxiously.

“He was King of the Barbarians,” said the Jailer’s son—and the Princess

sighed.

“I thought it might have been my father,” she said, “he was lost at

sea, you know.”

The Under-lad nodded sympathetically and went away.

“He doesn’t seem such a bad sort,” said Mavis.

“No,” said the Princess, “I can’t understand it. I thought all the

Under Folk were terrible fierce creatures, cruel and implacable.”

“And they don’t seem so very different from us—except to look at,” said

Bernard.

“I wonder,” said Mavis, “what the war began about?”

“Oh—we’ve always been enemies,” said the Princess, carelessly.

“Yes—but how did you begin being enemies?”

“Oh, that,” said the Princess, “is lost in the mists of antiquity,

before the dawn of history and all that.”

“Oh,” said Mavis.

But when Ulfin came with the next meal—did I tell you that the Jailer’s

son’s name was Ulfin?—Mavis asked him the same question.

“I don’t know—little land-lady,” said Ulfin, “but I will find out—my

uncle is the Keeper of the National Archives, graven on tables of

stone, so many that no one can count them, but there are smaller tables

telling what is on the big ones—” he hesitated. “If I could get leave

to show you the Hall of the Archives, would you promise not to try to

escape?”

They had now been shut up for two days and would have promised anything

in reason.

“You see, the prisons are quite full now,” he said, “and I don’t see

why you shouldn’t be the first to get your leaves-tickets. I’ll ask my

father.”

“I say!” said Mavis.

“What do you say?” said Ulfin.

“Do you know anything about my sister?”

“The Queen’s new lap-child? Oh—she’s a great pet—her gold collar with

her name on it came home today. My cousin’s brother-in-law made it.”

“The name—Kathleen?” said Mavis.

“The name on the collar is Fido,” said Ulfin.

The next day Ulfin brought their tickets-of-leaves, made of the leaves

of the tree of Liberty which grows at the bottom of the well where

Truth lies.

“Don’t lose them,” he said, “and come with me.” They found it quite

possible to move along slowly on hands and tails, though they looked

rather like seals as they did so.

He led them through the strange streets of massive passages, pointing

out the buildings, giving them their names as you might do if you were

showing the marvels of your own city to a stranger.

“That’s the Astrologers’ Tower,” he said, pointing to a huge building

high above the others. “The wise men sit there and observe the stars.”

“But you can’t see the stars down here.”

“Oh, yes, we can. The tower is fitted up with tubes and mirrors and

water transparence apparatus. The wisest men in the country are

there—all but the Professor of Conchology. He’s the wisest of all. He

invented the nets that caught you—or rather, making nets was one of the

things that he had learned and couldn’t forget.”

“But who thought of using them for catching prisoners?”

“I did,” said Ulfin proudly, “I’m to have a glass medal for it.”

“Do you have glass down here?”

“A little comes down, you know. It is very precious. We engrave it.

That is the Library—millions of tables of stone—the Hall of Public

Joy is next to it—that garden is the mothers’ garden where they go to

rest while their children are at school—that’s one of our schools. And

here’s the Hall of Public Archives.”

The Keeper of the Records received them with grave courtesy. The daily

services of Ulfin had accustomed the children to the appearance of the

Under Folk, and they no longer found their strange, mournful faces

terrifying, and the great hall where, on shelves cut out of the sheer

rock, were stored the graven tables of Underworld Records, was very

wonderful and impressive.

“What is it you want to know?” said the Keeper, rolling away some of

the stones he had been showing them. “Ulfin said there was something

special.”

“Why the war began?” said Francis.

“Why the King and Queen are different?” said Mavis.

“The war,” said the Keeper of the Records, “began exactly three million

five hundred and seventy-nine thousand three hundred and eight years

ago. An Under-man, getting off his Sea Horse in a hurry trod on the

tail of a sleeping Merman. He did not apologize because he was under

a vow not to speak for a year and a day. If the Mer-people had only

waited he would have explained, but they went to war at once, and, of

course, after that you couldn’t expect him to apologize. And the war

has gone on, off and on and on and off, ever since.”

[Illustration: _The Hall of Public Archives._]

“And won’t it ever stop?” asked Bernard.

“Not till we apologize, which, of course, we can’t until _they_ find

out why the war began and that it wasn’t our fault.”

“How awful!” said Mavis; “then it’s all really about nothing.”

“Quite so,” said the Keeper, “what are your wars about? The other

question I shouldn’t answer only I know you’ll forget it when the

oblivion-cup begins to work. Ulfin tells me it hasn’t begun yet. Our

King and Queen are _imported_. We used to be a Republic, but Presidents

were so uppish and so grasping, and all their friends and relations

too; so we decided to be a Monarchy, and that all jealousies might be

taken away we imported the two handsomest Land Folk we could find.

They’ve been a great success, and as they have no relations we find it

much less expensive.”

When the Keeper had thus kindly gratified the curiosity of the

prisoners the Princess said suddenly:

“Couldn’t we learn Conchology?”

And the Keeper said kindly, “Why not? It’s the Professor’s day

tomorrow.”

“Couldn’t we go there today?” asked the Princess, “just to arrange

about times and terms and all that?”

“If my Uncle says I may take you there,” said Ulfin, “I will, for I

have never known any pleasure so great as doing anything that you wish

will give me.”

The Uncle looked a little anxious, but he said he thought there could

be no harm in calling on the Professor. So they went. The way was long

for people who were not seals by nature and were not yet compelled to

walk after the manner of those charming and intelligent animals. The

Mer Princess alone was at her ease. But when they passed a building,

as long as from here to the end of the Mile End Road, which Ulfin told

them was the Cavalry Barracks, a young Under-man leaned out of a window

and said:

“What ho! Ulf.”

