Mogodore Meets More Magic
Soon the fragrance of an appetizing repast began to float out to the
unhappy prisoners in the garden. Dusk turned to darkness, lights shone
from every room in the palace, and in dreadful suspense and discomfort
they waited for Mogodore's next move.
"That robber baron really means to marry you," groaned Trot, who was
tied to a tree near Ozma, and as if to confirm her words two spearmen
came marching determinedly toward them.
"Her Majesty, Queen Ozma is wanted within," bawled the first man,
looking around. "Ozma of Oz, this way please." Immediately the little
fairy was released from her chains.
"Never mind," she whispered as Trot burst into tears, "remember, Scraps
is free and will find a way to help us."
"She'd better hurry," shivered Dorothy, and with sinking hearts
they all saw their little leader marched away between the guards.
Well-filled plates were being brought out to the soldiers in the
garden, but no refreshment of any kind was offered to the prisoners,
nor did Betsy Bobbin, crouched in the center of the butterfly bush,
find any opportunity to escape from her hiding place. Inside a great
feast was laid in the banquet hall and the rude warriors were already
seated and banging on the table with their gold forks and knives.
Wagarag, an apron tied hastily over his armor, was supervising the
festivities and Mogodore, seated at the head of the table, without
even rising waved Ozma to a place beside him. With a little sigh of
despair, Ozma slipped into the green throne chair.
"Your future Lady in Waiting," grunted Mogodore, pointing rudely to
Shirley Sunshine, who sat on his other side. "I did truly intend to
marry this Princess, but find you so much more charming I have chosen
you instead."
"Hurrah for the Queen of Oz and Baffleburg!" yelled the spearmen
boisterously. Shirley, under cover of the rattling knives and forks
tried to whisper her story to Ozma, but Mogodore's loud roars for food
soon put an end to that and, pale with distaste and fright, the two
little Princesses sat silent, scarcely touching a mouthful of the food
that was unceremoniously dumped upon their plates. With a shudder, Ozma
looked around her tidy castle. Mud had been tracked over all the velvet
rugs, pictures hung sideways and the floor was strewn with broken
vases and plates that spearmen playfully hurled at one another between
courses. If Scraps succeeded in reaching the castle of Glinda, the good
Sorceress who ruled over the South, Ozma knew this powerful ally would
immediately fly to her assistance. With agonized ears, she listened for
the wings of Glinda's swan chariot. But time went on and no one came.
Now that the hunger of the rough company was appeased, they grew more
noisy than ever.
"Call this a battle," wheezed Bragga to Mogodore, "are there to be no
hangings, no bon fires, no killings of any kind? You promised us a real
war. This is as tame as a taffy pull." Tugging discontentedly at his
long mustache, the Captain of the Guard looked sulkily at his chief.
"After the wedding you may kill whom you please," promised Mogodore
indifferently, "but now I'm going to have another try at that magic
belt."
"Take care! Take care!" bleated Wagarag, from the other end of the
banquet hall. "I'll wager you're thinking of that forbidden flagon
again."
"Right," boomed the baron, sweeping a dozen plates to the floor with
his arm. "And right now, I'm going to transport that flagon to this
castle and find out what is in it and why it is forbidden. What will
happen if the seal is broken? It cannot harm me now. I am no longer
Baron of Baffleburg, but King of OZ--King by right of seizure and
conquest."
"You'll not be the lawful King till you marry this Princess," quavered
Wagarag, raising a trembling finger and pointing to Ozma.
"The old bone is right," grumbled Bragga. "Why not marry her now and be
done with it?"
"Marry her now," echoed all the spearmen, "and let us get on with
the killing." Pushing back her chair, Ozma jumped up and glanced
desperately around the table. Would no one save her from this robber
baron and his band? Mogodore, too, rose to his feet.
"I'm King now, I tell you," he insisted stubbornly, "and I'll marry
when I'm ready, but now I am going to end the miserable mystery of
the forbidden flagon. I command the forbidden flagon and its guard
to appear before me," bellowed Mogodore, staring around defiantly.
Scarcely had the sound of his voice died away before there came a crash
and splinter of glass and in through a window back of the baron burst a
strange flying figure. It was Jack Pumpkinhead, clasping the precious
flagon in one hand and holding to his head with the other; brought all
the way from the Red Jinn's palace by the mysterious power of the magic
belt. With a hysterical little cry, Ozma rushed forward.
"Jack! Jack!" panted Ozma, "have you come to save us?" Solemnly Jack
nodded and before a man at the table could move, he whisked off his
head, set it on a chair and then and not till then did he hurl the
forbidden flagon straight at the Baron of Baffleburg. How he ever
managed to aim so true without his head to help him I have no idea, but
with a resounding crack the flagon splintered to bits on Mogodore's
nose and a thin red liquid began to pour down his cheeks and drop off
his chin.
No longer need Mogodore wonder what would happen, when the seal on the
forbidden flask was broken! For what would happen, had happened! Stars!
Yes!