One day they were in the miller’s garden. He had white rose-bushes on
either side of his door and a box-tree by the gate.
“Here is the book!” cried little Peter, who had dashed into the house,
and now came dancing out with the volume in his hand. “I’ve been peeping
inside, and there is such a fine bit about a man beating a big drum.”
“You rascal!” said the miller. “Who told you you might touch my book? I
shall put you into the mill-pond for that!”
And he began to chase the little boy about, shouting and jumping over
the flower-beds. It was really splendid.
Janet stood by laughing.
“Be quiet, Peter, or you’ll drop the book!” she exclaimed.
“If he promises to read about the drum-man I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,”
shrieked Peter.
“I promise, I promise,” said the miller, stopping beside a row of
cabbages.
So when Peter gave him the book and had settled down to listen, he
began.
There was once upon a time a widowed Baron who had a lovely daughter.
She was so beautiful that she seldom went out of the castle gates,
because people stared at her so much that it made her quite
uncomfortable. Her name was Laurine, and she could dance so wonderfully
that she looked more like an autumn leaf sailing in the wind than a
human being. Her chestnut hair floated all round her, and her grey eyes
shone like stars through a mist.
Now, in spite of all this, the Baron, who was only her stepfather, was
most anxious to get rid of her by marriage, for he was a lazy old man,
and did not like the trouble of looking after her; he liked to have his
own house to himself. He let this be known far and wide, and the very
greatest Princes and gentlemen came courting Laurine, which gave him
more trouble than ever, for she persisted in refusing every one, and the
expenses of their entertainment went, consequently, for nothing.
At last he could stand it no longer, and one morning, after a whole
batch of suitors had been turned away, he sent for her to his room. He
was sitting up in bed looking frightfully angry, and when she came in he
roared and beat his cane on the bed-clothes. He always took it to bed
with him, so that he might bang the servants if they made too much noise
when they called him in the morning.
“What is the matter, sir?” asked Laurine, making a very pretty curtsey.
“Matter!” shouted the Baron; “the matter is that I’m tired of you and
your airs, and I have made up my mind to stand them no longer. Married
you shall be. I am going to give out a notice to be posted up everywhere
that, in ten days from now, the first twelve gentlemen who send in their
names to me are to come here, bringing a musical instrument each; and
the one who plays best shall have your hand in marriage. Now, it’s no
good crying. I have made up my mind, and the messenger carrying the news
shall go out to-day. You have had the choice of all the grandest persons
in the country, and now you must just take what you can get. So get out
of my sight!”
And he laid about so furiously that Laurine burst into tears. This time
she was at her wits’ end, and could not think what to do.
“Oh, my lady!” said her maid when she heard what had happened, “you must
get advice from a Goblin I know. He is the cleverest person in the whole
countryside, and he will be able to find some way out of it. Only say
the word, and I will go at once to fetch him.”
“Go! go!” cried Laurine.
Now, in a wood not far off lived a Goblin who was well known to his
neighbours as one of the finest musicians in the world. He was rich too,
and it was said that he had a grander house than the King himself hidden
in the heart of the wood. But, for all that, he generally chose to live
in a little thatched hut near the edge of the trees, playing on his
fiddle and coming occasionally into the village, where he was greatly
honoured for his wisdom in spite of his strange appearance. He was only
about four feet high and quite black; but he had thin legs and arms, a
round, fat body and a head like a turnip. In spite of this he dressed in
the very height of the fashion, with a pointed hat and feather, doublet
and hose and a short cloak. He was called ‘The Fiddling Goblin.’
He entered Laurine’s presence with a low bow, though he was rather out
of breath; for when he had received the message from the waiting-woman,
he had made the large billy-goat which he rode gallop the whole way. It
was a magnificent animal, with an action like a horse, and the men who
took charge of it when he dismounted in the courtyard were lost in
admiration of his handsome saddlery. It was easy to see he was a man of
note.
