II

And indeed they were under the forest, just underneath a wooded glen

between the two villages and the two counties. No one ever came to this

glen but the herd boys and girls from both villages and both counties.

Now there was bitter strife between the two villages—strife over the

threshing-floors, and the pastures, and the mills, and the

timber-felling, and most of all over the staff of headmanship, which one

of the villages had long claimed as belonging to it by rights, and the

other would not give up. And so these two villages were at enmity with

one another.

But the herd boys and girls of both villages were just simple young

folk, who understood nothing about the rights of their elders, and cared

less, but met every day on the boundary between the two villages and the

two counties. Their flocks mingled and fed together, while the boys

played games, and over their games would often be late in bringing the

sheep home of an evening.

For this the poor boys and girls would be soundly rated and scolded in

both villages. But in one of the villages there was a great-grandfather

and a great-grandmother who could remember all that had ever happened in

either village, and they said: “Leave the children alone. A better

harvest will spring from their childish games than ever from your wheat

in the fields.”

So the shepherds kept on coming, as before, with their sheep to the

glen, and in time the parents stopped bothering about what the children

did.

And so it was on the day when Reygoch broke through the earth at that

very spot. The boys and girls happened to be all gathered together under

the biggest oak, getting ready to go home. One was tying up his shoes,

another fixing a thong to a stick, and the girls were collecting the

sheep. All of a sudden they heard a dreadful thumping in the earth right

underneath their feet! There was a thud, then a second, and at the third

thud the earth gaped, and up there came, right in the midst of the

shepherds, a fearsome large head as big as a barrel, with a beard like a

shock of corn, and the beard still bristling with hoar-frost from

Frosten city!

The boys and girls all screamed with fright and fell down in a dead

faint—not so much because of the head as big as a barrel, but because of

the beard, that looked for all the world like a shock of corn!

So the shepherds fainted away—all but young Lilio, who was the

handsomest and cleverest among the lads of both villages and both

counties.

Lilio kept his feet, and went close up to see what sort of monster it

might be.

“Don’t be afraid, children,” said Lilio to the shepherds. “The Lord

never created that monstrous giant for evil, else he would have killed

half the world by now.”

So Lilio walked boldly up to Reygoch, and Reygoch lifted the basket with

Curlylocks down from his ear and set it on the ground.

“Come—oh come quickly, boys!” cried Lilio. “There is a little girl with

him, little and lovely as a star!”

The herd boys and girls got up and began to peep from behind each other

at Curlylocks; and those who had at first been the most frightened were

now the foremost in coming up to Curlylocks, because, you see, they were

always quickest in everything.

No sooner had the herd boys and girls seen dear little Curlylocks than

they loved her. They helped her out of her basket, led her to where the

turf was softest, and fell to admiring her lovely robes, which were

light as gossamer and blue as the sky, and her hair, which was shining

and soft as the morning light; but most of all they admired her fairy

veil, for she would wave it just for a moment, and then rise from the

grass and float in the air.

The herd boys and girls and Curlylocks danced in a ring together, and

played all kinds of games. Curlylocks’ little feet twinkled for pure

joy, her eyes laughed, and so did her lips, because she had found

companions who liked the same things as she did.

Then Curlylocks brought out her little bag of pearls to give presents

and pleasure to her new friends. She threw down a pearl, and a little

tree grew up in their midst, all decked with coloured ribbons, silk

kerchiefs and red necklaces for the girls. She threw down a second

pearl, and from all parts of the forest came forth haughty peacocks;

they stalked and strutted, they flew up and away, shedding their

glorious feathers all over the turf, so that the grass fairly sparkled

with them. And the herd boys stuck the feathers in their caps and

doublets. Yet another pearl did Curlylocks throw out, and from a lofty

branch there dropped a golden swing with silken ropes; and when the boys

and girls got on the swing, it swooped and stooped as light as a

swallow, and as gently as the grand barge of the Duke of Venice.

The children shouted for joy, and Curlylocks threw out all the pearls in

her bag one after another, never thinking that she ought to save them;

because Curlylocks liked nothing in the world better than lovely games

and pretty songs. And so she spent her pearls down to the last little

seed pearl, though heaven alone knew how badly she would need them soon,

both she and her new friends.

“I shall never leave you any more,” cried Curlylocks merrily. And the

herd boys and girls clapped their hands and threw up their caps for joy

over her words.

Only Lilio had not joined in their games, because he was rather sad and

worried that day. He stayed near Reygoch, and from there he watched

Curlylocks in all her loveliness, and all the pretty magic she made

there in the forest.

Meantime Reygoch had come out of his hole. Out he came and stood up

among the trees of the forest, and as he stood there his head rose above

the hundred-year-old forest, so terribly big was Reygoch.

Over the forest looked Reygoch, and out into the plain.