“What ho! yourself,” said Ulfin, and approaching the window spoke in

whispers. Two minutes later the young Cavalry Officer who had leaned

out of the window gave an order, and almost at once some magnificent

Sea Horses, richly caparisoned, came out from under an arched gateway.

The three children were mounted on these, and the crowd which had

collected in the street seemed to find it most amusing to see people

in fetter-tails riding on the chargers of the Horse Marines. But their

laughter was not ill-natured. And the horses were indeed a boon to the

weary tails of the amateur seals.

Riding along the bottom of the sea was a wonderful experience—but soon

the open country was left behind and they began to go up ways cut in

the heart of the rock—ways long and steep, and lighted, as all that

great Underworld was, with phosphorescent light.

When they had been traveling for some hours and the children were

beginning to think that you could perhaps have too much even of such

an excellent thing as Sea Horse exercise, the phosphorescent lights

suddenly stopped, and yet the sea was not dark. There seemed to be a

light ahead, and it got stronger and stronger as they advanced, and

presently it streamed down on them from shallow water above their heads.

“We leave the Sea Horses here,” said Ulfin, “they cannot live in the

air. Come.”

They dismounted and swam up. At least Ulfin and the Princess swam and

the others held hands and were pulled by the two swimmers. Almost at

once their heads struck the surface of the water, and there they were,

on the verge of a rocky shore. They landed, and walked—if you can call

what seals do walking—across a ridge of land, then plunged into a

landlocked lake that lay beyond.

[Illustration: _The chargers of the Horse Marines._]

“This is the Iswater,” said Ulfin as they touched bottom, “and yonder

is the King.” And indeed a stately figure in long robes was coming

toward them.

“But this,” said the Princess, trembling, “is just like our garden at

home, only smaller.”

“It was made as it is,” said Ulfin, “by wish of the captive King.

Majesty is Majesty, be it never so conquered.”

The advancing figure was now quite near them. It saluted them with

royal courtesy.

“We wanted to know,” said Mavis, “please, your Majesty, if we might

have lessons from you.”

The King answered, but the Princess did not hear. She was speaking with

Ulfin, apart.

“Ulfin,” she said, “this captive King is my Father.”

“Yes, Princess,” said Ulfin.

“And he does not know me—”

“He will,” said Ulfin strongly.

“Did you know?”

“Yes.”

“But the people of your land will punish you for bringing us here,

if they find out that he is my Father and that you have brought us

together. They will kill you. Why did you do it, Ulfin?”

“Because you wished it, Princess,” he said, “and because I would rather

die for you than live without you.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

_The Peacemaker_

THE CHILDREN thought they had never seen a kinder face or more noble

bearing than that of the Professor of Conchology, but the Mer Princess

could not bear to look at him. She now felt what Mavis had felt when

Cathay failed to recognize her—the misery of being looked at without

recognition by the eyes that we know and love. She turned away, and

pretended to be looking at the leaves of the seaweed hedge while Mavis

and Francis were arranging to take lessons in Conchology three days a

week, from two to four.

“You had better join a class,” said the Professor, “you will learn less

that way.”

“But we want to learn,” said Mavis.

And the Professor looked at her very searchingly and said, “Do you?”

“Yes,” she said, “at least—”

“Yes,” he said, “I quite understand. I am only an exiled Professor,

teaching Conchology to youthful aliens, but I retain some remnants of

the wisdom of my many years. I know that I am not what I seem, and that

you are not what you seem, and that your desire to learn my special

subject is not sincere and whole-hearted, but is merely, or mainly, the

cloak to some other design. Is it not so, my child?”

No one answered. His question was so plainly addressed to the Princess.

And she must have felt the question, for she turned and said, “Yes, O

most wise King.”

“I am no King,” said the Professor, “rather I am a weak child picking

up pebbles by the shore of an infinite sea of knowledge.”

“You _are_,” the Princess was beginning impulsively, when Ulfin

interrupted her.

“Lady, lady!” he said, “all will be lost! Can you not play your part

better than this? If you continue these indiscretions my head will

undoubtedly pay the forfeit. Not that I should for a moment grudge that

trifling service, but if my head is cut off you will be left without

a friend in this strange country, and I shall die with the annoying

consciousness that I shall no longer be able to serve you.”

He whispered this into the Princess’s ear while the Professor of

Conchology looked on with mild surprise.

“Your attendant,” he observed, “is eloquent but inaudible.”

“I mean to be,” said Ulfin, with a sudden change of manner. “Look here,

sir, I don’t suppose you care what becomes of you.”

“Not in the least,” said the Professor.

“But I suppose you would be sorry if anything uncomfortable happened to

your new pupils?”

“Yes,” said the Professor, and his eye dwelt on Freia.

“Then please concentrate your powerful mind on being a Professor. Think

of nothing else. More depends on this than you can easily believe.”

“Believing is easy,” said the Professor. “Tomorrow at two, I think you

said?” and with a grave salutation he turned his back on the company

and walked away through his garden.

It was a thoughtful party that rode home on the borrowed chargers of

the Deep Sea Cavalry. No one spoke. The minds of all were busy with the

strange words of Ulfin, and even the least imaginative of them, which

in this case was Bernard, could not but think that Ulfin had in that

strange oddly shaped head of his, some plan for helping the prisoners,

to one of whom at least he was so obviously attached. He also was

silent, and the others could not help encouraging the hope that he was

maturing plans.

They reached the many-windowed prison, gave up their tickets-of-leaves

and reentered it. It was not till they were in the saloon and the

evening was all but over that Bernard spoke of what was in every head.

“Look here,” he said, “I think Ulfin means to help us to escape.”

