Long ago there lived a King, and he had three daughters, the
loveliest in all the world. He loved them so well that he built a
palace for them underground, lest the rough winds should blow on them
or the red sun scorch their delicate faces. A wonderful palace it was,
down there underground, with fountains and courts, and lamps burning,
and precious stones glittering in the light of the lamps. And the
three lovely princesses grew up in that palace underground, and knew
no other light but that of the coloured lanterns, and had never seen
the broad world that lies open under the sun by day and under the
stars by night. Indeed, they did not know that there was a world
outside those glittering walls, above that shining ceiling, carved and
gilded and set with precious stones.
But it so happened that among the books that were given them to read
was one in which was written of the world: how the sun shines in the
sky; how trees grow green; how the grass waves in the wind and the
leaves whisper together; how the rivers flow between their green banks
and through the flowery meadows, until they come to the blue sea that
joins the earth and the sky. They read in that book of white-walled
towns, of churches with gilded and painted domes, of the brown wooden
huts of the peasants, of the great forests, of the ships on the
rivers, and of the long roads with the folk moving on them, this way
and that, about the world.
And when the King came to see them, as he was used to do, they asked
him,--
"Father, is it true that there is a garden in the world?"
"Yes," said the King.
"And green grass?"
"Yes," said the King.
"And little shining flowers?"
"Why, yes," said the King, wondering and stroking his silver beard.