Chapter XVII: Part II (8)

"Yes," said Billjim, "I suppose he will be." But Billjim wasn't satisfied. When every one was asleep she was out, and knowing the scrub thoroughly, was over to Jack's camp in a quarter of an hour. Not finding Jack there, she made for the two mile with all speed, for something told her she knew not what. An undefinable feeling that something was wrong came across her. She saw Jack lying crushed and bleeding and no one there to help him! Do what she would, dry, choking sobs burst from her tight-closed lips as she scrambled along over boulders and through the thick scrub. Brambles, wait-a-bit vines, and berry bushes scratched and stung her, and switched across her face, leaving bleeding and livid marks on her tender skin. But she pushed on and on in the fitful moonlight through the dense undergrowth, making a straight line for the two mile.

Arrived there, she stopped for breath for a while, and then sent forth a long "Coo-ie." No answer. "I was right," thought Billjim, "he is hurt. My God! he may be dead out here, while we were there chatting and laughing as usual. Oh, Jack, Jack!"

Up the gully she sped, from one abandoned working to another, over rocks and stones, into water-holes, with no thought for herself. At last, there, huddled up against the bank, with a huge boulder pinning one leg to the ground, lay poor Jack L'Estrange.

Billjim's first impression was that he was dead, he looked so limp and white out in the open there with the moon shining on his face, but when her accustomed courage returned she stooped over him and found him alive, but unconscious.

She bathed his temples with water, murmuring:

"Jack dear, wake up. Oh, my own lad, wake up and tell me what to do."

Jack opened his eyes at last, as if her soft crooning had reached his numbed senses.

"Halloa, Billjim," he said faintly. "Is that you or a dream?"

"It's me, Jack," replied Billjim, flinging school talk to the four winds. "It's me. What can I do? How can I help? Are you suffering much?"

"Well," said Jack, "you can't shift that boulder, that's certain, for I've tried until I went off. It's not paining now much, seems numbed. Do you think you could fetch the boys? Get Frenchy especially; he knows something about bandaging and that. It's a case with the leg, I think."

"All right, dear," said Billjim; and the "dear" slipped out unawares, but she went on hurriedly to cover the slip: "Yes, I'll get Frenchy and Travers, Tate and Micky the Rat; they all live close together. You won't faint again, Jack, will you? See, I'll leave this pannikin here with water. Keep up your pecker, we shan't be long," and she was gone to hide the tears in her eyes, and the choke in her voice. "It's a case with the leg" was too much for her.

She was at Frenchy's camp in a very short time. Frenchy was at his fire, dreaming. When he saw who his visitor was he was startled, to say the least of it.

"What, Billjim the Beautiful? At this hour of night? Why, what in the name of...?" were his incoherent ejaculations.

And Billjim for the first time in that eventful night really gave way. She sat down and sobbed out:

"Oh, Frenchy.... Come.... Poor Jack.... Two mile ... crushed and bleeding to death, Frenchy.... I saw the blood oozing out.... Oh, dear me!... Get the boys ... come...."

Frenchy's only answer was a long, melodious howl, which was promptly re-echoed from right and left and far away back in the scrub, and from all sides forms hurried up clad in all sorts of strange night costumes.

Some shrank back into the shadows again on seeing a woman sitting at the fire sobbing, but one and all as they hurried up asked:

"What's up? Niggers?"

They were told, and each hurried back for clothes. Frenchy got his bandages together, and fetched his bunk out of his tent.

"We'll take this," he said; "it's as far from Jack's camp to the two mile as it is from here. Now then, Billjim, off we go."

Her followers had to keep moving to keep near her, loaded as they were, but at last they arrived at the scene of Jack's disaster.

Jack was conscious when they arrived, and Frenchy whipped out a brandy flask and put it in Billjim's hand, saying:

"Give him a dose every now and again while we mend matters. Sit down there facing him. That's right. Now, chaps!"

With a will the great piece of granite was moved from off the crushed and bleeding limb. With deft fingers Frenchy had the trouser leg ripped up above the knee, and then appeared a horribly crushed, shattered thigh. Frenchy shook his head dolefully. "Any one got a small penknife? Ivory or smooth-handled one for preference," he demanded.

"You're not going to cut him?" queried Billjim, without turning her head.

"No, no," said Frenchy; "I want it to put against the vein and stop this bleeding. That'll do nicely," as Travers handed him a knife. "Sit tight, Jack, I must hurt you now."