“Do you,” said Mavis. “I think he means to help us to something, but I

don’t somehow think it’s as simple as that.”

“Nothing near,” said Francis simply.

“But that’s all we want, isn’t it?” said Bernard.

“It’s not all _I_ want,” said Mavis, finishing the last of a fine bunch

of sea-grapes, “what I want is to get the Mer King restored to his

sorrowing relations.”

The Mer Princess pressed her hand affectionately.

“So do I,” said Francis, “but I want something more than that even. I

want to stop this war. For always. So that there’ll never be any more

of it.”

“But how can you,” said the Mer Princess, leaning her elbows on the

table, “there’s always been war; there always will be.”

“Why?” asked Francis.

“I don’t know; it’s Merman nature, I suppose.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Francis earnestly, “not for a minute I

don’t. Why, don’t you see, all these people you’re at war with are

_nice_. Look how kind the Queen is to Cathay—look how kind Ulfin is to

us—and the Librarian, and the Keeper of the Archives, and the soldiers

who lent us the horses. They’re all as decent as they can stick, and

all the Mer-people are nice too—and then they all go killing each

other, and all those brave, jolly soldier fish too, just all about

nothing. I call it simply _rot_.”

“But there always has been war I tell you,” said the Mer-Princess.

“People would get slack and silly and cowardly if there were no wars.”

“If I were King,” said Francis, who was now thoroughly roused, “there

should never be any more wars. There are plenty of things to be brave

about without hurting other brave people—exploring and rescuing and

saving your comrades in mines and in fires and floods and things and—”

his eloquence suddenly gave way to a breathless shyness—“oh, well,” he

ended, “it’s no use gassing; you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” said Mavis, “and oh, France—I think you’re right. But what can

we _do_?”

“I shall ask to see the Queen of the Under Folk, and try to make her

see sense. She didn’t look an absolute duffer.”

They all gasped at the glorious and simple daring of the idea. But the

Mer Princess said:

“I know you’d do everything you could—but it’s very difficult to talk

to kings unless you’ve been accustomed to it. There are books in the

cave, _Straight Talks with Monarchs_, and _Kings I Have Spoken My Mind

To_, which might help you. But, unfortunately, we can’t get them. You

see, Kings start so much further than subjects do: they know such a lot

more. Why, even I—”

“Then why won’t _you_ try talking to the Queen?”

“I shouldn’t dare,” said Freia. “I’m only a girl-Princess. Oh, if only

my dear Father could talk to her. If he believed it possible that

war could cease ... _he_ could persuade anybody of anything. And, of

course, they would start on the same footing—both Monarchs, you know.”

“I see: like belonging to the same club,” said Francis vaguely.

“But, of course, as things are, my royal Father thinks of nothing but

shells—if only we could restore his memory....”

“I say,” said Bernard suddenly, “does that Keep-your-Memory charm work

backward?”

“Backward?”

“I mean—is it any use taking it after you’ve swallowed your dose of

oblivion-cup? Is it a rester what’s its name as well as an antidote?”

“Surely,” said the Princess, “it is a restorative; only we have no

charm to give my Father—they are not made in this country—and alas! we

cannot escape and go to our own kingdom and return with one.”

“No need,” said Bernard, with growing excitement, “no need. Cathay’s

charm is there, in the inner pocket of her magic coat. If we could get

that, give the charm to your Father, and then get him an interview with

the Queen?”

“But what about Cathay?” said Mavis.

“If my Father’s memory were restored,” said the Princess, “his wisdom

would find us a way out of all our difficulties. To find Cathay’s coat:

that is what we have to do.”

“Yes,” said Francis. “That’s all.” He spoke a little bitterly, for he

had really rather looked forward to that straight talk with the King,

and the others had not been as enthusiastic as he felt he had a right

to expect.

“Let’s call Ulfin,” said the Princess, and they all scratched on the

door of polished bird’s-eye maple that separated their apartments from

the rest of the prison. The electric bells were out of order, so one

scratched instead of ringing. It was quite as easy.

Ulfin came with all speed.

“We’re holding a council,” said Freia, “and we want you to help. We

know you will.”

“I know it,” said Ulfin, “tell me your needs—”

And without more ado they told him all.

“You trust me, Princess, I am proud,” he told her, but when he heard

Francis’s dream of universal peace he took the freckled paw of Francis

and laid his lips to it. And Francis, even in the midst of his pride

and embarrassment at this token, could not help noticing that the lips

of Ulfin were hard, like horn.

“I kiss your hand,” said Ulfin, “because you give me back my honor,

which I was willing to lay down, with all else, for the Princess to

walk on to safety and escape. I would have helped you to find the

hidden coat—for her sake alone, and that would have been a sin against

my honor and my country—but now that I know it is to lead to peace,

which, warriors as we are, the whole nation passionately desires, then

I am acting as a true and honorable patriot. My only regret is that I

have one gift the less to lay at the feet of the Princess.”

“Do you know where the coats are?” Mavis asked.

“They are in the Foreign Curiosities Museum,” said Ulfin, “strongly

guarded: but the guards are the Horse Marines—whose officer lent you

your chargers today. He is my friend, and when I tell him what is

toward, he will help me. I only ask of you one promise in return. That

you will not seek to escape, or to return to your own country, except

by the free leave and license of our gracious Sovereigns.”

The children easily promised—and they thought the promise would be

easily kept.

“Then tomorrow,” said Ulfin, “shall begin the splendid Peace Plot which

shall hand our names down, haloed with glory, to remotest ages.”

He looked kindly on them and went out.

“He _is_ a dear, isn’t he?” said Mavis.

“Yes, indeed,” said the Princess absently.

