“To-day it’s the book’s turn,” said the miller to his friends as the
light was fading one evening. “Last time we heard about Bogeys and
people of that sort, but to-day we’ll have a Princess, and King’s Courts
and fine company.”
“I like hearing about grand ladies,” observed Janet.
“Yes, I like them well enough, too,” replied he; “that is, if they’re as
good and as beautiful as some lasses I have seen.”
He looked rather hard at Janet, and she blushed.
“Oh, never mind talking!” broke in little Peter, pulling the miller’s
sleeve. “It’s the story I want. If you don’t begin quick the light will
be gone; the rooks are coming home already, and soon we shall have to go
in to supper.”
“You needn’t do that, for you shall come to supper with me in the mill,”
said the miller. “How would you like that?”
“We daren’t,” said Janet.
“I’ll go and make it right with your grandmother myself,” he replied.
“She’ll be glad enough, maybe, for there’ll be all the more left in the
larder to-morrow. Sit still till I come back.”
And he jumped over the wall. They watched him pass the pool and
disappear into the white cottage.
“Oh, how delightful!” shouted little Peter, turning head over heels.
In a few minutes the miller returned. The old woman had promised
everything he wanted. It is a funny thing how often young men can manage
witches. They all went into the mill.
“So now to business,” said he, as he sat down and took up his book.
In a kingdom far from this everyday earth a great city sat royally in
its surrounding plain. It had domes and towers, temples and fortresses,
and in it lived a Princess whose goodness and beauty were known for
miles round. The plain was vast and fertile, but here and there patches
of wilderness lay like islands among the crops; and a winding stream
wandered, now through their richness, now through tangled briars and
unfrequented tracks.
By one of these it made a loop, encircling a spot where the turf was
cleared of undergrowth and a great tree thrust its gnarled roots through
the grass. The few who passed this place looked upon it with no little
awe, for the tree was inhabited, and even on a calm day its boughs might
be seen rocking to and fro, as though moved by some unruly breeze. Its
leaves were large and glossy, its limbs spreading like the limbs of an
oak, and in spring it bore white, waxy flowers, heavily scented and
shaped like open tulips; in the heart of each was a cluster of stiff
golden stamens.
The upper branches were haunted by an old man whose long robe gave him
the appearance of a wizard. Though he had lurked in the tree for
generations, time had not robbed him of his activity, for he would swing
himself to earth every morning to drink of the stream, and, in summer,
to wash the dust from the leaves and blossoms, which he tended as
carefully as a gardener might his plants. The dwellers in the city knew
nothing of his existence; but the dwellers in the fields near the tree
had sometimes seen him descend from it to the earth, and remembered
having heard in their childhood that it was called the “Tree of Pride.”
One autumn day all the city was making holiday, for the Princess had
been betrothed to a King from a far country and was starting with a
great following to meet him ten leagues from its walls. Her father
accompanied her, and she rode on a white horse shod with silver; she was
so beautiful and charming that there was not a man in the whole retinue
who did not envy the unknown King. Her brown hair, looped up behind her
head, fell almost to the stirrup, and she wore a coif woven of burning
gold. Her cloak was embroidered with rose and purple and patterns of
stars, and its gold fringes swung as she rode. Her eyes were like the
still, moon-haunted pools of a moorland.
It chanced that the procession had been delayed in leaving the city, so
that by sunset the place where it was to encamp was yet many miles off.
The Princess was tired, and a man-at-arms was sent out to look for some
spot where the tents might be pitched and water found for the horses. He
soon came back to say that within a mile was a stretch of grass
surrounding a large tree and watered by a stream. In a short time they
reached it, and encamped for the night.
Next morning, when they had risen betimes to continue their way, the
Princess caught sight of the tree, which was a dream of beauty; for
autumn was at its full, and the fruit was heavy where the flowers had
been. As she stood to admire it, a rustling was heard in the branches,
and an old man descended, swinging himself from bough to bough and
holding a piece of fruit, round and ripe; he leaned down and offered it
to her.
When she had accepted the gift, the Princess mounted, and the whole
company returned to the beaten track and went forward on their road. The
sun grew hot, and as noonday came on she ate the fruit, thinking that
she had never tasted anything so delicious.
They rode by brook and meadow, by hill and wood, and soon everyone began
to wonder at the change which had come over the Princess. Those whom she
had looked upon as friends all her life were now commanded to rein back,
that they might not offend her dignity by their presence. She would
scarce answer her father when he spoke, and, whereas in the early part
of her journey she had taken pleasure in the beauty of the landscape,
she now blamed the road as unfit for her horse’s feet to tread.
“Not content with dragging me out to meet this sorry fellow,” she said,
“you must needs bring me by ways only fit for peasants.”
Her father and his people looked aghast. Never before had they heard her
speak in such a manner.
[Illustration: “SHE WOULD SCARCE ANSWER HER FATHER WHEN HE SPOKE.”]
When the shadows were long they halted again, and soon they could
distinguish a company of horsemen between them and the hills. The
Princess withdrew to her tent, for she knew that the distant spearmen
must be the unknown King’s following, and that in a short time she would
be summoned to receive him. She called her maids, and when they had
dressed her in her state robes, she took a knife and made a slit in the
curtains that she might see the King’s arrival without being seen. As
she stood watching the little band advancing, she was surprised to hear
her father’s voice almost beside the tent. She ran towards the place,
and, cutting another slit, looked through and saw him in conversation
with a man-at-arms, who had just dismounted from the steaming horse he
held.
He was dressed from head to heel in russet leather, and a steel helmet,
with spreading steel wings, was on his head. He was tall and brown, and
his white teeth gleamed as he smiled. “Sire,” he was saying, “I beg you
to forgive this unceremonious coming. When I saw your tents on the plain
and knew that the Princess was so near, I could contain myself no longer
and galloped forward with all speed. I will not dare to enter her
presence till my people have arrived, and I have cast off the dust of
the road. But wait I could not. I hope your Majesty will forgive me.”
And so this rash, leather-clad soldier was the King—this careless,
dusty fellow who was loosening his horse’s girths as any common groom
might do! Did he think to thrust himself thus, without ceremony, into
the following of a royal Princess?
Behind her curtains she turned away, biting her lips, and she was still
frowning when her father entered.