“What you must do is this,” said the Goblin, when Laurine had finished
her story: “As soon as you hear the names of the twelve suitors, write
privately to each one. I will compose the letter for you, and this is
what you must say:
‘SIR,
‘Being extremely anxious for your success—, I am writing to
give you a piece of important advice. My stepfather has offered
my hand to the finest musician; but his _real_ purpose is to
give it to the one who will play loudest and longest, and most
effectually drown the efforts of the rest. Therefore, I beg you,
if you love me, to play stoutly against all others, and,
whatever anyone may say or do, neither stay nor stop till you
have silenced them all.’
“Then,” continued the Goblin, “the noise will be so frightful that the
illustrious Baron, who is irritable, will drive the whole party out of
the house, and meanwhile you can escape in the turmoil. If you will come
to my hut I will take you to a palace I have, deep in the wood, where
you can hide till his wrath is over.”
Laurine was charmed with his wisdom, and having given him a lock of her
hair as a keepsake, dismissed him with many words of gratitude,
promising to do exactly as he had said.
Now, it happened that there lived at some little distance off a young
man of good parentage who had fallen madly in love with Laurine. He was
brave and handsome, but he was so poor that he had never come forward as
a suitor, believing that the Baron would not so much as receive him.
When he heard of the proclamation he tore his hair.
“What a chance I’ve missed!” he cried. “If I could play even a
shepherd’s pipe I would go. But I cannot so much as do that.”
“You have got ten days to learn in,” said a friend of his, who was
practical.
So he bought a pipe and began to take lessons from the man who kept the
sheep, and one day when he was practising Laurine’s letter was brought
to him. He was simply overjoyed.
“I may be a poor musician!” he exclaimed, “but I have the strongest arm
for miles round, and now it will stand me in good stead!”
And with that he rushed off to the nearest town and bought a big drum,
the biggest that could be got for money; and, going into a solitary
field, he laid about it daily, for practice, with such effect that
people for miles round were deafened.
When the great day came, Laurine sat in state beside her stepfather and
all the musicians were ranged in a row a little way in front of them.
There were fiddles and flutes, trumpets and harps, dulcimers and guitars
and the big drum in the middle.
When the Baron had taken his seat, he made a sign to a man who had a
large golden harp to begin. But no sooner was the first chord struck
than the whole assembly burst into sound with a stupendous crash. The
fiddlers sawed their fiddles as though they would cut them to pieces,
the trumpeters blew and brayed, the flutes shrieked, the harps and
dulcimers twanged, and the young man with the drum fell upon it as
though it had been his enemy. The Baron leaped up and roared for
silence, but his voice might have been the cooing of a distant dove for
all the good it did. The noise grew more and more terrible, and at the
first convenient opportunity Laurine put her hands over her ears and
rushed from the hall.
Away she ran through the courtyard. It was empty, because everybody had
gone to see what the awful disturbance could mean, and the castle gates
were open. She flew out like an arrow, taking the shortest way to the
wood and rushing along with her hair streaming behind her, and at last
she came to the hut where the Goblin lived; she never stopped till she
got safely into it.
“Did I not give you sound advice?” said he as she sat down, breathless.
“Oh, excellent,” she replied, panting. “By this time I am sure my
stepfather has driven the whole lot out of doors.”
“And now I must hide you away,” said the Fiddling Goblin, stepping out
of the door and searching the country up and down with his rolling eye.
As soon as she had recovered her breath they plunged into the wood. Dusk
was beginning to fall, for the musical competition had taken place late
in the evening. At last they came to a place where there was nothing but
horse-chestnut trees in full bloom. The Goblin struck his heel upon the
ground, and, to Laurine’s astonishment, the white flowers of the
chestnuts on either side became suddenly lit up, looking like so many
blazing candles on so many Christmas trees.