The sun had already set, and the sky was all crimson. In the plain you

could see the two golden fields spread out like two gold kerchiefs, and

in the midst of the fields two villages like two white doves. A little

way beyond the two villages flowed the mighty River Banewater, and all

along the river rose great grass-grown dykes; and on the dykes you could

see herds and their keepers moving.

“Well, well!” said Reygoch, “and to think that I have spent a thousand

years in Frosten city, in that desert, when there is so much beauty in

the world!” And Reygoch was so delighted with looking into the plain

that he just stood there with his great head as big as a barrel turning

from right to left, like a huge scarecrow nodding above the tree-tops.

Presently Lilio called to him:

“Sit down, daddy, for fear the elders of the villages should see you.”

Reygoch sat down, and the two started talking, and Lilio told Reygoch

why he was so sad that day.

“A very wicked thing is going to happen to-day,” said Lilio. “I

overheard the elders of our village talking last night, and this is what

they said: ‘Let us pierce the dyke along the River Banewater. The river

will widen the hole, the dyke will fall, and the water will flood the

enemy village; it will drown men and women, flood the graveyard and the

fields, till the water will be level above them, and nothing but a lake

to show where the enemy village has been. But our fields are higher, and

our village lies on a height, and so no harm will come to us.’ And then

they really went out with a great ram to pierce the dyke secretly and at

dead of night. But, daddy,” continued Lilio, “I know that our fields are

not so high, and I know that the water will overflow them too, and

before the night is over there will be a lake where our two villages

used to be. And that is why I am so sad.”

They were still talking when a terrible noise and clamour arose from the

plain.

“There!” cried Lilio, “the dreadful thing has happened!”

Reygoch drew himself up, picked up Lilio, and the two looked out over

the plain. It was a sad sight to see! The dyke was crumbling, and the

mighty Black Banewater rolling in two arms across the beautiful fields.

One arm rolled towards the one village, and the second arm towards the

other village. Animals were drowning, the golden fields disappeared

below the flood. Above the graves the crosses were afloat, and both

villages rang with cries and shouting. For in both villages the elders

had gone out to the threshing-floors with cymbals, drums and fifes, and

there they were drumming and piping away each to spite the other

village, so crazed were they with malice, while over and above that din

the village dogs howled dismally, and the women and children wept and

wailed.

“Daddy,” cried Lilio, “why have I not your hands to stop the water?”

Terrified and bewildered by the dreadful clamour in the plain, the herd

boys and girls crowded round Reygoch and Lilio.

When Curlylocks heard what was the matter she called out quick and

sprightly, as befits a little fairy:

“Come on, Reygoch—come on and stop the water!”

“Yes, yes, let’s go!” cried the herd boys of both villages and both

counties, as they wept and sobbed without stopping. “Come on, Reygoch,

and take us along too!”

Reygoch stooped, gathered up Lilio and Curlylocks (who was still

carrying her lantern) in his right hand, and all the rest of the herd

boys and girls in his left, and then Reygoch raced with ten-fathom

strides through the forest clearing and down into the plain. Behind him

ran the sheep, bleating with terror. And so they reached the plain.

Through fog and twilight ran Reygoch with the children in his arms and

the terrified flocks at his heels in frantic flight—all running towards

the dyke. And out to meet them flowed the Black Banewater, killing and

drowning as it flowed. It is terribly strong, is that water. Stronger

than Reygoch? Who knows? Will it sweep away Reygoch, too? Will it drown

those poor herd boys and girls also, and must the dear little Fairy

Curlylocks die—and she as lovely as a star?

So Reygoch ran on across the meadow, which was still dry, and came all

breathless to the dyke, where there was a great breach, through which

the river was pouring with frightful force.

“Stop it up, Reygoch—stop it up!” wailed the boys and girls.

Not far from the dyke there was a little mound in the plain.

“Put us on that mound,” cried Curlylocks briskly.

Reygoch set down Lilio and Curlylocks and the herd boys and girls on the

hillock, and the sheep and lambs crowded round them. Already the hillock

was just an island in the middle of the water.

But Reygoch took one mighty stride into the water and then lay down

facing the dyke, stopping up the breach with his enormous chest. For a

little while the water ceased to flow; but it was so terribly strong

that nothing on earth could stop it. The water pressed forward; it

eddied round Reygoch’s shoulders; it broke through under him, over him,

about him—everywhere—and rolled on again over the plain. Reygoch

stretched out both arms and piled up the earth in great handfuls; but as

fast as he piled it up, the water carried it away.

And in the plain the water kept on rising higher and higher; fields,

villages, cattle, threshing-floors, not one of them could be seen any

more. Of both villages, the roofs and church steeples were all that

showed above the flood.

Even around the hillock where the herd boys and girls were standing with

Lilio and Curlylocks the flood was rising higher and higher. The poor

young things were weeping and crying, some for their mothers, others for

their brothers and sisters, and some for their homes and gardens;

because they saw that both villages had perished, and not a soul

saved—and the water rising about them, too!