“Daughter,” said he, “the King is here and I have spoken with him.”
“And what is he like?” inquired she, her voice cold with scorn.
“He is the most gallant-looking gentleman that ever I saw,” said the old
man.
The Princess turned her back.
An hour later father and daughter waited to receive their guest in a
long tent hung with fine stuffs and wreathed in garlands. The whole of
their retinue stood around, and, at the far end, the Princess sat on a
carved chair, her eyes on the ground and her face as pale as ivory,
never looking at the opposite door, by which her suitor was to enter.
At last the hangings were drawn wide and he came in. He still wore his
russet brown, but it was now of silver-studded velvet which clung to him
like a glove, and as he went forward a murmur of admiration ran through
the crowd; for he walked like some kingly animal, and his eyes sparkled
under his dark brows. “Here is a King indeed,” whispered the bystanders.
The Princess scarcely glanced at him. She curtseyed low as he
approached, but when he would have taken her hand, she drew back, her
lip curling.
“Your Majesty does me an honour for which I have no desire,” she said;
“and if I have brought you to the meeting-place only to refuse your
hand, you will pardon it the more readily as you yourself like ceremony
so little.”
So saying, she turned and left everyone standing speechless.
When the company had dispersed, the Princess declared that she would set
out next morning for the city. There was nothing left for the King to do
but to depart by the way he had come, and, furious and mortified, he
returned to his own camp to throw off his velvet and resume his leather
and steel; he meant to go at once. His heart was hot within him, for the
one look he had had at the Princess was enough to set it in a flame. She
was so beautiful that he had never seen her like, and even through his
anger there was a sharp stab of regret for what he had lost. Heartless
as she seemed, and ill as she had treated him, he would have given the
world for her. While his men and horses were getting ready, he went out
into the night, and turned his steps to a little thicket of birches
which stood with their glimmering stems not far from the camp. The
darkness was moist and chill, and some of the Princess’s men had lit a
fire on the outskirts of the trees, and were sitting round it. He drew
close to them under cover of the wood, and saw an old soldier in the
centre of the circle who was talking to his companions. “If I had my
will,” he was saying, “I would fell the tree to the ground, and the old
goblin should die with it. He should pay for turning the sweetest, most
beautiful lady in the world into such a jade! I remember her from the
time she was no higher than my sword, and until she tasted that accursed
fruit there was no creature more beloved in the kingdom—and with
reason, too. And look at her now!”
“What is all this talk?” asked a new-comer, as he joined the group in
the firelight. “Not but what Her Highness has given us enough to talk
about for some time to come.”
“Why, it is just that,” continued the first speaker; “there’s the matter
plain. She has eaten of the Tree of Pride. I saw it myself.”
“The Tree of Pride?” cried the others—“whoever heard of that?”
“You are young men,” the old soldier went on, “and you were not born, as
I was, in a hut in these fields, where all the tales of the country
round were common talk. My home was in sight of the Tree of Pride, where
we camped last night, and many’s the time I’ve seen the old man sitting
among the boughs like an evil bird. Whoever tastes of it, rich or poor,
man or woman, young or old, becomes mad with vanity and pride. And but
yesterday the Princess stood under the branches, and the old man reached
down and offered her the fruit. She took it, poor lady, and thanked him,
understanding nothing. I’ve more than a mind to turn aside and slay him
on the way back.”
The King waited to hear no more; he stole through the trees and back to
his own camp: he was determined to start at once for the Tree of Pride.
He rode all night, taking only a couple of men with him, and in the
morning sunlight he saw it raising its heavy head above the plain. He
drew up almost under the boughs and dismounted. There, peering down on
him, was the wizened face of the old man, smiling elusively as he
plucked a cluster of fruit and began climbing down to offer it. The King
waited until he had reached the lowest arm of the tree, and then,
instead of taking the gift, he seized his garment and dragged him to the
ground.
The old man shrieked and struggled, but the King held him fast, and,
throwing him on the grass, stood over him while his two soldiers bound
him hand and foot.
“Look!” cried the King, when they had done this, “here is my blade,
ready to plunge into your evil body. Because the Princess ate the fruit
you gave her, her whole heart is changed. You have only one chance of
life. I will spare it if you tell me the remedy that can turn her into
her true self.”
“There is no remedy,” he said, fixing his malicious eyes on the King.
“Then,” said the young man, “I will prevent anyone else from sharing the
Princess’s fate.”
And he raised his arm.
“Stop!” screamed the other. “I will tell you everything! Only let me go
and I will promise never to offer the fruit to anyone again.”
“Lie still,” said the King. “You will tell me the cure before you move
and then I will cut down the tree. Go to the nearest hut and borrow an
axe,” he added, turning to one of his men.
“No! no!” cried the old man again; “cut it down and all will be lost!
Only unbind my hands and I vow I will make the mischief right.”
“You will be loosed when you have spoken,” replied the King.
“Tell your soldiers to go away,” said the prisoner at last; “for the
thing is a secret.”
The King told his men to raise him, and when they were alone the old man
began.
“You will need patience,” said he. “The winter must come and go before
the tree whitens again, for it is only the blossom that can cure the
poison of the fruit. When spring comes you must make a crown of the
white flowers and take it as a gift to the Princess. If you can persuade
her to wear it—if only for a few moments—her heart will change, and
she will once more be the woman she was.”
The King’s face fell. It was full six months of waiting and it seemed
like an eternity.
“Now let me go!” cried the old man again.
“I will unbind you, as I promised,” said the King, “but from now till
the day we return together to pluck the flowers I will not lose sight of
you—no, not for an hour—until your words are proven. Come, hold out
your hands and feet, and I will cut the cords. Then we will turn our
faces to my kingdom.”
And the prisoner was mounted and led away between two men-at-arms in the
King’s troop.
* * * * *
While these things were happening, the Princess was on the road home.
Having arrived, she shut herself up in her rooms and would hardly deign
to go outside the walls of her garden, or to notice anyone. When her
father was with her she treated him as though he were an intruder, and
the slightest difference of opinion between them threw her into a fury.
She would pace up and down the corridor, her figure erect, her head
thrown back; in her eyes was the look of one scarce conscious of her
surroundings. And indeed, her soul had strayed into another world—the
world of pride, and self and hardness of heart.