The avenue of light stretched away before them, narrowing to the
distance, and when they had walked to the end of it, they found
themselves in front of a magnificent mansion with a high steep roof
covered with golden weathercocks. “This is my house,” observed the
Goblin, “and here you will be a welcome guest for as long as you like.
No one can find the path to it unless I light up the horse-chestnut
candles to show the way, so you will be perfectly safe from your
stepfather.”
When the door was opened Laurine found herself in a beautiful hall.
There were golden staircases, woven curtains, groves of myrtle-trees in
pots; and servants came from every corner of the place to wait upon her.
The Fiddling Goblin told her to use everything as though it were her
own, and then left her, promising to return upon the morrow.
We must now return to the Baron’s castle, and hear what happened after
Laurine’s flight.
The noise went on without intermission: the more the Baron raved, the
more furiously the musicians played. It seemed as though the howling
deep and all the thunder of the firmament were let loose together. The
air was alive with vibration and everyone rushed about in terror, as
though he were crazy. As the pandemonium grew the young man with the big
drum began to be depressed, for the sound of his drum was getting
swallowed up in the shrill blare of the trumpets. But he set his teeth
and went on harder and harder, and at last he struck it with such
violence that it broke in two and the drumstick went right through at
one end and came out at the other.
There was no use in going on any more; he was vanquished, and all hope
of winning the beautiful Laurine was gone. In despair he threw the
remaining drumstick to the farther end of the hall and strode out of the
castle to avoid his sad thoughts and the terrific noise that still
raged. Once clear of the place, he sat down on a stone, and, burying his
head in his hands, thought of all he had lost. He determined to leave
the country and seek his fortune far away from the scene of his
disappointment; so when he got up, he walked straight forward, without
caring where he went, and soon found himself on the edge of a wood. It
was growing dark, and he wandered on, meaning to take the first shelter
that offered itself for the night.
A little way on was a thatched hut, and when he saw that the door was
open and the place empty, he went in. He scarcely troubled to look
about, he was so weary, and soon he threw himself down full-length on
the hearth and fell asleep.
It was about midnight when he awoke with a start and saw the Fiddling
Goblin sitting on a chair by the fire, preparing to tune his violin. He
arose at once, and began to apologize to him for his presence.
“Don’t mention it,” said the Goblin, “and pray sit down again. I will
play you a tune upon the fiddle.”
“Oh, anything but that!” cried the young man, leaping up in horror. “I
have heard so much noise to-day that the very sight of any musical
instrument is death to me!”
“Then you are one of the suitors who came to play before the Baron for
the hand of the beautiful Laurine!” exclaimed the Goblin.
“I am indeed,” replied he, “and why I am not dead I don’t know.” And
then he told him the whole story. They talked almost till daybreak.
Now, as the Goblin listened he began to like the young man, and as he
saw how brave and handsome he looked, he had a mind to help him; for he
thought the best thing that could happen to Laurine would be to get such
a fine fellow for a husband.
“Don’t despair,” said he, at the end of the history. “I think I can do
you a good turn, for I must tell you that Laurine is at my big house not
far from here at this moment. Does she know you by sight?”
“I hardly think so,” replied the young man. “I have often watched her as
she walks abroad, but I don’t think she has ever noticed me. There was
such a crowd in the hall while the music went on, and such a turmoil,
that, as I was behind the drum, it is likely she never saw me at all.
And yet she wrote to me as if she had every wish I should succeed. I
can’t understand it.”
The Goblin looked so sly that it was frightful to see him.
“Well,” he continued, “to-morrow I am going to my house, and she will be
there. If you have a mind for it, I will take you with me, and you will
then have the chance of making yourself agreeable.”
“You are too kind!” cried his companion; “but on what pretext can I
intrude on her? She has probably repented of her letter.”
“As she does not know you by sight, I will say you are my nephew,”
replied the Goblin; “so mind you call me ‘uncle.’ You can address me as
Uncle Sackbut. We are a musical family, and all named after instruments.