So they crowded up higher and higher upon the hillock; they huddled

together around Lilio and Curlylocks, who were standing side by side in

the midst of their friends.

Lilio stood still and white as marble; but Curlylocks’ eyes shone, and

she held up her lantern towards Reygoch to give him light for his work.

Curlylocks’ veil rose and fluttered in the night wind and hovered above

the water, as though the little fairy were about to fly away and vanish

from among all these terrors.

“Curlylocks! Curlylocks! don’t go! Don’t leave us!” wailed the herd

boys, to whom it seemed as if there were an angel with them while they

could look upon Curlylocks.

“I’m not going—I’m not going away!” cried Curlylocks. But her veil

fluttered, as if it would carry her away of its own accord, over the

water and up into the clouds.

Suddenly they heard a scream. The water had risen and caught one of the

girls by the hem of her skirt and was washing her away. Lilio stooped

just in time, seized the girl, and pulled her back on to the hillock.

“We must tie ourselves together,” cried the herd boys; “we must be tied

each to the other, or we shall perish.”

“Here, children—here!” cried Curlylocks, who had a kind and pitiful

heart.

Quickly she stripped her magic veil off her shoulders and gave it to the

herd girls. They tore the veil into strips, knotted the strips into long

ropes, and bound themselves together, each to other, round Lilio and

Curlylocks. And round the shepherds bleated the poor sheep in terror of

being drowned.

But Curlylocks was now among these poor castaways, no better off than

the rest of them. Her pearls she had wasted on toys, and her magic veil

she had given away and torn up out of the goodness of her heart, and now

she could no longer fly, nor save herself out of this misery.

But Lilio loved Curlylocks better than anything else in the world, and

when the water was already up to his feet he called:

“Don’t be afraid, Curlylocks! I will save you and hold you up!” And he

held up Curlylocks in his arms.

With one hand Curlylocks clung round Lilio’s neck, and with the other

she held up her little lantern aloft towards Reygoch.

And Reygoch, lying on his chest in the water, was all the time steadily

fighting the flood. Right and left of Reygoch rose the ruins of the dyke

like two great horns. Reygoch’s beard was touzled, his shoulders were

bleeding. Yet he could not stop the Banewater, and the flood round the

hillock was rising and rising to drown the poor remnant there. And now

it was night—yea, midnight.

All of a sudden a thought flashed through Curlylocks, and through all

the sobbing and crying she laughed aloud as she called to Reygoch:

“Reygoch, you old simpleton! why don’t you _sit_ between these two horns

of the dyke? Why don’t you dam the flood with your shoulders?”

The herd boys and girls stopped wailing at once. So dumbfounded were

they at the idea that not one of them had thought of that before!

“Uhuhu!” was all you could hear, and that was Reygoch laughing. And when

Reygoch laughs, mind you, it’s no joke! All the water round him boiled

and bubbled as he shook with laughter over his own stupidity!

Then Reygoch stood up, faced about, and—in a twinkling—he sat down

between those two horns!

And then happened the most wonderful thing of all! For the Black

Banewater stood as though you had rolled a wall into the breach! It

stood, and could not rise above Reygoch’s shoulders, but followed its

usual course, as before, the whole current behind Reygoch’s back. And

surely that was a most marvellous rescue!

The boys and girls were saved from the worst of the danger; and Reygoch,

sitting comfortably, took up earth in handfuls and all slow-and-surely

rebuilt the dyke under himself and on either hand. He began in the

middle of the night, and when the dawn broke, the job was finished. And

just as the sun rose, Reygoch got up from the dyke with his work done,

and started combing his beard, which was all caked with mud, twigs, and

little fishes.

But the poor boys and girls were not yet done with their troubles; for

where were they to go, and how were they to get there? There they stood

on the top of the hillock. All around them was a waste of water. Nothing

was to be seen of the two villages but just a few roofs—and not a soul

alive in either. To be sure, the villagers might have saved themselves

if they had taken refuge in their attics. But in both villages everybody

had gone to the threshing-floor with cymbals and fifes to make merry, so

that each could watch the destruction of the other. And when the water

was up to their waists, they were still clanging their cymbals; and when

it was up to their necks, they still blew their fifes for gratified

spite. And so they were drowned, one and all, with their fifes and

cymbals—and serve them right for their malice and uncharitableness!

So the poor children were left without a soul to cherish or protect

them, all houseless and homeless.

“We’re not sparrows, to live on the housetops,” said the boys sadly, as

they saw only the roofs sticking out of the water, “and we’re not foxes,

to live in burrows in the hills. If someone could clear our villages of

the water, we might make shift to get along somehow, but as it is, we

might as well jump into the water with our flocks and be drowned like

the rest, for we have nowhere and no one to turn to.”