"Go ahead," said Jack uneasily; "but don't be longer than you can help," and he caught hold of Billjim's hand and remained like that, quiet and sensible, while Frenchy put a ligature round the injured limb and bandaged it up as well as was possible.

"Now, mates," he said, as he finished, "this is a case for Clagton and the doctor at once. No good one going in and fetching the doctor out, it's waste of time, and then he mightn't be able to do anything. So we must pack him on that stretcher and carry him in. Everybody willing?"

Aye, of course they were, though they knew they had fifteen miles to carry a heavy man over gullies and rocks and through scrub and forest.

So Jack was carefully placed on the stretcher.

"Now you had better get home, Billjim, and tell them what has happened," said Frenchy.

"No, no, I won't," said Billjim; "I'm going with you;" and go she did, of course, holding Jack's hand all the way, and administering small doses of brandy whenever she was ordered. "La Vivandiere," as Frenchy remarked, sotto voce, "but with a heart! Grand Dieu, with what a heart!"

It was a great sight to see that gallant little band carrying twelve stone of helpless humanity in the moonlight.

Through scrub, over rocks and gullies, and through weird white gum forest, and no sound but the laboured breathing of the bearers. There were twelve of them, and they carried four and four about, those fifteen miles.

Never a groan out of the poor fellow up aloft there, though he must have suffered agonies when any one stumbled, which was bound to occur pretty often in that dim light.

Slowly but surely they covered the distance, and just as day began to dawn they reached the doctor's house at Clagton.

In a very little time Jack was lying on a couch in the surgery.

After some questions the doctor said:

"Too weak. Can't do anything just now."

"It's a case, I suppose?" asked Frenchy.

"Yes," said the doctor; "amputation, of course, and I have no one here to help me. Stay, though! Who bandaged him?"

"I did," answered Frenchy; "I learnt that in hospitals, you know."

"Oh, well," said the doctor, quite relieved, "you'll do to help me. Go and get a little sleep, and come this afternoon."

"Right you are," said Frenchy. "Come on, Billjim. Can't do any good here just now. I'll take you to Mother Slater's."

Billjim gave one look at Jack, who nodded and smiled, and then went away with Frenchy.

For three weeks after the operation Jack L'Estrange lay hovering on the brink of the great chasm. Then he began to mend and get well rapidly.

Billjim was in constant attendance from the day she was allowed to see him, and the doctor said, in fact, that but for her care and attention there would probably have been no more Jack.

Great was the rejoicing at the Nest when Jack reappeared, and the rejoicing turned to enthusiasm when it was discovered that there was a mutual understanding come to between Billjim and the crippled miner.

Micky the Rat prophesied great things, but said:

"Faix, 'tis a distressful thing entirely to see a fine gurrl like that wid a husband an' he wed on wan leg. 'Twas mesilf Billjim should ha' tuk, no less."

But we all knew Micky the Rat, you see.

The wedding-day will never be forgotten by those who were on the Newanga at the time.

The event came off at Clagton, and everybody was there. No invitations were issued. None were needed. The town came, and the miners from far and near, _en masse_.

Those who couldn't get a seat squatted in true bush fashion with their wide-brimmed hats in their hands, and listened attentively to the service; a lot of them never having entered a church door in their lives before.

At the feast, before the newly married couple took their departure, everybody was made welcome. It was a great time.

Old Dick got up to make a speech, and failed ignominiously. He looked at Billjim for inspiration. She was just the identical person he shouldn't have looked at, for thoughts of the Nest without Billjim again rose before him, and those thoughts settled him, so he sat down again without uttering a word.

Jack said something, almost inaudible, about seeking a fortune and finding one, which was prettily put, and Frenchy as best man was heard to mutter something about "Beautiful ... loss to camp ... happiness ... wooden leg," and the speech making was over.

At the send off much rice flew about, and as the buggy drove off, an old dilapidated iron-shod miner's boot was found dangling on the rear axle of that conveyance.

That was Micky the Rat's parting shot at Jack for carrying Billjim away.

Clagton was a veritable London for that night only. You couldn't throw a stone without hitting some one, and as a rule an artillery battery could have practised for hours in the main street without hitting any one or anything, barring perhaps a stray dog.