One of my brothers is called Shawm and the other Hautboy. What is your
name?”
“Swayn,” said the young man.
“Very well, Nephew Swayn,” said the Goblin, “to-morrow we will set out.”
When they arrived at the Goblin’s house, Swayn was astonished at its
magnificence; but he had no time to think of anything but Laurine, and
to hope that, if she had ever seen him, she would not recognize him. He
could not imagine why she had not so much as looked his way after
writing such a condescending letter. But the Goblin bade him keep up
heart, and in they went.
She was sitting among the myrtles when they approached, and the Goblin
introduced his friend, being careful not to mention his name.
“This is my nephew,” said he, “my sister’s only son. He has come to pay
me a visit, and as I have no room for him in my hut, I propose that we
shall both keep you company here.”
Laurine received them in the most charming manner, and so much pleased
was the Goblin that he spent all day in practising his fiddle, so that
the young people should be left together. In this manner two whole weeks
went by. They spent a delightful time, and Swayn grew more hopeful every
day. They strolled in the gardens, they hunted in the woods, and it was
evident that Laurine looked upon him with great favour.
One morning he and the Goblin were together on a terrace where there was
a little green arbour.
“Swayn,” said the Goblin, “it is high time that you asked Laurine to
marry you. I think so well of you that I mean to leave you this house
when I die, though you are not my nephew at all; and while I live you
can stay here with me, whether you have a wife or not.”
“Uncle Sackbut,” said Swayn, “I can hardly believe such good fortune!
How little I thought when I threw away my drumstick and left the Baron’s
castle what luck was in store for me!”
At this moment there was a movement in the arbour, and Laurine, who was
in it and had heard every word they said, came rushing out.
“And so you are not the Goblin’s nephew at all?” she cried. “And you are
one of those horrible musicians who came to play? I will go away at
once!” she shrieked. “I will never see you again! I will not stay here
another hour!”
Then she turned to the Goblin. “Good-bye,” she said. “Never, never will
I forgive you for deceiving me!”
And, before they could stop her, she had rushed out of the garden into
the wood.
They ran after her, they shouted, they called, they implored—nothing
was of any use. She fled so swiftly that they could not even see which
path she had taken. At last, after a long time, they gave up the search.
They felt very much crestfallen.
“We shall never see her again, I fear,” said the Goblin; “she has gone
back to the Baron’s castle, and the best thing we can do is to try and
think of something else. We have made a terrible mess of it.”
“As for me,” said Swayn, “it is not so easy to think of something else
as you fancy. I shall go off and try to better my fortunes elsewhere.
What I am to do I don’t know. It is a sad thing that I am a gentleman,
for I have learnt no trade, and now, though I have every will to work,
there is nothing I can do.”
“I have a good mind to come with you,” remarked the Goblin. “I can
always return here if I get tired of it, and we can pass for uncle and
nephew still. I’ll take my fiddle, and we will make our living by it.
You can play the drum.”
“They won’t go well together,” said Swayn moodily.
“What of that?” cried the Goblin. “Very few people have any ear for
music. You’ll see—they’ll be delighted, and pay us well.”
So next day the two comrades set out together. The Goblin locked up his
house, put his fiddle in a bag, and when Swayn had procured a new drum,
they left the wood by its farther edge and made for the boundary of the
kingdom, which was not far off.
At the first village they came to they determined to try their luck, so,
having found the village green, the Fiddling Goblin mounted the steps of
the market-cross, and struck up with his bow, while Swayn, at a little
distance, kept time with the drum. Soon figures began to appear at every
door, and women left their houses and men their work; children came
capering up, and everybody’s feet could be seen tapping the ground. When
the Goblin at the market-cross saw that, he stood on tiptoe, and looking
round with a shout, burst into the fastest country dance he could think
of. In one moment the whole crowd was stamping, chasséing, and
pirouetting to the music, seizing one another round the waist, and
swaying like corn in the wind. On and on they played, till the Goblin
had lost his hat and Swayn’s arm ached, and the people were whirling
round in fours and sixes together instead of in couples. It was as if
the whole world had gone mad. When at last the Goblin stopped and signed
to his friend to go round and ask for money, it poured in so handsomely
that they were able to go to the nearest inn and take the best lodgings
to be got.