That was a sad plight indeed, and Reygoch himself was dreadfully sorry

for them. But here was an evil he could in no wise remedy. He looked out

over the water and said: “There’s too much water here for me to bale out

or to drink up so as to clear your villages. Eh, children, what shall I

do for you?”

But then up and spoke Lilio, that was the wisest lad in these parts:

“Reygoch, daddy, if _you_ cannot drink so much water, _the Earth can_.

Break a hole in the ground, daddy, and drain off the water into the

earth.”

Dearie me! and wasn’t that great wisdom in a lad no bigger than

Reygoch’s finger?

Forthwith Reygoch stamped on the ground and broke a hole; and the Earth,

like a thirsty dragon, began to drink and to drink, and swallow, and

suck down into herself all that mighty water from off the whole plain.

Before long the Earth had gulped down all the water; villages, fields,

and meadows reappeared, ravaged and mud-covered, to be sure, but with

everything in its right place.

The young castaways cheered up at the sight, but none was so glad as

Curlylocks. She clapped her hands and cried:

“Oh, won’t it be lovely when the fields all grow golden again and the

meadows green!”

But hereupon the herd boys and girls were all downcast once more, and

Lilio said:

“Who will show us how to till the ground now that not one of our parents

is left alive?”

And indeed, far and wide, there was not a soul alive older than that

company of helpless young things in the midst of the ravaged plain, and

none with them but Reygoch, who was so big and clumsy and simple that he

could not turn his head inside one of their houses, nor did he know

anything about ploughing or husbandry.

So they were all in the dumps once more, and most of all Reygoch, who

was so fond of pretty Curlylocks, and now he could do nothing for her

nor her friends!

And, worst of all, Reygoch was getting horribly homesick for his

desolate city of Frosten. This night he had swallowed mud enough to last

him a thousand years, and seen more than enough of trouble. And so he

was just dying to be back in his vast, empty city, where he had counted

the stones in peace for so many hundred years.

So the herd boys were very crestfallen, and Lilio was crestfallen, and

Reygoch the most crestfallen of all. And really it was sad to look upon

all these poor boys and girls, doomed to perish without their parents

and wither like a flower cut off from its root.

Only Curlylocks looked gaily about her, right and left, for nothing

could damp her good spirits.

Suddenly Curlylocks cried out:

“Look—oh look! What are those people? Oh dear, but they must have seen

sights and wonders!”

All looked towards the village, and there, at one of the windows,

appeared the heads of an aged couple—an old man and an old woman. They

waved their kerchiefs, they called the young people by name, and laughed

till their wrinkled faces all shone with joy. They were

great-grandfather and great-grandmother, who had been the only sensible

people in the two villages, and had saved themselves by taking refuge in

the attic!

Oh dear! If the children had seen the sun at his rising and the morning

star at that attic window, they would not have shouted so for joy. The

very heavens rang again as they called out:

“Granny! Grandad!”

They raced to the village like young whippets, Curlylocks in front, with

her golden hair streaming in the wind, and after them the ewes and

lambs. They never stopped till they reached the village, and there

grandfather and grandmother were waiting for them at the gate. They

welcomed them, hugged them, and none of them could find words to thank

God enough for His mercy in giving grandad and grandma so much wisdom as

to make them take refuge in the attic! And that was really a very good

thing, because these were only quite simple villages, where there were

no books nor written records; and who would have reminded the herd boys

and girls of the consequences of wickedness if grandad and grandma had

not been spared?

When they had done hugging each other, they remembered Reygoch. They

looked round the plain, but there was no Reygoch. He was gone—gone all

of a sudden, the dear huge thing—gone like a mouse down its hole.

And Reygoch had indeed gone like a mouse down its hole. For when grandpa

and grandma appeared at the attic window, Reygoch got a fright such as

he had never yet had in his life. He was terrified at the sight of their

furrowed, wrinkled, withered old faces.

“Oh dear! oh dear! what a lot of trouble these old people must have been

through in these parts to have come to look like that!” thought Reygoch;

and in his terror he that very instant jumped down into the hole through

which the Black Banewater had sunk down, and so ran away back to his

desolate Frosten city.

* * * * *

All went well in the village. Grandad and Grandma taught the young folk,

and the young folk ploughed and sowed. Upon the grandparents’ advice

they built just one village, one threshing-floor, one church, and one

graveyard, so that there should be no more jealousy nor trouble.

All went well; but the best of all was that in the heart of the village

stood a beautiful tower of mountain marble, and on the top of it they

had made a garden, where blossomed oranges and wild olive. There lived

Curlylocks, the lovely fairy, and looked down upon the land that had

been so dear to her from the moment when she first came to earth.

And of an evening, when the field work was done, Lilio would lead the

herd boys and girls to the tower, and they would sing songs and dance in

a ring in the garden with Curlylocks, always lovely, gentle, and joyous.