Time went, and the leaves of the Tree of Pride lay thick round its foot.
Winter’s white veil covered plain and city, and the Princess, in her
palace, drew every day farther from humanity; only the King, in his
distant kingdom, hoped on, waiting for spring.
But in the old man, his prisoner, a mighty change was being wrought, and
his malignant spirit was beginning to go from him. He had never before
been brought so close to a noble human being. As the King had said, so
he had done, and in the winter which followed his return he had hardly
allowed his hostage out of his sight for an hour: waking, he kept him at
his side, and sleeping, he lay across his barred door.
But, even while so much was at stake, he could not neglect his daily
work, and so it came about that where he went the old man had to go
also. While he sat in council he was at his left hand; when he dealt out
justice he was present; and when he was occupied with his army—the
pride of his soul—he was still beside him. He saw how the King made
himself as one of his soldiers, how he shirked no work, took no
advantage; he saw his gay and noble heart his joy in living, his prowess
in all feats of arms, the love his troops bore him—and as he saw, his
withered nature grew soft. And so it was that by the time the young buds
began to show on the branches and the season drew near for their journey
to the Tree of Pride, captive though he was, he would have laid down his
life for him willingly.
All the earth was bursting into youth as the two rode over the plain and
approached the tree. The scent of its blossoms was blowing towards them,
heavy on the air. The flowers were thick about the ends of the green
shoots, the petals, half closing, like cups, over the golden hearts
within them. The King cut a few handfuls with his knife while his
companion plaited them into a wreath, and when it was made, they mounted
and rode into the city.
When they arrived, they went to a small inn, and the King, not wishing
his presence to be known, sent a messenger to the palace, giving him a
sum of money. With this he was to bribe the servants to carry news to
the Princess that two strangers, having discovered a treasure, desired
to offer it to her. In this manner they hoped to induce her to receive
the crown. On the following day the man returned, having reached the
Princess’s ear, and bringing leave for the strangers to approach. So
they presented themselves.
They placed the wreath upon a velvet cushion, and the King waited in a
dark corner of the Princess’s antechamber, while the old man, whose face
was hidden by a magician’s hood which he had procured, entered and laid
the gift at her feet.
“Royal lady——” he began, but his voice dropped, for the Princess’s
glance fell on the flowers, and she rose from her chair, her eyes alight
with wrath and her lips trembling. Instead of the rich jewels she had
imagined, there lay before her a simple wreath—beautiful exceedingly,
but with a beauty for which she had ceased to care. There was nothing
about the offering that could add to her splendour. Any peasant girl,
having leisure to weave such a crown, might wear it without pride and
without remark.
And as she sprang up, her eyes met those of her rejected suitor, who had
drawn the curtains of the antechamber a little aside in his suspense.
When the old man raised the cushion, she seized the wreath and tore it
in pieces, scattering the petals, like snowflakes, on the floor.
The King went from the palace in despair and returned to his lodging. He
had hoped so fiercely and so long that life seemed almost to have come
to an end. He mounted his horse, and, bidding the old man farewell,
determined to return to his kingdom and his soldiers, putting the
thought of the Princess from him for ever. Before he went he gave him a
thousand gold pieces, and made him promise to return to the Tree of
Pride and cut it down. As the city walls faded behind him, he looked
back at them with a sigh. For the first time he had lost interest in
everything, and he knew that it was no longer his pleasure to which he
was returning; but he had not forgotten that it was still his duty.
Now, it chanced that, while the Princess refused the crown, there stood
by the chair a certain lady-in-waiting. She was no longer young, but she
had been a beauty in her day and had seen much of men and matters. She
had been at the Court for years and her heart was heavy at the change
she saw in her mistress. She was a shrewd woman, and it did not escape
her notice that the person who offered the crown wore a hood like those
she had seen on the heads of magicians; besides this, she marvelled that
two strangers, one of whom did not even show himself, should wish to
give the Princess what any one of her servants might pluck from the
hedge. The old man had scarcely disappeared before she made up her mind
that here was some mystery she did not understand. Unobserved, she
gathered up the broken flowers, and that evening she sent a page
secretly to discover where he lived, and to desire him to meet her,
after dark, at the foot of the palace garden. She also sent the key of a
little door by which he might enter unobserved.
When the page found him, the old man was on the point of leaving the
city. He was sad, for he had just parted from the King; but he was
resolved, when he should have destroyed the Tree of Pride, to follow him
to his own country and spend the rest of his life in his service. When
he received the lady’s commands, he did not hesitate to obey them.
The watchmen were crying ten o’clock as he stood in the starlight inside
the little door. He trembled, for he suspected the summons might lead
him into some trap; but to serve the King he was ready to venture all,
and he only hoped the morning might not find him at the bottom of a
dungeon. He was considering these things when the lady appeared. He was
about to speak when she held up her hand.
“I am the Princess’s chief lady-in-waiting,” she began, “and her welfare
is to me as my own. I have sent for you that I may ask you, for her
sake, what reason you had for bringing such a gift. She has everything
the world can offer, and I am certain that you would not have brought
her such a present as a common flower wreath if there had not been some
hidden virtue in it.”
The old man fell down before her, clinging to her skirt and kissing its
hem.
“Madam!” he cried, “only persuade the Princess to wear it and all that I
have is yours! The King, who loves her, and whose heart she has broken,
has made me rich for the rest of my days, but I will give it all up to
you if you will only induce her to wear it, even for a moment.”
Then the lady remembered the King, for she had been at her post when he
received his dismissal, and, under her breath, she had called the
Princess a fool. She had lived long enough in the world to know a man
when she saw one.
“I never take bribes,” she said, “nor, as a rule, do I tolerate those
who offer them; but if you will tell me the truth, I will do my best to
bring the King and my mistress together.”
So the old man told her all.
When the lady returned to the palace, she took the fragments of the
wreath and put them carefully together. The petals she collected and
sewed into their right places with fine silk; it was so deftly done that
no one could suspect them of having been broken.
The next day there was to be a banquet at the palace, and before the
time came for the Princess to get ready, the lady took one of her maids
aside. “While you are fastening the pins of Her Royal Highness’s veil,”
said she, “and before you put on her crown, you must scream as though
you had pricked your finger. Do as I tell you and ask no questions, for
I myself will be present and keep her wrath from you.”