When they looked out next morning, there was a crowd under their
windows.
“Come out! come out!” cried the people. “Come out and play!” Their feet
were going already at the very recollection of the music.
So the friends set up again at the market-cross and played as they had
done before; and from far and wide, people, hearing of their fame, came
pouring into the village to dance. No work was done, and none of the
children were sent to school, for their parents were too busy dancing to
attend to the matter. Besides which, the schoolmaster had taken to his
bed, having sprained his ankle in hopping and skipping.
“We must depart,” said the Goblin, “or everyone will go crazy.”
So they rose in the night and made off, while the world was snoring
after its exertions. They went travelling on towards a great city, and
at each village they made enough money to lodge well; but they were
always obliged to leave secretly in the night, because the people would
never consent to their departure.
When they got to the capital their fame had run before them, and even
the very King and Queen were at the palace windows to see them arrive.
By twelve o’clock next day the Lord Mayor and his family had made
themselves so ridiculous by the way in which they had kicked their legs
about that the King was displeased, and ordered the music and dancing to
be stopped. He could not hear the music himself, because his business
room was in the centre of the palace, and the walls were thick.
But when the decree went out, there rose such a howl of rage that the
Court feared a rebellion. People were rushing about in bands, crying:
“Down with the King! Down with the palace! Down with everybody! Hurray
for the Fiddling Goblin! Three cheers for the Big Drum!”
The end of it was that the soldiers were called out, and Swayn and the
Goblin were thrown into prison. The Lord Mayor, whose antics had done so
much harm, took charge of the drum and the fiddle and locked them up in
the town-hall, and peace reigned once more.
And now we must hear something of what happened to Laurine when she ran
away from the Goblin’s house in such a hurry.
She found it very difficult to get free of the wood, but she did so at
last, and, by good fortune, came out on the side nearest to her
stepfather’s castle. But when she arrived there the first thing she saw
was the Baron himself looking out of a high window. At the sight of her
he began to shout with fury and to beat the window-sill with his cane,
just as he had beaten the bed-clothes.
“Off!” he roared, “hussy that you are! I have done with you. I have
found out all about you. Not content with being the plague of my life,
you encouraged all these knaves to break my head with their detestable
noise, and I have been at death’s door ever since. Off you go, or I will
let loose the dogs! You will soon see what a mistake you have made in
refusing all these husbands, for you will have to get your own living as
best you can.”
And he drew in his head, banging the window till the iron bars rattled.
Laurine turned to go, trembling, for she could hear the dogs which were
kept to chase away beggars howling inside the gates. She dared not even
beg a piece of bread from the servants, and she knew she could never
find her way back to the Goblin’s house.
She turned sadly away and wandered on till sundown, when a charitable
peasant-woman in a village shared her supper with her, and allowed her
to rest in a barn when night came on. But Laurine could not sleep for
thinking how she was to save herself from starving and what she could do
to earn enough to keep herself alive. If she were to offer to work as a
servant, people would laugh at her white hands and delicate ways.
The next day, before she departed, she thanked the woman, and said: “Now
I will do something to amuse you and your children, for it is all the
payment I can make.”
And so saying, she began to dance.
Never had anybody seen anything like her dancing; the village people
thought she must be a fairy and were almost afraid to go near her. She
gathered up her hair in both hands, whirling it round and round her like
a scarf; her feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground. It was wonderful.
Everyone came to look on.