But under the earth Reygoch once more fell in with the Black Banewater

as it roared and burbled underneath, while he wrestled with it till he

forced it deeper and deeper into the earth, and right down to the bottom

of the Pit, so that it might never again serve the spite and envy of

man. And then Reygoch went on to Frosten city. There he is sitting to

this very day, counting the stones and praying the Lord never again to

tempt him away from that vast and desolate spot, which is the very place

for one so big and so simple.

[Illustration]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bridesman Sun

and

Bride Bridekins

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bridesman Sun

and

Bride Bridekins

ONCE upon a time there was a miller and his wife, and both were miserly

and hard of heart. When the Emperor’s servants brought corn to be

ground, the miller would grind the corn free of all charge and send the

Emperor a gift into the bargain, only to gain favour with the mighty

Emperor and his daughter, the proud princess. But when poor folk came to

have their corn ground, the miller would take one measure in payment for

every two that he ground, and without that he would not grind at all.

One day, just about Yuletide and in the time of bitter frost, an old

wife came to the mill—an old wife all patches and tatters. The mill

stood in a little grove by the stream, and no one could say whence that

old wife had come.

But this wasn’t just an old wife like other old wives; it was Mother

Muggish. Now Muggish could turn herself into any mortal thing, a bird or

a snake, or an old woman or a young girl. And besides that she could do

anything, both good and bad. But woe to him who got into her bad books,

for she was very spiteful. Muggish lived in the morass on the fringe of

the bog where the autumn sun dwelt. And with her the sun put up over the

long winter night; for Muggish knew potent herbs and powerful spells;

she would nurse and cherish the feeble old sun till he grew young again

at Yuletide and started on his way once more.

“Good day to you,” Mother Muggish called out to the miller and his wife.

“Just grind this bag of corn for me.”

The old wife stood the bag on the floor, and the miller agreed:

“I’ll grind it for you; half the bag for you for your cake, and half for

me for my trouble.”

“Not so, my son! I shall not have enough for my Yuletide cake, because I

have six sons, and for seventh my grandson, the Sun, who was born

to-day.”

“Go away and don’t talk rubbish, you old fool!” burst out the miller. “A

likely one you are to be the Sun’s grandmother!”

So they argued this way and that; but the miller wouldn’t consent to

grind for less than one-half the bag, and so the old wife picked up her

bag again and went away by the way she came.

But the miller had a daughter, a beautiful girl, called Bride Bridekins.

When she was born, the fairies bathed her in the water that falls from

the wheel, so that all evils should turn from her, even as water runs

away from a mill. And, moreover, the fairies foretold that at her

wedding the Sun should be bridesman. Just fancy! she was the Sun’s

little bride! So they called her Bride Bridekins, and she was most

beautiful and smiling as a summer’s day.

Bride Bridekins was sorry when the miller sent away the old wife so

unkindly. She went out and waited in the wood for the old wife, and

said:

“Come again to-morrow, Mother, when I shall be alone. I will grind your

corn for you for nothing.”

Next day the miller and his wife went into the wood to cut the Yule log,

and Bride Bridekins was left alone.

Before long the old wife came up with her bag.

“Good fortune be yours, young maiden,” said the wife.

“And yours, too,” returned Bride Bridekins. “Wait a moment, Mother, till

we open the mill.”

The mill was worked by a little wheel which caught the water with four

paddles set cross-wise, which turned like a spindle. Now the miller had

shut off the water, and Bride Bridekins had to wade up to her knees in

the icy stream to open the sluice.

The mill clattered, round went the mill-stones, and Bride Bridekins

ground the old wife’s corn. She filled up the bag with flour and took

nothing for her pains.

“Eh, thank you kindly, maiden,” said Mother Muggish, “and I’ll help you

whithersoever your feet may carry you, since your feet you did not save

from the ice-cold wave, nor grudge your hands to soil with unrequited

toil. And, moreover, I’ll tell my grandson, the Sun, to whom he owes his

Yuletide cake.” And the old wife took up her bag and went.

From that day nothing would prosper in the mill without Bride Bridekins.

Unless her hand was on the mill, the paddles would not take the water;

unless she looked in the bin, there would be no flour in it. No matter

how much might fall into it from the grain-box, it was all lost on the

floor; the bin remained empty unless Bride Bridekins fed the mill. And

so it was with everything in and about the mill.

This went on for many a day, on and on and never any change, till the

miller and his wife began to be jealous of their daughter and to hate

her. The harder the girl worked and the more she earned, the blacker

they looked at her, because it came to her as easy as a song, and to

them not even with toiling and moiling.

It was upon a morning about Beltane time, when the Sun, strong and

flaming, travels across one-half of heaven like a ball of pure gold. The

Sun no longer slept in the morass, nor did Muggish foster him now; but

the Sun was lord of the world, and sky and earth obeyed him. Bride

Bridekins sat at Beltane time beside the mill and thought to herself:

“If I could only get away, since I cannot please these cross-patches

anyhow!”