And now next day the children, carrying their tickets-of-leaves, were

led to the great pearl and turquoise building, which was the Museum

of Foreign Curiosities. Many were the strange objects preserved

there—china and glass and books and land-things of all kinds,

taken from sunken ships. And all the things were under dome-shaped

cases, apparently of glass. The Curator of the Museum showed them

his treasures with pride, and explained them all wrong in the most

interesting way.

“Those discs,” he said, pointing to the china plates, “are used in

games of skill. They are thrown from one hand to another, and if one

fails to catch them his head is broken.”

An egg boiler, he explained, was a Land Queen’s jewel case, and four

egg-shaped emeralds had been fitted into it to show its use to the

vulgar. A silver ice pail was labeled: “Drinking Vessel of the Horses

of the Kings of Earth,” and a cigar case half full was called “Charm

case containing Evil Charms: probably Ancient Barbarian.” In fact it

was very like the museums you see on land.

They were just coming to a large case containing something whitish and

labeled, “Very valuable indeed,” when a messenger came to tell the

Curator that a soldier was waiting with valuable curiosities taken as

loot from the enemy.

“Excuse me one moment,” said the Curator, and left them.

“_I_ arranged that,” said Ulfin, “quick, before he returns—take your

coats if you know any spell to remove the case.”

The Princess laughed and laid her hand on the glassy dome, and lo! it

broke and disappeared as a bubble does when you touch it.

“Magic,” whispered Ulfin.

“Not magic,” said the Princess. “Your cases are only bubbles.”

“And I never knew,” said Ulfin.

“No,” said the Princess, “because you never dared to touch them.”

The children were already busy pulling the coats off the ruby slab

where they lay. “Here’s Cathay’s,” whispered Mavis.

The Princess snatched it and her own pearly coat which, in one quick

movement, she put on and buttoned over Cathay’s little folded coat,

holding this against her. “Quick,” she said, “put yours on, all of you.

Take your mer-tails on your arms.”

They did. The soldiers at the end of the long hall had noticed the

movements and came charging up toward them.

“Quick, quick!” said the Princess, “now—altogether. One, two, three.

Press your third buttons.”

The children did, and the soldiers tearing up the hall to arrest the

breakers of the cases of the Museum—for by this time they could see

what had happened—almost fell over each other in their confusion. For

there, where a moment ago had been four children with fin-tail fetters,

was now empty space, and beside the rifled Museum case stood only Ulfin.

And then an odd thing happened. Out of nowhere, as it seemed, a little

pearly coat appeared, hanging alone in air (water, of course, it was

really. Or was it?). It seemed to grow and to twine itself round Ulfin.

“Put it on,” said a voice from invisibility, “put it on,” and Ulfin did

put it on.

The soldiers were close upon him. “Press the third button,” cried the

Princess, and Ulfin did so. But as his right hand sought the button,

the foremost soldier caught his left arm with the bitter cry—

“Traitor, I arrest you in the King’s name,” and though he could now not

see that he was holding anything, he could feel that he was, and he

held on.

“The last button, Ulfin,” cried the voice of the unseen Princess,

“press the last button,” and next moment the soldier, breathless with

amazement and terror, was looking stupidly at his empty hand. Ulfin, as

well as the three children and the Princess, was not only invisible but

intangible, the soldiers could not see or feel anything.

And what is more, neither could the Princess or the children or Ulfin.

“Oh, where are you? Where am I?” cried Mavis.

“Silence,” said the Princess, “we must keep together by our voices, but

that is dangerous. _A la porte!_” she added. How fortunate it was that

none of the soldiers understood French!

As the five were invisible and intangible and as the soldiers were

neither, it was easy to avoid them and to get to the arched doorway.

The Princess got there first. There was no enemy near—all the soldiers

were crowding around the rifled Museum case, talking and wondering, the

soldier who had seized Ulfin explaining again and again how he had had

the caitiff by the arm, “as solid as solid, and then, all in a minute,

there was nothing—nothing at all,” and his comrades trying their best

to believe him. The Princess just waited, saying, “Are you there?”

every three seconds, as though she had been at the telephone.

“Are you there?” said the Princess for the twenty-seventh time. And

then Ulfin said, “I am here, Princess.”

“We must have connecting links,” she said—“bits of seaweed would do. If

you hold a piece of seaweed in your hand I will take hold of the other

end of it. We cannot feel the touch of each other’s hands, but we shall

feel the seaweed, and you will know, by its being drawn tight that I

have hold of the other end. Get some pieces for the children, too. Good

stout seaweed, such as you made the nets of with which you captured us.”

“Ah, Princess,” he said, “how can I regret that enough? And yet how

can I regret it at all since it has brought you to me.”

“Peace, foolish child,” said the Princess, and Ulfin’s heart leaped for

joy because, when a Princess calls a grown-up man “child,” it means

that she likes him more than a little, or else, of course, she would

not take such a liberty. “But the seaweed,” she added, “there is no

time to lose.”

“I have some in my pocket,” said Ulfin, blushing, only she could not

see that. “They keep me busy making nets in my spare time—I always have

some string in my pocket.”

A piece of stringy seaweed suddenly became visible as Ulfin took it out

of his invisible pocket, which, of course, had the property of making

its contents invisible too, so long as they remained in it. It floated

toward the Princess, who caught the end nearest to her and held it fast.

“Where are you?” said a small voice.

It was Mavis—and almost at once Francis and Bernard were there too. The

seaweed chain was explained to them, and they each held fast to their

ends of the seaweed links. So that when the soldiers, a little late in

the day, owing to the careful management of Ulfin’s friend, reached

the front door, there was nothing to be seen but four bits of seaweed

floating down the street, which, of course, was the sort of thing that

nobody could possibly notice unless they _knew_.