It so chanced that there passed by a fine chariot, in which sat a
red-faced, crooked old lady, very grandly dressed; and when the dame
beheld the crowd, she let down her window and shouted to her coachman to
stop, that she might see the dancing. At the end of the performance she
threw Laurine a purse.
“Here, girl!” she cried, “that is for you if you will come with me. I am
going to give a great feast to-morrow night, and want some new
entertainment for my guests. Get in quickly, if you have a mind to come,
for I can’t waste any more time here. The whole of the nobility are
coming to the party, and I have a great deal to arrange.”
Laurine picked up the purse, thankful for such luck, and they drove away
to the nearest city.
As soon as they got there, Laurine, who was determined to do her best,
took some gold pieces from the purse and went out to see the merchants’
wares. She bought the most beautiful dress that could be got for money,
a girdle of jasmine, a long veil covered with spangles and a pair of
golden shoes. Then she came back and practised all the steps she could
think of, so as to be perfect in them by evening.
The feast was gorgeous. Several Kings came to it, and even one aged
Emperor, who was so much startled by the thunder of applause that he was
carried out for dead. The dancing was the talk of the city from end to
end, and the only dreadful part of it was that the lady who had given
the entertainment grew jealous because no one talked of her and her
hospitality, while every tongue was wagging about the lovely dancer.
But Laurine cared very little; she knew that her fortune was made, and
she determined to leave the place and travel about, dancing at the
various towns through which she passed. When she had taken leave of the
lady she set out.
Wherever she went, crowds came to see her dance and criers went before
her to tell people what a treat was in store for them. Her stepfather,
hearing news of her success, sent a messenger after her, commanding her
to return, for he wished to share in her grandeur; but she only laughed,
and pursued her way.
At last she drew near the capital city in which Swayn and the Goblin
were imprisoned, and the whole place was in a shiver of excitement at
her approach. When she got there a deputation waited on her, bringing
all the town musicians with it, that she might chose the best among them
to play for her dancing.
One after another, she refused them all. There was not one she
considered good enough to be of any use; and she grew quite impatient,
saying she would depart next day without dancing at all unless something
very much better could be found.
“Madam,” said the Lord Mayor, “it is quite true we have nobody fit to
accompany your ladyship, except a young man and a Goblin, who are,
unfortunately, in prison; but if we could get the King to release them
so that they could play for you, they could be put back into prison
afterwards quite easily.”
So the heads of the city appealed to the King, and as the King was
extremely anxious to see Laurine, he made no difficulty about the
matter.
“Certainly, certainly,” said he; “you can release the Goblin and his
nephew at once. We can always execute them if they are troublesome
afterwards.”
And so Swayn and his pretended uncle were taken out of prison and set to
play in the courtyard of the house where Laurine lodged, that she might
judge of their talents.
“That will do beautifully,” said she. “I will dance at nine o’clock this
evening.”
But she did not think of looking out of the window.
Nine o’clock came, and the crowd was assembled; and when she saw who the
musicians were, she was almost too much annoyed and astonished to begin.
But there sat the King with the Queen in her best robes, and all the
lords of the kingdom, and she was not sure that they would not throw her
into prison too were she to disappoint them. So she gave a sign to the
Goblin to strike up, and, whirling her spangled veil, began to glide
about like the shadows on a windy moonlit night.
[Illustration: “WHIRLING HER SPANGLED VEIL, SHE BEGAN TO GLIDE ABOUT.”]
By the time she had finished, the whole court was spellbound and she
herself almost in tears from excitement, the Goblin had played so
rapturously. Gold was showered upon her, flowers were thrown to her in
basketfuls, and the King whipped off his crown, dug out the biggest ruby
with his pocket-knife, and presented it to her himself.
“Now then!” cried the head of the police to the Goblin, “back to prison
with you! And tell that fierce-looking nephew of yours to go quietly, or
it will be the worse for him!”