And just as she thought this, there appeared before her the old wife,

who was really Muggish.

“I will help you, but you must obey me in all things, and take care not

to offend me,” said the old wife. “This very morning the proud princess

walked in the meadow and lost the keys of her chest and her wardrobe,

and now she cannot get at her crown nor her robes either. So the

princess has caused it to be proclaimed that whoever finds the keys, if

it be a youth the princess will become his true love and bride-to-be,

and if it be a maiden, the princess will take her for her first

lady-in-waiting. So you come away with me, and I will show you where the

keys are lying among the love-lies-bleeding that grows in the meadow.

You will bring the princess her keys and become her first

lady-in-waiting. You will be dressed in silk and sit by the princess’s

knee.”

[Illustration]

Then Muggish at once turned herself into a quail, and Bride Bridekins

followed her.

So they came to the meadow in front of the Emperor’s castle. Gallant

knights and noble dames walked about the meadow, and around the meadow

stood their esquires holding mettlesome steeds. One steed only was not

held by a squire, but by a barefoot boy. This horse belonged to Oleg the

Warden, and it was the most fiery steed of all. And Oleg the Warden

himself was the most excellent knight under the sun. You might know Oleg

the Warden amid ever so many earls and nobles, because his attire was

plain and without ornament, but his white plume, the prize of valour,

distinguished him above all the rest.

So the knights and dames walked about the meadow, all trampling the

grass with their shoes in their anxiety to find the keys. Only Oleg the

Warden kept but a poor look-out for the keys, taking the matter as a

mere jest and idle pastime. But from her window the Emperor’s daughter

looked out and watched to see whom fortune would favour. Very careful

watch did she keep, the proud princess, and repeated spells for luck so

that Oleg the Warden should find the keys.

When Bride Bridekins came with the quail running before her, not a soul

in the meadow noticed her but only Oleg the Warden.

“Never yet have I seen so sweet a maiden,” thought Oleg the Warden, and

strode towards her.

But just then the Emperor’s daughter also noticed Bride Bridekins from

her window, and so proud and heartless was she that she never stopped to

look how sweet the maiden was, but grew very angry, and said: “A fine

plight should I be in were that common wench there to find the keys and

become my lady-in-waiting!” Thus thinking, she at once sent out her

servants to drive away the girl.

Bride Bridekins went over the meadow where-ever the quail led her. They

came to the middle of the meadow, where the love-lies-bleeding grew

tall. The quail parted two leaves at the foot of a tuft of

love-lies-bleeding, and under them lay the keys.

Bride Bridekins bent down and picked up the keys; but when she looked up

to the Emperor’s castle and saw the proud princess, Bride Bridekins

became frightened, and thought: “How should I become the princess’s

lady-in-waiting?”

As she thought this she looked up, and lo, beside her stood a glorious

knight, as he might have been sworn brother to the Sun. And that was

Oleg the Warden.

Quickly Bride Bridekins made up her mind to disobey Muggish’s commands,

and she held out the keys to Oleg the Warden.

“Take the keys, unknown knight, and let the Emperor’s daughter be your

true love and bride-to-be,” said Bride Bridekins, and could not take her

eyes off the glorious knight.

But at that moment came the servants with whips, and roughly rated Bride

Bridekins so as to drive her away from the meadow, according to the

princess’s commands. When Oleg the Warden saw this, he was soon

resolved, and thus did he answer Bride Bridekins:

“Thank you for the keys, sweet maiden; but I have made up my mind

otherwise. _You_ shall be my true love and bride-to-be, because you are

fairer than the morning star. Here is my good horse; he will carry us to

my Barren Marches.”

Gladly did Bride Bridekins go with Oleg the Warden, and he lifted her

beside him on to his horse. As the good steed carried them swiftly past

the Emperor’s daughter sitting at her window. Oleg the Warden threw her

the keys so skilfully that they caught right on the window latch!

“There are your keys, august Princess!” cried Oleg the Warden. “Wear

your crown and your robes in all happiness, for I have taken the maiden

for myself.”

All that night Oleg the Warden rode on with Bride Bridekins, and at dawn

they arrived in the Barren Marches, at the oaken stronghold of Oleg the

Warden. Round the stockade there were three moats, and in the midst of

the stockade stood a smoke-blacked house.

“Behold the Castle of Oleg the Warden!” said the knight to Bride

Bridekins, and he laughed himself because his castle was not more

splendid. But Bride Bridekins laughed still more heartily because she

was to be the lady of such a glorious knight.

So they settled at once upon the wedding guests, so as to celebrate the

marriage. They invited twenty gallants and twenty orphan maids, because

that was all the people there were in the Barren Marches. And so that

they might be more and merrier, they also asked the Wild Wolf and his

Mate from the hills, and the Tawny Eagle, and the Grey Goshawk; and

Bride Bridekins asked two bridesmaids—the Turtle Dove and the Slender

Swallow.