So when the Princess sat before her mirror, the maid brought her veil
and began to fasten it, while the lady stood by with the wreath
concealed in her wide sleeve. All at once the girl shrieked aloud: “Oh!
oh! I have torn my finger with a pin!”
“You unmannerly jade!” cried the lady, “will you make all this to-do
while Her Highness is dressing? Off with you, and I will fasten the
crown myself.”
And she thrust her from the room and took her place.
Suddenly the Princess looked up into the glass, and saw, instead of her
crown, the wreath of half-opened flowers with their golden centres
glowing through her hair. She put up her hand to tear the thing from her
head; but just as she was going to do so, her lips trembled, and she
leaned, sobbing, against the table, her face buried in her hands.
* * * * *
Great was the joy in the palace that night. The Princess sat at her
father’s side with a strange look in her eyes, but her speech was gentle
and her voice soft. The lady-in-waiting watched her, smiling. She had
given the true history of the wreath, and she wondered what would
happen.
* * * * *
Before dawn next morning the Princess rose. Without a word to anyone,
she ordered her horse to be brought, and, riding by the quietest
streets, left the city while the world was yet asleep. She took with her
a heavy purse full of gold, which she hid in the trappings of the
saddle, and her spaniel, Giroflé, which she carried on her knee. A
mantle was thrown over her head, that her face should not be seen, and
under it she still wore the wreath of flowers. Her way took her past the
old man’s lodging, and there she stopped.
“Come out!” she cried. “Here are some gold pieces. Go to the stable,
take the best mule you can find, and follow me. I have vowed to wear the
wreath from the Tree of Pride until I can mend the heart that its evil
magic has broken. I have determined to seek out the King and ask his
forgiveness for all I have done.”
The old man desired nothing better. In a few minutes he came from the
stable, leading a fine strong mule, and, as soon as he was mounted, they
set off, and passed through the city gate while the sun was still rising
through the mist.
Now, the little dog, Giroflé, was not in the best of tempers, for he
resented his position very much. He had spent a pampered youth in the
royal palace, and was now entering on a worldly and selfish middle age.
His mistress had always made a great deal of him, and she now took him
with her, because she feared his arrogant manners would earn him scant
consideration in her absence. She knew that he thought himself a great
deal better than her chief lady-in-waiting, and, in the days before her
own pride blinded her to everything else, she had often rebuked him
sharply. He sat curled up under her cloak, putting his nose out now and
then, and sniffing to show his contempt for everything they passed.
“I suppose,” said he to the Princess’s horse, “that when one travels in
outlandish places one is justified in addressing those whom one would
not be called upon to notice at home. I shall, therefore, speak to you.
Be good enough to inform me where we are going.”
Never having been inside the palace, the horse had not met Giroflé
before, though he had often heard tell of him. His honest heart burned
at the little creature’s insolence, but he answered civilly, not wishing
to annoy the Princess.
“I have been told nothing, either,” said he.
“No one supposed you had,” replied Giroflé, “but one imagines that a
beast of burden should know his way about the country.”
“Hold your peace, sirrah!” exclaimed the Princess. “I allow no one to
speak to Amulet like that. It would be well for you if you were but half
as useful and brave as he is.”
“I prefer to be ornamental myself,” said the little dog, impudently.
“You may change your mind when I set you down to run,” replied she,
slapping him.
They travelled steadily day by day, sleeping at night in such country
inns as lay in their road. These were not very grand places, but the
Princess cared for no discomfort, thinking only how she might get
forward on her way. The old man rode a few paces behind, sometimes
carrying Giroflé. The little dog was light, but what he lacked in weight
he made up in noise, for he barked ceaselessly, and nothing but threats
of making him walk could keep his tongue still.
At last, one evening, as it grew late, they came to the borders of a
forest which stretched, like a dark sea, across the horizon. A red
streak from the departed sun glared angrily over the tree-tops, and they
hurried on towards a miserable little house where they hoped to get a
lodging. When they reached it, they found it to be an inn, but so mean
and tumble-down was it that its walls seemed hardly able to hold
together. A rough-looking man was leaning out of an upper window.
“Can we lodge here?” asked the Princess as she stopped before the door.
“There are only myself, my servant, and my little dog.”
The man nodded, and came to take Amulet and the mule to the stable. She
dismounted and went in, carrying Giroflé under her arm.
“Heavens! what a place!” he exclaimed, as he peeped from under her
cloak. “Surely we are never going to spend the night here!”
“The forest is in front,” said she, “and we cannot find our way through
it at this time of night. We have no choice but to stay where we are and
be thankful that we have a roof over our heads. Listen! do you hear the
wind? There will be a storm before morning.”
As she spoke a kind of moan ran through the air and the trees began to
toss to and fro. A great splash of rain fell against the window. Giroflé
said no more, but when food was brought and the Princess sat down to
sup, he remained in a corner of the room, his face to the wall, and an
expression on it impossible to describe.
“Come here, Giroflé, and have some food,” said the Princess, as she sat
at the table.
“I am glad you call it food,” said he; “for my part, I should have
called it garbage.”
The landlord, who was serving, looked at him angrily.
“I suppose you have never seen a spaniel of good family before, fellow?”
snapped Giroflé, as he met his eye.
“Giroflé, behave yourself!” cried the Princess.
The landlord left the room, muttering.
So there Giroflé sat till his mistress had retired to bed; then he came
out and went to warm himself by the hearth, for, the corner being cold,
his exclusive demeanour had chilled him. Soon the landlord returned to
take away the dishes.
“Oh, you are there, are you, little viper?” said he.
At this Giroflé turned upon him with such a torrent of impertinence as
the man had never heard before. He had sharpened his tongue for years
upon every member of the royal household, including the King himself,
and the landlord, who soon found he was no match for him, grew almost
frantic.
He rushed upon the little dog, trying to reach him with his foot and a
soup-ladle which he held; but Giroflé tore about round the table and
behind such furniture as there was, only darting out now and then to get
a good snap at his heels. The Princess, who was not yet undressed, came
downstairs to see what was the matter; for what between the landlord’s
roars, Giroflé’s barks, the overturning of chairs and the wind and rain
outside, the noise was really frightful.