“If you will come with me as my musician,” said Laurine, “I will beg the
King on my knees to let you go. I have never danced to such playing in
my life. Will you come?”
“Not without Swayn,” said the Goblin.
“But I hate the drum,” said Laurine.
“Then he need not play it,” replied he.
“And I don’t want _him_,” continued Laurine.
“It is both or neither,” said the Goblin.
“Oh, very well, then,” said she, turning away. “He can come as my
servant.”
So she went to the King the very next day, and the King, seeing an
excellent chance of getting rid of the prisoners without the expenses of
an execution, consented.
So the Lord Mayor gave the Goblin back his fiddle, and the three set out
on their travels together.
“Uncle Sackbut tells me that you object to the drum,” said Swayn to
Laurine, “so I’ll leave it behind, and I shall have all the more time to
attend upon you.”
Certainly he made a most valuable servant. He cleaned her little gold
shoes, he robbed all the jasmine-bushes to make her girdles, and when
anyone annoyed her, he looked so big and fierce that people were only
too glad to get out of the way.
They travelled about for a whole year, and Laurine was beginning to be
tired of such a restless life. When they came to a grim-looking town
built on a rushing river, she made up her mind to dance there for the
last time; for the Goblin had begged her to return with him to his house
in the wood, and she had promised to do so. Swayn was to come too, for
there was no doubt that it was impossible to get on without him.
“Patience,” said the Goblin to him, “and all will come right.”
“Patience is a long word,” replied Swayn.
As they approached the town gates a crowd of sour-looking men came out
to meet them with fierce eyes and frowning faces.
“You need not come here, thinking to bewitch us with light ways and
mountebank tricks,” they said to Laurine. “We have heard about you, and
we know that you are a witch!”
“A witch! a witch!” they shouted.
“Why,” cried someone in the crowd, “she has even got a Goblin for her
musician!”
Then they all began to cry “Witch! witch!” at the top of their voices,
till she could hardly hear herself speak. And in a moment they had
surrounded her and were dragging her away.
Oh! how the poor Goblin stamped and raved! but, unfortunately, he was
too small to hurt anyone much. Swayn began knocking down everybody he
could reach, but there were so many that he was soon overpowered.
“It is the witch we want! It is the witch we want!” cried the people.
The crowd turned back to the town. Some seized Laurine by the wrists,
and some by her long hair, and the rest held her companions while they
hurried her through the city gates, leaving them outside. Then the doors
were locked, and they lost sight of her.
As Laurine was dragged along the streets, a very good idea came into her
head. She was quite sure that, by hook or by crook, Swayn would try to
rescue her, so she managed to pluck the flowers from her jasmine girdle,
and to drop them behind her as she went, that he might see which way she
had gone; and when there were no more left, she plucked off the leaves,
and dropped them too. Just when the very last leaf was gone, they came
to a little stone cell built by the parapet of the city wall, where it
was low and overlooked the river. Into this dreadful place they thrust
her, turning the key in the great lock, and calling to her that they
would come in the morning to drown her in the water below. One man was
left to stand outside and guard the door, and he tied the large key to
his belt.
It was quite dark in the cell, for only a little light could come in at
a barred window, whose sill she could just reach by standing on tiptoe.
Poor Laurine wept bitterly when she thought that she was going to be
drowned next morning, and she cried all the more when she remembered how
unkind she had been to Swayn, and how much he loved her. She wished she
had not been so cruel. How often she had thrown her gold slippers at him
and told him he had not made them shine enough, when he had spent hours
rubbing and polishing them! How many times she had seen him sad and
heavy with the weight of her scornful words! She was afraid that, even
if he got into the town, the jasmine flowers would be so much trampled
that he would not guess what they were. She took off her little gold
shoes and put them up on the window-sill, just inside the bars. “If he
passes he will see them,” she said. The man outside was so near the wall
that the depth of the sill hid them from his sight.