And Bride Bridekins even boasted to Oleg the Warden:

“If the Sun were to recognise me, he too would come to the wedding. The

Sun would have been bridesman at the wedding, for so did the fairies

foretell.”

And so the wedding guests assembled in the soot-blacked castle, to make

merry—and never knew of the ill fate in store for them.

* * * * *

Now it had stung the proud princess to the heart when Oleg the Warden

had flung her the keys, and before so many nobles, before earls and

knights, refused the august princess and preferred a nameless maiden.

So the princess persuaded the Emperor, her father, and begged and

entreated him till he lent her his mighty army. Well mounted, the army

advanced upon the Barren Marches of Oleg the Warden with the wrathful

princess at its head.

The guests were just at table when the army came in sight. It was so

great that it covered all the Barren Marches till you could not see so

much as a patch of earth for it. And in front of the army a herald cried

aloud for all the world to hear:

Behold a gallant army

Has taken the field;

The Warden is a rebel,

We bid him to yield.

Alive shall he be taken

That freedom loved best;

But the heart shall be riven

From his lady’s breast.

When Oleg the Warden heard this, he asked Bride Bridekins:

“Are you afraid, lovely maiden?”

“I am not afraid,” she smilingly made answer. “I put my trust in the

Grey Wolf and his Mate, in your twenty gallants and twenty orphans, and

most of all in the knight Oleg the Warden. And besides that I have two

brave bridesmaids—the Turtle Dove and the Slender Swallow.”

Oleg the Warden smiled, and already the wedding guests had lightly

sprung to their feet. They seized their warriors’ weapons, both gallants

and orphans, and stood by the windows of the soot-blacked castle

stringing their good bows with silken cords as they waited for the

princess and her army. But that army was so mighty that neither Oleg the

Warden, nor his wedding guests, nor the soot-blacked house were able to

withstand it.

The first to fall were the Grey Wolf and his Mate; for they jumped the

stockade and the moats and rushed straight at the Emperor’s army to tear

out the proud princess’s eyes in the midst of her army. But a hundred

maces rose in the air; the soldiers defended the proud princess, the

Eagle and the Grey Goshawk had their pinions broken, and then the heavy

horses trampled them into the black earth.

The great host came nearer and nearer to the soot-blacked house. When it

was fairly on the threshold the wedding guests loosed their silken

bowstrings and greeted the soldiers with a shower of arrows.

But the wrathful archers of the wrathful princess did not stop!

Arrows flew hither and thither. There were archers past counting in the

army, so that their arrows flew in at the windows of the soot-blacked

house like a plague from heaven. Each gallant had his two or three

wounds to show, and each orphan some ten.

But the most grievous wound of all was upon Oleg the Warden. His good

right hand hung powerless, so greatly was he overcome by his wound.

[Illustration]

Quickly Bride Bridekins stepped up to Oleg the Warden to wash his wound

in the courtyard of the soot-blacked house. While she was washing his

wound, Oleg the Warden said to her: “It’s a poor fortune we have

garnered, my Bride Bridekins. There are none left for you to put your

trust in, and here is the host at the gates of the soot-blacked house.

They will break down the oak stockade, batter down the ancient gates. We

are lost; this is the end of us—wolves and eagles, and gallants and

orphans, and Oleg the Warden and his Bride Bridekins!”

But Bride Bridekins considered sadly, and then she said:

“Do not fear, brave Warden. I will send the Turtle Dove to fetch Muggish

from her morass. There is nothing Muggish does not know and nothing she

cannot do, and she will help us.”

So Bride Bridekins sent out the swift Turtle Dove. Away flew the grey

dove swifter than an arrow from the string, nor did the soldiers’ darts

overtake her. Off she flew and brought back Muggish from the bog. But

Muggish had turned herself into a raven and perched upon the gable of

the soot-blacked House.

Already the soldiers were battering at the entrance. Heavy clubs

hammered on the doors and portals, banging and clanging till all the

courts and passages of the soot-blacked house rang again, as though a

host from the nethermost Pit were beating on the gates of Oleg the

Warden.

“Fair greeting, dear Muggish!” the lovely Bride appealed to the black

raven—“fair greeting! Help us against the Princess’s malice, or else we

must all die untimely!”

But Muggish had only bided her time spitefully for an opportunity to

give vent to her grievance. Flapping her black wings, the raven said:

“Save yourself, my little dove! If you had listened to me, you would

have given the Princess her keys. You would have basked in royal grace,

beside the Princess had your place, in sumptuous silk fair to behold,

sipping wine from a cup of gold. But now you have gotten your heart’s

desire. Here you are in the soot-blacked house with none but

sore-wounded beggars within and a countless host outside. Seek help from

those whose counsel brought you to this!”