“What is all this?” she cried, standing in the doorway.
“I’ll soon show you!” bawled the landlord. “I’ll show you that an honest
man is not to be insulted for nothing! Out with you—you and your vile,
ill-conditioned cur! Princess indeed! He says you are a Princess—but,
Princess or not, out you go! Not another moment do you stop under this
roof!”
Just then he managed to reach Giroflé with the ladle, and the little dog
sprang out, yelping, into the passage.
“Come, off with you!” cried the landlord. And, before the Princess had
time to say a word, he had opened the door and thrust her out into the
night. It was fortunate for her that she had hidden the bag of gold in
her girdle, for he slammed the door behind them, and they could hear the
key turn and the bolts shoot into their places.
By this time Giroflé was whining. She took him by the scuff of the neck
and shook him. “If I did what was right, I should leave you to perish in
the nearest ditch,” said she.
But, all the same, he was so small that she had not the heart to let him
die, so she took him up, and ran to the stable, where the old man had
laid himself down for the night beside Amulet and his mule. Giroflé
whined and snarled all the time.
There was nothing for it but to start off again; they could not even
remain in the stable, for the landlord was shouting from the window to a
couple of men to turn them out. All they could do was to mount and ride
towards the forest, where at least the branches would give them some
shelter from the pouring rain.
When they entered it, the darkness was such that they could scarcely see
their way. There were no stars to guide them, so, after stumbling about
for some time, they began to search for a place in which they could be
sheltered from the wind. By the light of the little lantern that the old
man carried with him, they saw a bank covered with distorted tree-roots,
some of which had been torn from the ground in a gale. They spread
leaves and bracken in a hollow underneath one of these, and the Princess
lay down to rest, with her cloak drawn about her, and Giroflé, who was
by this time much subdued, curled himself at her feet. The old man and
his mule disposed themselves a little way off, and Amulet stood in as
snug a spot as he could find. The noise of the swishing branches
overhead sounded like the waves of the sea.
But at last the wanderers fell asleep, and the storm had abated and the
moon come out when the Princess heard Amulet plunging and stamping, and
sat up, rubbing her eyes. By the light of the crescent showing through a
gap in the trees, she saw a host of dark creatures surrounding them on
all sides. She could not imagine what they were. Their great wings were
outlined sharply against the moonlight, and, though their faces were
hidden, she was aware of their bright eyes fixed upon her. One figure in
their midst came towards them holding a tall spear; a crown of pale
green flickering flame was on his head. Giroflé jumped up barking and
then fled to his mistress’s skirts, his tail between his legs. In a
moment the tall figure strode after him and pierced him to the heart
with his spear. As he bent over his victim, the Princess could see that
he had the face of a bat.
Then, at a signal from him, the whole host came about them; they were
seized, and Amulet, who had tried to attack the Bat-King with his teeth,
was taken also; for, gallop and stamp as he might, the fluttering wings
closed him round on every side, so that there was no escape. The mule
fled at once.
When they were all safely secured, the Bat-King went on before them and
his people followed, leading their prisoners into the heart of the
forest.
And there we must leave them, for we must return to the King, and hear
what happened to him after his parting with the old man.
* * * * *
When he reached home, the King threw himself into his old pursuits as if
nothing had happened; but his heart was so sore that they gave him
little joy, and, instead of spending his spare hours in hunting with his
lords and gentlemen, he only longed to be alone. When he had leisure he
would ride off by himself for days at a time, searching for new scenes
and new thoughts. He would go out across the borders of his kingdom, by
towers and rivers and high castles, sometimes wandering through towns
and sometimes passing nights alone in the waste places of the hills.
One evening he came to the foot of a chain of rocky mountains, and
stopped, looking up at the crags which towered above his head. Their
shapes were so weird that he wondered whether their spires and pinnacles
had been carved out by human hands, or whether an earthquake had cast
them up in the likeness of men’s work. A track wound up and disappeared
among them, and he turned his horse’s steps into it.
He had reached a considerable height when he came suddenly to a chasm so
deep that he could not see its bottom. The rock on either side was worn
smooth, as though with the passing of many feet, and the opening was
narrow enough for a man to stride across without difficulty. The horse
stopped, and the rein being loose on his neck, snuffed delicately at the
strange gash that divided his path; then he picked his way over it,
snorting and cocking his ears. They were scarcely ten yards on the
farther side when there was a loud cracking noise, and, looking back,
the King saw that the chasm had split wider asunder and now yawned
behind him like the mouth of a pit. The horse dashed forward, and had
gone some distance before his rider could check him. When at last they
stood still, they had come to a smooth face of high rock, with a wide
ledge at its foot, over which the track went.
Crowning its summit, some feet above their heads, ran a battlemented
wall, and on it sat a woman who looked down at the King while she
supported herself with one white arm. Whirling vapour floated behind
her, through which appeared the outline of a fantastic castle whose
towers seemed to climb to heaven. Her hair was bound about with cords of
silver and livid purple poppies. Their petals were dropping down and
falling in the King’s path. A dull dark blue garment was wound round her
which left only her bare arms free and trailed over the wall below her
feet, mixing with her heavy plaits and the silver tassels at the ends of
them.
She smiled, bending forward till she looked as though she must fall from
her high place; she was like some great unearthly gull poised upon a
wave’s crest.
“Soon it will be too dark to travel among these precipices,” she cried.
“Come up, O King, before the light falls. The way winds up to my gates.”
And, indeed, the path took a turn at the end of the ledge, and, twisting
like a ribbon, vanished in the vapour.
There was no going back, for the chasm was behind him, and the light, as
she said, was failing; so he rode upwards till he came to a gate whose
top was lost in the clouds. It opened, disclosing a castle, and inside
it the lady was coming to meet him, her draperies trailing behind her
and the silver tassels on her plaits making a tinkling sound as they
swept the stones. A noiseless person came from a doorway and led away
his horse.
She was very beautiful. Her pale face and scarlet lips and her
heavy-lidded eyes made him think of things he had seen in dreams, and a
faint misgiving touched him as he followed her. Before the castle was a
terrace, on the wall of which he had seen her sitting above him as he
entered. He passed through stone galleries, over whose sides he thought
he could see wild faces staring; the misgiving deepened with every step.