Swayn was only waiting till it was dark to get into the town. The river
ran all round it, but he could swim well, and he had noticed a place
where the wall was low and a beam stuck out which he thought he could
reach with a leap. When the moon was up he left the Goblin in a thicket
and plunged into the river, and, once across, he ran along under the
walls till he came to the big beam. After one or two attempts he managed
to spring up and clasp it with his hands, and then he swung himself up
without much difficulty, and was soon standing on it, looking down into
the moonlit streets of the city.
Nobody was about. The ground was much higher on the inside, so he let
himself down easily, but, as he had no notion where they had taken
Laurine, he did not know which way to go. He met few people in the
deserted streets, and as the whole of the crowd which had captured her
was sitting planning how it should drown her on the morrow, no one had
any idea who he was.
He was almost in despair, when he noticed a jasmine flower lying at his
feet; then he saw that there was another farther on, and yet another
after that, and he knew that she had dropped them that he might trace
her. He followed the track through several streets, and as he went he
kept singing, that she might hear his voice if she were anywhere near.
“Laurine, Laurine, the jasmine white
Shines like a star in the darkest night,”
he sang. He dared not call, for fear of disturbing the sleeping town.
At last he came to where flowers and leaves stopped, near an open space
by the town wall. Close to it was a little stone cell with a barred
window and a door, in front of which lay a sleeping man, with a key tied
to his belt. It was easy to see that no one could get in without
awakening him.
Swayn looked up to the window above the sleeper’s head, and saw the two
little shoes placed together on the sill. He crept nearer, and sang
again:
“Laurine, Laurine, the jasmine white
Shines like a star in the darkest night”;
and in a moment he heard a voice inside the cell singing softly:
“Swayn, Swayn, nearer tread:
Love lives on when the stars are dead.”
He came a little closer and sang:
“Laurine, Laurine, throw your veil:
Dead men’s lips can tell no tale.”
Then the spangled veil was thrown through the window-bars, and he caught
it as it fell.
Stealthily he went up to the sleeper and cut the heavy key from his belt
with his knife; then, as the man stirred, he thrust the veil into his
mouth to stop his cries, and, seizing him in his strong arms, flung him
over the low parapet into the river swirling below. In another moment he
had unlocked the door of the cell and was embracing Laurine, while she
asked his forgiveness for all her unkindness and promised to marry him
if they managed to get out of the city alive.
There was an old piece of tattered sacking lying in a corner of the
prison, and she took off her rich dress and wrapped the horrible rag
about her. They tucked away her long hair and tied a bandage over her
face, so that she looked like some wretched beggar, and, when they had
locked the door and pitched the key into the river, she set off down the
silent streets, Swayn following a little way behind. They hid in a dark
alley near the town gates, and waited till the hour should come to
unlock them at dawn. The sentry on duty was not the same man who had
closed them after Laurine on the preceding day, and he let the poor
beggar go through with a jeer. As for Swayn, following at a little
distance, he took no notice of him beyond bidding him a friendly
good-morning. So the lovers were soon in the open country, pressing
forward to the thicket where the Fiddling Goblin had promised to wait
for his nephew’s return.
You may be sure that they spared no haste in getting away. By the time
the sun was high they had reached a village, where they procured horses.
All the money that Laurine had made by her dancing was kept by the
Goblin tied up in a bag with his fiddle; so they lacked no means of
getting forward, and they turned their heads towards the country from
which they had started.
When they reached the wood they could have shouted for joy. As they came
to the middle of it the Goblin stamped his heel, and all the candles of
the horse-chestnut trees burst into a blaze of light, for they had been
away a whole year, and it was the season of blossom again. Swayn and
Laurine promised to live with their uncle Sackbut, and never to leave
him any more.
They were soon married, with great pomp and solemnity, the only drawback
being that the Goblin could not make up his mind whether to be best man,
or give away the bride, or play the wedding music on his fiddle. But the
matter was happily settled by his doing all three.