The bits of seaweed went drifting to the Barracks, and no one noticed

that they floated on to the stables and that invisible hands loosed

the halters of five Sea Horses. The soldier who ought to have been

looking after the horses was deeply engaged in a game of Animal Grab

with a comrade. The cards were of narwhal ivory, very fine, indeed, and

jeweled on every pip. The invisible hands saddled the Sea Horses and

invisible forms sprang to the saddles, and urged the horses forward.

The unfortunate Animal Grabber was roused from his game by the sight

of five retreating steeds—saddled and bridled indeed, but, as far as

he could see, riderless, and long before other horses could be got out

and saddled the fugitives were out of sight and pursuit was vain. Just

as before they went across country to the rock cut and then swam up,

holding by the linking seaweed.

Because it was Tuesday and nearly two o’clock, the Professor of

Conchology was making ready to receive pupils, which he did in an arbor

of coral of various shades of pink, surrounded by specimen shells of

all the simpler species. He was alone in the garden, and as they neared

him, the Princess, the three children and Ulfin touched the necessary

buttons and became once more visible and tangible.

“Ha,” said the Professor, but without surprise. “Magic. A very neat

trick, my dears, and excellently done.”

“You need not remove your jacket,” he added to Ulfin, who was pulling

off his pearly coat. “The mental exercises in which we propose to

engage do not require gymnasium costume.”

But Ulfin went on taking off his coat, and when it was off he handed

it to the Princess, who at once felt in its inner pocket, pulled out

a little golden case and held it toward the Professor. It has been

well said that no charm on earth—I mean underwater—is strong enough to

make one forget one’s antidote. The moment the Professor’s eye fell on

the little golden case, he held out his hand for it, and the Princess

gave it to him. He opened it, and without hesitation as without haste,

swallowed the charm.

Next moment the Princess was clasped in his arms, and the moment after

that, still clasped there, was beginning a hurried explanation; but he

stopped her.

“I know, my child, I know,” he said. “You have brought me the charm

which gives back to me my memory and makes a King of Merland out of

a Professor of Conchology. But why, oh why, did you not bring me my

coat—my pearly coat?” said the King, “it was in the case with the

others.”

No one had thought of it, and everyone felt and looked exceedingly

silly, and no one spoke till Ulfin said, holding out the coat which the

Princess had given back to him—

“You will have this coat, Majesty. I have no right to the magic

garments of your country.”

“But,” said Francis, “you need the coat more than anybody. The King

shall have mine—I shan’t want it if you’ll let me go and ask for an

interview with the King of the Under Folk.”

“No, have mine,” said Mavis—and “have mine,” said Bernard, and the

Princess said, “Of course my Father will have mine.” So they all

protested at once. But the King raised his hand, and there was silence,

and they saw that he no longer looked only a noble and learned

gentleman, but that he looked every inch a King.

“Silence,” he said, “if anyone speaks with the King and Queen of this

land it is fitting that it should be I. See, we will go out by the back

door, so as to avoid the other pupils who will soon be arriving in

their thousands, for my Conchology Course is very popular. And as we

go, tell me who is this man of the Under Folk who seems to be one of

you”—(“I am the Princess’ servant,” Ulfin put in)—“and why you desire

to speak with the King of this land.”

So they made great haste to go out by the back way so as not to meet

the Conchology students, and cautiously crept up to their horses—and,

of course, the biggest and best horse was given to the King to ride.

But when he saw how awkwardly their false tails adapted themselves to

the saddle he said, “My daughter, you can remove these fetters.”

“How?” said she. “My shell knife won’t cut them.”

“Bite through the strings of them with your little sharp teeth,”

said the King, “nothing but Princess teeth is sharp enough to cut

through them. No, my son—it is not degrading. A true Princess cannot

be degraded by anything that is for the good of her subjects and her

friends.”

So the Mer Princess willingly bit through the strings of the false

tails—and everybody put on his or her proper tail again, with great

comfort and enjoyment—and they all swam toward the town.

And as they went they heard a great noise of shouting, and saw parties

of Under Folk flying as if in fear.

“I must make haste,” said the King, “and see to it that our Peace

Conference be not too late”—so they hurried on.

And the noise grew louder and louder, and the crowds of flying Under

Folk thicker and fleeter, and by and by Ulfin made them stand back

under the arch of the Astrologers’ Tower to see what it was from which

they fled. And there, along the streets of the great city of the Under

Folk, came the flash of swords and the swirl of banners and the army of

the Mer Folk came along between the great buildings of their foes, and

on their helmets was the light of victory, and at their head, proud and

splendid, rode the Princess Maia and—Reuben.

“Oh—Reuben, Reuben! We’re saved,” called Mavis, and would have darted

out, but Francis put his hand over her mouth.

“Stop!” he said, “don’t you remember we promised not to escape without

the Queen’s permission? Quick, quick to the Palace, to make peace

before our armies can attack it.”

“You speak well,” said the Mer King. And Ulfin said, “This is no time

for ceremony. Quick, quick, I will take you in by the tradesmen’s

entrance.” And, turning their backs on that splendid and victorious

procession, they marched to the back entrance of the royal Palace.

CHAPTER TWELVE

_The End_

THE QUEEN of the Under Folk sat with her husband on their second-best

throne, which was much more comfortable than their State one, though

not so handsome. Their sad faces were lighted up with pleasure as they

watched the gambols of their new pet, Fido, a dear little earth-child,

who was playing with a ball of soft pink seaweed, patting it, and

tossing it and running after it as prettily as any kitten.

“Dear little Fido,” said the Queen, “come here then,” and Fido, who had

once been Cathay, came willingly to lean against the Queen’s knee and

be stroked and petted.