She went before him to a chamber hung with curtains, and when she had
left him, another silent servant brought him fresh clothes and began to
unbuckle his spurs. When he had put off his belt and sword, the servant
took them from him and turned to the door.
“Give me my sword,” said the King; “I never part with that.”
He stretched out his hand to take it, but as he did so his companion
vanished on the spot where he had stood. Then he saw that the walls were
hung with images of demons, and that snakes’ heads peered from the
corners. He looked out of the window, to see nothing but whirling
vapours. When a messenger came to tell him that the lady awaited him to
sup with her, he followed gloomily, for he knew he was in the stronghold
of an Enchantress.
She was sitting at a table, on which a feast was spread, and she made
him as welcome as though he had been some long-expected guest. Her voice
was mellow as the voice of pigeons cooing in the woods, but it seemed to
him that a gleam of cruelty lurked in her eyes. After dark, a chill fell
in the air, and they drew close to a fire of logs which glowed at one
end of the hall. A silent-footed company of musicians came, playing on
instruments the like of which he had never seen, and one in their midst
began to sing:
“Boughs of the pine, and stars between,
In woods where shadows fill the air—
Oh, who may rest that once hath been
A shadow there?
“Sounds of the night, and tears between,
The grey owl hooting, dimly heard:
Can footsteps reach these lands unseen,
Or wings of bird?
“Days of the years, and worlds between—
Oh, through those boughs the stars may burn;
The heart may break for lands unseen,
For woods wherein its life has been,
But not return!”
The King sat listening, his head leaning upon his hand, and when he
looked up, the Enchantress’s eyes were fixed on him with the cruel look
he could not fathom. He sprang up and begged leave to retire; he was
weary, he said, for he had ridden a long distance. At the door of the
hall he asked her to tell her servants to return his sword. “We have
never been parted yet,” said he.
She broke into a laugh. “To-morrow,” she said, waving him away. And when
he would have spoken again, he found himself alone.
He rose very early next day and left the castle without meeting anyone;
the gates were open, and he went all round the walls, hoping to come
across some path which would take him out of the hills and lead him to
the plains below. He was now sure that he was a prisoner. He remembered
with a shudder how the rock on either side of the chasm was worn by the
feet that had passed over it; and, having found only precipices on the
north side of the castle, he determined to follow the track by which he
had come, and see if some path, no matter how dangerous, might be found
by which he could escape.
Coming down towards the chasm, he could hardly believe his eyes, for the
sides had closed together, and it was no wider than when he had first
seen it. He ran forward, but as he reached the brink it opened with the
cracking noise he had heard before, and he found himself standing on the
edge, looking into a gulf of mist. He turned back, disheartened; and as
he crossed the ledge under the wall, he looked up to see the
Enchantress, perched upon her height, watching him and smiling.
Day after day he lived on, a free prisoner. Each evening when he left
her he asked for his sword, and each evening her laugh was the only
answer he got. He did not know that the Enchantress had sat countless
years upon the ramparts of her castle, waiting, like a spider, for her
prey; that all her life had been spent in entrapping and imprisoning
men. Some she had slain, some she had kept in dungeons, and some had
dashed themselves down into the ravines or perished among them in their
efforts to escape.
But she had no intention of killing the King or of casting him into a
dungeon; of all those she had entrapped, he was the one she liked best,
and every day she fell more deeply in love with him. She would stand by
him on the highest tower of the castle, showing him all the wonders of
the landscape and telling him tales which almost made him forget his
captivity; she gave him rich gifts, and plied him with such wines and
delicacies as, King though he was, he had never tasted. Each morning a
servant brought him new clothes and jewels to choose from, but it only
made him long more fervently for his russet leather and his sword. Each
evening she would send for her musicians and sit by him till far into
the night, listening to the unearthly melodies they played. But he cared
neither for her nor for them.
His thought was always of escape, but, to throw her off her guard, he
behaved as though life was growing endurable. He kissed her hand night
and morning, he sought her company, he did all that he could to flatter
her; but in reality he hated her false smile and soft voice, and only
the hope of releasing himself made him able to play his part.
On the first night of every week the Enchantress would disappear, going
out in a car drawn by great owls, and not returning till dawn. He longed
to go with her, because he was weary for a change of scene, and because
he thought it possible that he might find some chance of escape. So one
evening, seeing that she was about to depart, he sighed heavily.
“Lady,” he said, “if you knew how long these evenings seem to me when
you are away, you would never have the heart to go.”
“Are not all my dancing-girls and musicians here to while away the
time?” replied she, looking very softly at him.
“What do I care for them?” said he. “Is there one who has a voice like
yours, or a face to be compared with yours? No, no. If I have to part
with you, my only wish is to be alone.”
The Enchantress was delighted.
“I must go, nevertheless,” she said. “For a long time past I have spent
the first night of every week in a visit to the Bat-King, who rules over
an enchanted forest some leagues from here. If I were to disappoint him,
he would never forgive me. I have to go after dark and return before
sunrise, as he can only see at night, and spends his days sleeping among
the trees.”
The King made as though he were jealous.
“And who is this Bat-King that he should rob me of you?” he cried in an
angry voice.
“Well, well,” said the Enchantress, laughing, “there is only one thing
for it—you must come too. For I cannot vex the Bat-King by my absence,
and you can delight yourself with my company while we go and come.”
Then, as though she guessed his thoughts, she continued: “If I did not
know you loved me, I would tell you that you need not hope to escape
from me in the forest. The Bat-King has millions of subjects, and he has
only to sign to them to put you to death should you attempt it.”
They went out, and on the ramparts her chariot waited her. The King
could not tell what it was made of, but it looked like one of those
clouds that cross the setting sun before a stormy night; six enormous
owls were harnessed to it and stood ready for a flight, their yellow
eyes fixed on space. A servant handed a long scourge of plaited twigs to
the Enchantress. When she and the King had seated themselves, the car
rose into the air, and they were soon rushing across the sky.
Away they went, leaving the earth far under them; they flew over towns
twinkling with lights and rivers which lay in the darkness like shining
snakes. Sometimes a heavy bird of prey would pass on its way beneath
them, and sometimes the cry of a nightjar would come up from below. At
last they came upon a dark mass covering many miles, which the
Enchantress told him was the forest of the Bat-King. A curious twilight
shone through the branches, caused by the presence of many glow-worms.