When Oleg the Warden heard this, he sprang to his feet, all wounded as

he was, and wrathfully cried out:

“Leave this unprofitable business, Bride Bridekins! When had a hero help

from a raven? And you,” he called to Muggish, “get off my roof, you

black bird of ill-omen, lest I waste a good swift arrow and shoot the

bird upon my gable!” With that Oleg the Warden embraced Bride Bridekins

and said:

“When I perish in the midst of the Emperor’s host, go, my lovely little

Bride! submit yourself to the Princess, and you shall be lady-in-waiting

to the proud Princess, who should have been true love and lady of Oleg

the Warden.” For a moment Oleg the Warden flinched; but then he tore

himself away from his bride, and rushed through the courtyard and

passage to raise the oaken bars, to throw open the gates to the

countless host, to perish or cut his way through their numbers.

Bride Bridekins was left alone in the castle, and above her on the roof

perched the black raven. She could hear the heavy oaken bars falling;

now the ancient gates must yield; another moment and the cruel soldiers

will burst in, take Oleg prisoner, and rive the heart out of the breast

of her, sweet child! Bride Bridekins’ thoughts chased through her brain:

What is to be done, and how?

The lovely bride looked all around to see if there were any found to

pity her in her distress. She bent her beauteous eyes to earth, and

raised them heavenward. As she raised them heavenward the Sun travelled

across the zenith in a blaze of pure gold. And as she looked at the Sun,

the Sun marvelled at so much loveliness, and at once looked back at her.

The Sun and Bride Bridekins looked at one another, and as they looked,

they recognised one another, and at once the Sun remembered. “Why, that

is the little bride whose Bridesman the Sun was to be! In a lucky hour

she gave me my Yuletide bread, and in a yet luckier moment she sought me

overhead.”

Just one moment before the Sun had heard Muggish mocking Bride Bridekins

and spitefully refusing to help her. So now the Sun thundered forth his

anger. All the land fell silent with fear; axes and clubs were dropped

in terror as the Sun thundered at Muggish:

“Eh, foster-mother, heart of stone! were the world’s justice to be

carved by spite, what crooked justice would pervert the right! If thou

from slime hast reared me, yet content art thou to keep the slime thine

element! With me thou hast not strode across the sky, nor from the

heavens downward bent thine eye to learn how justice should be born of

light. Fie, foster-mother, heart of stone! What! should the Sun at

Beltane in his might forget who sent him gifts on Yule night, when he

was a feeble babe? Or shall Bridesman Sun take it ill of the bride that

she left the Emperor’s palace and the Princess’s court because she

preferred a hero in her heart? Down with you into the earth,

black-hearted nurse! so that you underground, and I from the skies, may

help yon worthy knight and his lovely lady.”

Sky and earth obey the Sun, and how should the black raven—and that was

Muggish—withstand his commands? Upon the instant Muggish sank into the

earth to do the Sun’s bidding.

And strong as the Sun had been before, he now made himself yet stronger.

The Sun smote from above; he scorched the Barren Marches; he seared

heaven and earth; he would have melted the Mountain of Brass!

Upon the cruel soldiers’ heads their helmets dissolved; their heavy

armour melted; spears and axes grew red-hot. Heat overcame the wrathful

princess; heat overcame the multitude of archers as their brains grilled

inside their helmets, and their breasts laboured with the heat under

their armour. Who had not the shelter of a roof could not live. All the

host was struck down by the heat. They fell one atop of the other. A man

would call upon his sworn brother, and then the voice would cease as the

speaker perished.

While the Sun was thus smiting the cruel soldiers, Muggish helped the

Sun from underground. She opened deep bogholes under their feet.

Whenever the Sun struck down a man, there a boghole would gape beneath

him. He slipped into the bog, and the bog closed above him; where a man

stood, there his grave yawned for him.

So the soldiers vanished one by one, and the archers one by one, and the

weapons of war, and the clubs and the axes. It was terrible to behold

such a vast army stricken by the judgment of the Sun from the skies. The

Sun was executioner and the earth gravedigger. Yet a little while, an

hour or two, and the great host had vanished—not a soul was left alive

in the Barren Marches. Only those who were under the roof of the

soot-blacked house, they were left alive.

Once more all was still in the Barren Marches; and now the lovely lady.

Bride Bridekins, peeped joyously from her window to watch her bridesman

grow mild, now that he had done with slaying spite upon the earth.

* * * * *

Soon the wounds healed upon the gallants, for they had good luck to help

them; and the orphans recovered still more quickly, because hardship is

a good school. As for Oleg Ban, he could not pine with such a true love

as Bride Bridekins beside him. Early in the morning the Slender Swallow

flew out with a greeting for the Sun. At nightfall the Swallow returned

with greetings from the Sun, bidding them prepare the wedding feast for

the morrow, for he would come to give away the bride.

So they made ready, and it all fell out as they had planned. And such a

wedding as they had, and such songs as were sung that day in the Barren

Marches you’ll not find again in a hundred years, nor throughout nine

empires.

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[Illustration]

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