“I have curious dreams sometimes,” said the Queen to the King, “dreams

so vivid that they are more like memories.”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” said the King, “that we have no memories

of our childhood, of our youth—?”

“I believe,” said the Queen slowly, “that we have tasted in our time of

the oblivion-cup. There is no one like us in this land. If we were born

here, why can we not remember our parents who must have been like us?

And dearest—the dream that comes to me most often is that we once had

a child and lost it—and that it was a child like us—”

“Fido,” said the King in a low voice, “is like us.” And he, too,

stroked the head of Cathay, who had forgotten everything except that

she was Fido and bore the Queen’s name on her collar. “But if you

remember that we had a child it cannot be true—if we drank of the

oblivion-cup, that is, because, of course, that would make us forget

everything.”

“It could not make a mother forget her child,” said the Queen, and with

the word caught up Fido-which-was-Cathay and kissed her.

“Nice Queen,” purred Cathay-which-was-Fido, “I do love you.”

“I am sure we had a child once,” said the Queen, hugging her, “and that

we have been made to forget.”

Even as she spoke the hangings of cloth of gold, pieced together from

the spoil of lost galleons, rustled at the touch of someone outside.

The Queen dried her eyes, which needed it, and said, “Come in.”

The arras was lifted and a tall figure entered.

“Bless my soul,” said the King of the Under Folk, “it’s the Professor

of Conchology.”

“No,” said the figure, advancing, “it is the King of the Mer-people. My

brother King, my sister Queen, I greet you.”

“This is most irregular,” said the King.

“Never mind, dear,” said the Queen, “let us hear what his Majesty has

to say.”

“I say—Let there be peace between our people,” said the Mer-King. “For

countless ages these wars have been waged, for countless ages your

people and mine have suffered. Even the origin of the war is lost in

the mists of antiquity. Now I come to you, I, your prisoner—I was

given to drink of the cup of oblivion and forgot who I was and whence I

came. Now a counter-charm has given me back mind and memory. I come in

the name of my people. If we have wronged you, we ask your forgiveness.

If you have wronged us, we freely forgive you. Say: Shall it be

peace, and shall all the sons of the sea live as brothers in love and

kindliness for evermore?

“Really,” said the King of the Under Folk, “I think it is not at all a

bad idea—but in confidence, and between Monarchs, I may tell you, sir,

that I suspect my mind is not what it was. You, sir, seem to possess a

truly royal grasp of your subject. My mind is so imperfect that I dare

not consult it. But my heart—”

“Your heart says Yes,” said the Queen. “So does mine. But our troops

are besieging your city,” she said, “they will say that in asking for

peace you were paying the tribute of the vanquished.”

“My people will not think this of me,” said the King of Merland, “nor

would your people think it of you. Let us join hands in peace and the

love of royal brethren.”

“What a dreadful noise they are making outside,” said the King, and

indeed the noise of shouting and singing was now to be heard on every

side of the Palace.

“If there was a balcony now where we could show ourselves,” suggested

the King of Merland.

“The very thing,” said the Queen, catching up her pet

Fido-which-was-Cathay in her arms and leading the way to the great

curtained arch at the end of the hall. She drew back the swinging,

sweeping hangings of woven seaweed and stepped forth on the balcony—the

two Kings close behind her. But she stopped short and staggered back

a little, so that her husband had to put an arm about her to support

her, when her first glance showed her that the people who were shouting

outside the Palace were not, as she had supposed, Under Folk in some

unexpected though welcome transport of loyal enthusiasm, but ranks on

ranks of the enemy, the hated Mer Folk, all splendid and menacing in

the pomp and circumstance of glorious war.

“It is the enemy!” gasped the Queen.

“It is my people,” said the Mer King. “It is a beautiful thing in you,

dear Queen, that you agreed to peace, without terms, while you thought

you were victorious, and not because the legions of the Mer Folk were

thundering at your gates. May I speak for us?”

They signed assent. And the Mer King stepped forward full into view of

the crowd in the street below.

“My people,” he said in a voice loud, yet soft, and very, very

beautiful. And at the words the Mer Folk below looked up and recognized

their long-lost King, and a shout went up that you could have heard a

mile away.

The King raised his hand for silence.

“My people,” he said, “brave men of Merland—let there be peace, now and

forever, between us and our brave foes. The King and Queen of this land

agreed to make unconditional peace while they believed themselves to be

victorious. If victory has for today been with us, let us at least be

the equals of our foes in generosity as in valor.”

Another shout rang out. And the King of the Under Folk stepped forward.

“My people,” he said, and the Under Folk came quickly forward toward

him at the sound of his voice. “There shall be peace. Let these who

were your foes this morning be your guests tonight and your friends

and brothers for evermore. If we have wronged them, we beg them to

forgive us: if they have wronged us, we beg them to allow us to forgive

them.” (“Is that right?” he asked the Mer King in a hasty whisper, who

whispered back, “Admirable!”) “Now,” he went on, “cheer, Mer Folk and

Under Folk, for the splendid compact of Peace.”

And they cheered.

“Pardon, your Majesty”—it was Ulfin who spoke—“it was the stranger

Francis who first conceived the Peace Idea.”

“True,” said the Mer King, “where is Francis?”

But Francis was not to be found; it was only his name which was

presented to the people from the balcony. He himself kept his pearly

coat on and kept the invisibility button well pressed down, till the

crowd had dispersed to ring all the diving bells with which the towers

of the city were so handsomely fitted up, to hang the city with a

thousand seaweed flags, and to illuminate its every window and door and

pinnacle and buttress with more and more phosphorescent fish. In the

Palace was a banquet for the Kings and the Queen and the Princesses,

and the three children, and Cathay-who-was-Fido. Also Reuben was called

from the command of his Sea Urchins to be a guest at the royal table.