The owls lit upon an open patch among the trees, and she got out of the
car, telling the King to remain beside her as he valued his life. The
owls crouched near, ruffling as they settled.
In a short time they saw a dark-winged figure coming towards them, whose
crown of pale flame threw furtive shadows on the tree-trunks. The
Enchantress went to meet him, and for some time the two friends walked
up and down at a little distance from the King. He looked above and
around for some chance of escape. Once he thought of springing into the
owl chariot, but the Enchantress had taken her whip of plaited twigs
with her, and he feared that without it the owls might refuse to fly. He
felt under his doublet for a dagger which he had managed to lay hands on
after his sword had been taken, and which he had kept carefully hidden
ever since. Then a sound made him glance upwards, and he saw that the
boughs of the trees were a mass of gigantic figures, winged and carrying
long nets; they jibbered and laughed, making as though they would throw
them over him. It was plain that there was no hope of escape, and that
his only chance would be on the homeward way, when he might stab the
Enchantress, and with her plaited switch force the owls downwards to
earth. But he shuddered at the thought of killing a woman, even though
she were a fiend. He turned over these things in his mind till he heard
her calling.
“Come!” she was saying. “It may please you to see some of your own kind.
His Majesty has got two prisoners he is keeping in the forest, and I am
going to look at them. You need not think we shall leave you. I hear
that the woman is beautiful, so you can tell me if you think her as
beautiful as I am.”
They followed the Bat-King for some distance. The thickness of the
forest was surprising; twisted roots were woven together in the most
wonderful manner, and starry blossoms swayed to and fro in the night
wind. The Bat-creatures came crowding behind, close on their footsteps.
At last they reached a place where some trees stood round a grassy
circle; in the centre of it were two figures.
“See,” said the Bat-King, “here are my prisoners. In the night, when my
people are awake, they are watched on all sides, and in the day, while
we sleep, one touch of my spear raises such a wall of bush and brier
that they may try for ever to get through it in vain.”
His eyes gleamed with malice. “Stand, woman!” he cried, “stand up and
let the Enchantress see you!”
A lady rose and stood before them, and, as she looked up at her
tormentor, her eyes met those of the King. For a moment he remained dumb
with horror, then, with a shout, he sprang upon the Bat-King, hurling
him to the ground and battering his head against the earth.
The Enchantress shrieked and the Bat-people came round in dozens. They
overpowered the King, dragging his enemy from under him, and in another
moment he also found himself a prisoner.
The Bat-King, who was now on his feet, rushed at him with his spear, but
the Enchantress threw herself between them.
“No, no!” she cried, “you shall not kill him! He is mine! No one shall
harm him. I love him and he loves me!”
At this the King, beside himself with rage, turned upon her.
“I would sooner die than be near you another day,” he cried. “I hate you
as I hate sin itself! There is only one person in the world I love, and
that is this Princess.”
The Enchantress’s face grew white; all her beauty seemed to have faded.
She pressed close to him, her fingers opening and shutting, as though
she would tear him to pieces.
“I hate you!” he exclaimed again. “Woman though you are, if my hands
were free, I would kill you.”
“You all shall die,” said the Enchantress. “First you shall see the
woman die, you traitor; then her companion; then you shall die yourself.
No one lives to offend me twice.”
Then she turned to the Bat-King. “Send for your subjects,” she cried,
“and let us kill them before I leave this forest. I will not go back to
my castle till I have seen them slain with torments.”
The Bat-King held up his spear, and his creatures came flocking from
every thicket till the place looked like a billowy sea of black wings.
The King’s heart sank; he cared little for torment and pain or the loss
of his own life, but he could not bear the thought of seeing the
Princess die. But she looked bravely at him.
“We have met again,” she said, “so I am happy. And now we are going to
die for each other.” Then she turned to the old man. “Giroflé is dead,”
said she, “and they have taken Amulet—I know not where; but you have
stayed to the end with me. I have nothing to reward you with, but I will
do all I can for you. Lady,” she continued, “neither I nor the King
would ask for our lives, even if you were willing to grant them. But
this old man, my faithful servant, has done you no harm. I beg you to
spare him.”
“He shall die first, that you may see it,” replied the Enchantress, with
a look of hatred.
But at this moment there was a sudden movement among the Bat-people, and
all their dark arms were raised, pointing in one direction. For, far
away eastward, beyond the tree-trunks, the first pale streaks of morning
lay along the edge of the world.
“It is too late,” cried the Bat-King. “In a few minutes the dawn will be
upon us, and we shall not be able to see.”
Even as he spoke the Bat-creatures were hurrying back to their trees,
blinking in the growing light. His eyes were getting dimmer every
moment, and the Enchantress saw that she must put off her vengeance.
“When I return, this night week, we will kill them,” said she. “Keep
them for me, for I will not lose the sight for twenty kingdoms.”
And she went off in haste, for she feared that her owls might not reach
the castle ere the full blaze of day.
Before the Bat-King left his prisoners, he struck his spear on the
ground, and a wall of briers rose around them, shutting them in. As soon
as they were alone, the King, who still had his dagger hidden upon him,
began to try and cut a way through with it. But as fast as he cut one
stem, another grew in its place, and he found his work useless; there
seemed nothing to do but to sit and wait for the end. In a week the
Enchantress would return to see them put to death, and he could only
promise himself that, while he had his concealed weapon, he would sell
all their lives dear. Neither he nor the Princess had any hope of
escape, for even should they be able to get through the tangled walls,
they knew that the Bat-creatures could easily prevent their getting out
of the forest.
At night, when the Bats were astir, the Bat-King would make the wall
disappear, for he liked to look at his captives and tell them how little
time they had left. In this way several days went by.
Now, the Princess had worn her white wreath till every bit of blossom
had fallen, so that by the time she arrived in the forest it was
scarcely more than a twist of withered leaves. She had taken it off
reluctantly and thrown it down close to the place where they were now
confined, and one day, as she and her lover paced their prison, they saw
that the damp earth had revived the dying shoots and that they had put
forth fruit. It lay on the earth, ripe and purple, and when night had
fallen, and the Bat-King walked abroad, he saw what he took to be a
spray of plums lying tossed at the foot of a tree. He ate one, and,
finding it delicious, did not stop till he had devoured the whole.