Princess Freia asked that an invitation might be sent to Ulfin—but

when the King’s Private Secretary, a very intelligent cuttlefish, had

got the invitation ready, handsomely written in his own ink, it was

discovered that no Ulfin was to be found to receive it.

It was a glorious banquet. The only blot on its rapturous splendor was

the fact that Cathay still remained Fido, the Queen’s pet—and her eyes

were still those cold, unremembering eyes which her brothers and sister

could not bear to meet. Reuben sat at the right hand of the Queen, and

from the moment he took his place there he seemed to think of no one

else. He talked with her, sensibly and modestly, and Francis remarked

that during his stay in Merland Reuben had learned to talk as you do,

and not in the language of gypsy circus-people. The Commander-in-Chief

of the Forces of the Under Folk sat at the left hand of his King.

The King of the Mer Folk sat between his happy daughters, and the

children sat together between the Chief Astrologer and the Curator of

the Museum of Foreign Curiosities, who was more pleased to see them

again than he had ever expected to be, and much more friendly than

they had ever hoped to find him. Everyone was extremely happy, even

Fido-which-was-Cathay, who sat on the Queen’s lap and was fed with

delicacies from the Queen’s own plate.

It was at about the middle of the feast, just after everybody had drunk

the health of the two Commanders-in-Chief, amid tempestuous applause,

that a serving-fish whispered behind his fin to the Under Folk Queen:

“Certainly,” she said, “show him in.”

And the person who was shown in was Ulfin, and he carried on his arm a

pearly coat and a scaly tail. He sank on one knee and held them up to

the Mer King, with only one doubtful deprecating glance at the Curator

of the Museum of Foreign Curiosities.

The King took them, and feeling in the pocket of the coat drew out

three golden cases.

“It is the royal prerogative to have three,” he said smilingly to the

Queen, “in case of accidents. May I ask your Majesty’s permission to

administer one of them to your Majesty’s little pet. I am sure you are

longing to restore her to her brothers and her sister.”

The Queen could not but agree—though her heart was sore at losing

the little Fido-Kathleen, of whom she had grown so fond. But she was

hoping that Reuben would consent to let her adopt him, and be more

to her than many Fidos. She administered the charm herself, and the

moment Cathay had swallowed it the royal arms were loosened, and the

Queen expected her pet to fly to her brothers and sister. But to Cathay

it was as though only an instant had passed since she came into that

hall, a prisoner. So that when suddenly she saw her brothers and

sister honored guests at what was unmistakably a very grand and happy

festival, and found herself in the place of honor on the very lap of

the Queen, she only snuggled closer to that royal lady and called out

very loud and clear, “Hullo, Mavis! Here’s a jolly transformation

scene. That was a magic drink she gave us and it’s made everybody jolly

and friends—I am glad. You dear Queen,” she added, “it is nice of you

to nurse me.”

So everybody was pleased: only Princess Freia looked sad and puzzled

and her eyes followed Ulfin as he bowed and made to retire from the

royal presence. He had almost reached the door when she spoke quickly

in the royal ear that was next to her.

“Oh, Father,” she said, “don’t let him go like that. He ought to be at

the banquet. We couldn’t have done anything without him.”

“True,” said the King, “but I thought he had been invited, and refused.”

“Refused?” said the Princess, “oh, call him back!”

“I’ll run if I may,” said Mavis, slipping out of her place and running

down the great hall.

“If you’ll sit a little nearer to me, Father,” said Maia obligingly,

“the young man can sit between you and my sister.”

So that is where Ulfin found himself, and that was where he had never

dared to hope to be.

The banquet was a strange as well as a magnificent scene—because, of

course, the Mer-people were beautiful as the day, the five children

were quite as pretty as any five children have any need to be, and

the King and Queen of the Under Folk were as handsome as handsome. So

that all this handsomeness was a very curious contrast to the strange

heavy features of the Under Folk who now sat at table, so pleasant and

friendly, toasting their late enemies.

The contrast between the Princess Freia and Ulfin was particularly

marked, for their heads bent near together as they talked.

“Princess,” he was saying, “tomorrow you will go back to your kingdom,

and I shall never see you again.”

The Princess could not think of anything to say, because it seemed to

her that what he said was true.

“But,” he went on, “I shall be glad all my life to have known and loved

so dear and beautiful a Princess.”

And again the Princess could think of nothing to say.

“Princess,” he said, “tell me one thing. Do you know what I should say

to you if I were a Prince?”

“Yes,” said Freia; “I know what you would say and I know what I should

answer, dear Ulfin, if you were only a commoner of Merland ... I mean,

you know, if your face were like ours. But since you are of the Under

Folk and I am a Mermaid, I can only say that I will never forget you,

and that I will never marry anyone else.”

“Is it only my face then that prevents your marrying me?” he asked with

abrupt eagerness, and she answered gently, “Of course.”

Then Ulfin sprang to his feet. “Your Majesties,” he cried, “and Lord

High Astrologer, has not the moment come when, since we are at a

banquet with friends, we may unmask?”

The strangers exchanged wondering glances.

The Sovereigns and the Astrologers made gestures of assent—then, with a

rustling and a rattling, helmets were unlaced and corselets unbuckled,

the Under Folk seemed to the Mer-people as though they were taking off

their very skins. But really what they took off was but their thick

scaly armor, and under it they were as softly and richly clad, and as

personable people as the Mer Folk themselves.

“But,” said Maia, “how splendid! We thought you were always in

armor—that—that it grew on you, you know.”

The Under Folk laughed jollily. “Of course it was always on

us—since—when you saw us, we were always at war.”

“And you’re just like us!” said Freia to Ulfin.

“There is no one like you,” he whispered back. Ulfin was now a handsome

dark-haired young man, and looked much more like a Prince than a great

many real Princes do.

“Did you mean what you said just now?” the Princess whispered. And for

answer Ulfin dared to touch her hand with soft firm fingers.

“Papa,” said Freia, “please may I marry Ulfin?”

“By all means,” said the King, and immediately announced the

engagement, joining their hands and giving them his blessing in the

most businesslike way.

Then said the Queen of the Under Folk:

“Why should not these two reign over the Under Folk and let us two be

allowed to remember the things we have forgotten and go back to that

other life which I know we had somewhere—where we had a child.”

“I think,” said Mavis, “that now everything’s settled so comfortably we

ought perhaps all of us to be thinking about getting home.”

“I have only one charm left, unfortunately,” said the Mer King, “but if

your people will agree to your abdicating, I will divide it between you

with pleasure, dear King and Queen of the Under Folk; and I have reason

to believe that the half which you will each of you have, will be just

enough to counteract your memories of this place, and restore to you

all the memories of your other life.”

“Could not Reuben go with us?” the Queen asked.

“No,” said the Mer King, “but he shall follow you to earth, and that

speedily.”

The Astrologer Royal, who had been whispering to Reuben, here

interposed.

“It would be well, your Majesties,” he said, “if a small allowance of

the cup of oblivion were served out to these land children, so that

they may not remember their adventures here. It is not well for the

Earth People to know too much of the dwellers in the sea. There is a

sacred vessel which has long been preserved among the civic plate. I

propose that this vessel should be presented to our guests as a mark of

our esteem; that they shall bear it with them, and drink the contents

as soon as they set foot on their own shores.”

He was at once sent to fetch the sacred vessel. It was a stone ginger

beer bottle.

“I do really think we ought to go,” said Mavis again.

There were farewells to be said—a very loving farewell to the

Princesses, a very friendly one to the fortunate Ulfin, and then a

little party left the Palace quietly and for the last time made the

journey to the quiet Iswater where the King of Merland had so long

professed Conchology.

Arrived at this spot the King spoke to the King and Queen of the Under

Folk.

“Swallow this charm,” he said, “in equal shares—then rise to the

surface of the lake and say the charm which I perceive the Earth

children have taught you as we came along. The rest will be easy and

beautiful. We shall never forget you, and your hearts will remember us,

though your minds must forget. Farewell.”

The King and Queen rose through the waters and disappeared.

Next moment a strong attraction like that which needles feel for

magnets drew the children from the side of the Mer King. They shut

their eyes, and when they opened them they were on dry land in a wood

by a lake—and Francis had a ginger beer bottle in his hand. The King

and Queen of the Under Folk must have said at once the charm to recall

the children to earth.

“It works more slowly on land, the Astrologer said,” Reuben remarked.

“Before we drink and forget everything I want to tell you that I think

you’ve all been real bricks to me. And if you don’t mind, I’ll take off

these girls’ things.”

He did, appearing in shirt and knickerbockers.

“Good-bye,” he said, shaking hands with everyone.

“But aren’t you coming home with us?”

“No,” he said, “the Astrologer told me the first man and woman I should

see on land would be my long-lost Father and Mother, and I was to go

straight to them with my little shirt and my little shoe that I’ve kept

all this time, the ones that were mine when I was a stolen baby, and

they’d know me and I should belong to them. But I hope we’ll meet again

some day. Good-bye, and thank you. It was ripping being General of the

Sea Urchins.”

With that they drank each a draught from the ginger beer bottle, and

then, making haste to act before the oblivion-cup should blot out with

other things the Astrologer’s advice, Reuben went out of the wood into

the sunshine and across a green turf. They saw him speak to a man and

a woman in blue bathing dresses who seemed to have been swimming in

the lake and now were resting on the marble steps that led down to it.

He held out the little shirt and the little shoe, and they held their

hands out to him. And as they turned the children saw that their faces

were the faces of the King and Queen of the Under Folk, only now not

sad anymore, but radiant with happiness, because they had found their

son again.

“Of course,” said Francis, “there isn’t any time in the other world. I

expect they were swimming and just dived, and all that happened to them

just in the minute they were underwater.”

“And Reuben is really their long-lost heir?”

“They seemed to think so. I expect he’s exactly like an ancestor or

something, and you know how the Queen took to him from the first.”

And then the oblivion-cup took effect—and they forgot, and forgot

forever, the wonderful world that they had known underseas, and Sabrina

fair and the circus and the Mermaid whom they had rescued.

But Reuben, curiously enough, they did not forget: they went home to

tea with a pleasant story for their father and mother of a Spangled Boy

at the circus who had run away and found his father and mother.

And two days after a motor stopped at their gate and Reuben got out.

“I say,” he said, “I’ve found my father and mother, and we’ve come to

thank you for the plum pie and things. Did you ever get the plate and

spoon out of the bush? Come and see my father and mother,” he ended

proudly.

The children went, and looked once more in the faces of the King and

Queen of the Under Folk, but now they did not know those faces, which

seemed to them only the faces of some very nice strangers.

“I think Reuben’s jolly lucky, don’t you?” said Mavis.

“Yes,” said Bernard.

“So do I,” said Cathay.

“I wish Aunt Enid had let me bring the aquarium,” said Francis.

“Never mind,” said Mavis, “it will be something to live for when we

come back from the sea, and everything is beastly.”

And it was.

_The End_

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

The first chapter’s words were ALL CAPPED to match the rest of the

book’s format. Obvious punctuation errors were repaired.