That night the Bats rushed up and down the forest in dismay, for they
could not think what had happened to their monarch. He would suffer none
to approach him. No one could do his bidding fast enough to escape his
wrath; no one was fit to stand in his presence; no one could make a low
enough obeisance as he passed. But the strangest thing of all was that,
when dawn broke, instead of hastening to his tree till the light should
be gone, he protested that he was able to see as well in the sunshine as
in the dark. To one so great as himself, he said, day and night were the
same. He stumbled about, feeling the way with his spear, and by the time
the Bats were asleep he came to the place where the Princess and her
companions were. He had forgotten the wall he should have raised round
them; he had forgotten how dangerous it was to approach the King
unguarded; he had forgotten everything but his own fancied greatness.
The King watched him come; his hand was on his dagger, his eyes on fire.
As he drew near he sprang upon him and stabbed him to the
heart—once—twice. It was all over in a moment, quietly, and the
Bat-King died without a groan, for his enemy’s hand was over his mouth.
By noon they had dug a hole deep enough for his body, and, having taken
his clothes, his wings and his spear, they laid him in it, treading down
the earth and covering the place with leaves.
Then they took the old man and dressed him in the Bat-King’s garments.
They fastened the wings to his shoulders in as natural a way as they
could. They put the spear in his hand, the flaming crown on his head,
and with the dagger they cut off his long beard. With flint and steel
they lit a fire, and, burning some wood, smeared his face with the ash
till it was as dark as that of their dead enemy. His own clothes they
rolled up and hid in a hole. When all this was done the old man made a
whistling noise, such as he had heard the Bat-King make to call his
subjects, and the evil creatures trooped round, staggering blindly about
in the daylight.
When they were gathered at a little distance, he told them, in a voice
as like that of their leader as he could make it, that the Princess’s
servant was dead. He showed them the mound in the grass, under which, he
said, he had made the other two prisoners bury him. A murmur of approval
ran through the Bat crowd. The creatures could scarcely see the speaker,
but they were anxious to keep their Sovereign in a good temper, so they
pretended to understand everything. It was evident that they had no
suspicions.
“If we are to escape,” said the Princess, under her breath, “I must have
my dear Amulet back, I will never consent to leave him here.”
“Now!” cried the old man, “bring me the white horse that the woman rode
upon. Fetch him immediately, for I intend to go afoot no more.”
“To-night, your Majesty, to-night?” cried they, astonished. “We cannot
see in this blinding light!”
“Obey me at once,” roared the old man, “or I will have fifty of you
executed after sunset! Is the greatest monarch on earth to walk like the
lowest of his people?”
The Bats disappeared in all directions, for the Bat-King had kept the
horse tied up in a distant spot; in their alarm they strayed all over
the forest, but at last some of them got to the place where he was
tethered.
The Princess watched eagerly for her favourite. “Dear Amulet,” she
whispered to him when he arrived, “have no fear and we shall yet escape.
I have sent for you that I may free you. Do all you are bid, for he who
you think is the Bat-King is our friend who has come all the way with
us.”
Then the old man mounted; he dismissed the crowd, but kept back one of
the Bat-creatures, whom he drove before him with his spear to guide him
to the edge of the enchanted forest. The Bat could scarcely see, but
when he stopped, he beat him with the spear-shaft till he found the way
again.
The King and Princess remained behind; they feared to rouse the
suspicions of their enemies by going with him, as evening was far spent
and the time when they would see clearly was drawing near. Besides
which, they did not know how far distant the forest’s edge might be, nor
whether the Princess would be able to reach it on foot by dark.
Before long the old man returned. He had freed Amulet at the borders,
bidding him stay near the wood’s outskirts till his mistress should be
able to join him. He had then slain the guide with his spear, lest he
should bring word to his fellows of what had happened. The Princess
rejoiced that her dear Amulet was safe, and the three companions sat
down to discuss their escape. The King had a plan which they hoped to
carry out that night, for the week had gone by and the Enchantress was
coming.
The glow-worms were shining and the Bats going about again with open
eyes when the owl-chariot was seen. The old man took a dark cloak which
had belonged to the Bat-King, and, muffling his head and face with it,
went to meet the Enchantress. As she stepped out of her car he cried:
“Alas, lady! I have bad news. The old man is dead, and the pleasure of
slaying one of these wretches is lost. I kept him alive as long as I
could, but his captivity told on him and he died.”
“That is of no consequence,” said she. “It is the other two who concern
me most. We will make it yet worse for them. But why do you keep your
face hidden?”
“Fair one,” replied he, “flying in the daylight, I bruised my cheek
against a tree, and I would not that you should see it.”
She laughed. “And why is your voice so strange?” she asked again.
“It is the folds of the cloak that muffle it,” said he.
“And how is it,” she went on, seating herself on the grass, “that you
have made no preparations for the execution?”
“All is ready,” he said; “only wait till I call up my people, and you
shall choose the manner of their deaths.”
Then he gave a call, and the Bat-creatures surrounded them.
“Bats!” he cried, pointing to the Enchantress, “fall upon this woman and
slay her where she stands.”
And almost before she had time to scream they had set upon her, and
while she raved and struggled they beat her with their heavy wings,
smiting her till she died.
Then the King and Princess sprang into the owl-chariot, the old man
following. Before the Bats discovered how they had been deceived, the
King took the plaited switch which was lying in the car and lashed the
owls till they flew up far above the heads of the tossing crowd. The
Bat-creatures rose with one accord into the air and followed in a great
flight, but the owls were swifter, and soon the forest was passed and
the pursuers fell back, fearing the open country.
* * * * *
When the lovers and their companion came down to earth and lit on the
ground, they found Amulet waiting near the place where the old man had
left him, and they passed the rest of the night peacefully under the
stars.
Next day they began their homeward journey, and in time reached the city
in the plain where the Princess lived; and there she was married to her
lover with great splendour. Amulet and the old man went with her to her
husband’s kingdom, and on the way thither they stopped to see the Tree
of Pride cut down.
Then they rode on, the King and his Queen side by side, and disappeared
over the plain and beyond the blue hills into their new life.