Things calmed down at last, however, and when the newly married returned and, adding to the Nest, lived there with the old couple, every one was satisfied. "Billjim" remained "Billjim" to all of us, and when a stranger expresses surprise at that, Billjim simply says, "Ah! but you see we are all mates here, aren't we, Jack?"

IN THE WORLD OF FAERY.

THE LEGENDS OF LANGAFFER.

BY MADAME ARMAND CAUMONT.

I.

THE TINY FOLK OF LANGAFFER.

Langaffer was but a village in those days, with a brook running through it, a bridge, a market-place, a score of houses, and a church.

It may have become a city since, and may have changed its name. We cannot tell. All we know is, that the curious things we are about to relate took place a long time ago, before there was any mention of railroads or gaslamps, or any of the modern inventions people have nowadays.

There was one cottage quite in the middle of the village, much smaller, cleaner, and neater than its neighbours. The little couple who lived in it were known over the country, far and wide, as "Wattie and Mattie, the tiny folk of Langaffer."

These two had gone and got married, if you please, when they were quite young, without asking anybody's advice or permission. Whereupon their four parents and their eight grandparents sternly disowned them; and the Fairy of the land, highly displeased, declared the two should remain tiny, as a punishment for their folly.

Yet they loved one another very tenderly, Wattie and Mattie; and, as the years rolled by, and never a harsh word was heard between them, and peace and unity reigned in their diminutive household--which could not always have been said of their parents' and grandparents' firesides--why, then the neighbours began to remark that they were a good little couple; and the Fairy of the land declared that if they could but distinguish themselves in some way, or perform some great action, they might be allowed to grow up after all.

"But how could we ever do a great deed?" said Wattie to Mattie, laughing. "Look at the size of us! I defy any man in the village, with an arm only the length of mine, to do more than I! Of course I can't measure myself with the neighbours. To handle Farmer Fairweather's pitchfork would break my back, and to hook a great perch, like Miller Mealy, in the mill-race, might be the capsizing of me. Still, what does that matter? I can catch little sprats for my little wife's dinner; I can dig in our patch of garden, and mend our tiny roof, so that we live as cosily and as merrily as the best of them."

"To be sure, Wattie dear!" said Mattie. "And what would become of poor me supposing thou wert any bigger? As it is, I can bake the little loaves thou lovest to eat, and I can spin and knit enough for us both. But, oh, dear! wert thou the size of Farmer Fairweather or Miller Mealy, my heart would break."

In truth the little couple had made many attempts at pushing their fortune in the village; and had failed, because it was no easy problem to find a trade to suit poor Wattie. A friendly cobbler had taught him how to make boots and shoes, new soling and mending; and he once had the courage to suspend over his door the sign of a shoemaker's shop. Then the good wives of Langaffer did really give him orders for tiny slippers for their little ones to toddle about in. But, alas! ere the work was completed and sent home, the little feet had got time to trot about a good deal, and had far outgrown the brand-new shoes; and poor Wattie acquired the character of a tardy tradesman. "So shoemaking won't do," he had said to Mattie. "If only the other folk would remain as little as we are!"

In spite of this, Wattie and Mattie not only continued to be liked by their neighbours, but in time grew to be highly respected by all who knew them. Wattie could talk a great deal, and could give a reason for everything; and his dwarf figure might be seen of an evening sitting on the edge of the bridge wall, surrounded by a group of village worthies, whilst his shrill little voice rose high above theirs, discussing the affairs of Langaffer. And little Mattie was the very echo of little Wattie. What _he_ said _she_ repeated on his authority in many a half-hour's gossip with the good wives by the village well.

Now it happened that one day the homely community of Langaffer was startled by sudden and alarming tidings. A traveller, hastening on foot through the village, asked the first person he met, "What news of the war?"

"What war?" returned the simple peasant in some surprise.

"Why, have you really heard nothing of the great armies marching about all over the country, attacking, besieging and fighting in pitched battles--the king and all his knights and soldiers against the enemies of the country--ah, and it is not over yet! But I wonder to find all so tranquil here in the midst of such troublous times!" And then the stranger passed on; and his words fell on the peaceful hamlet like a stone thrown into the bosom of a tranquil lake.

At once there was a general commotion and excitement among the village folk. "Could the news be true? How dreadful if the enemy were indeed to come and burn down their homesteads, and ravage their crops, and kill them every one with their swords!"

That night the gossip lasted a long time on Langaffer Bridge. Wattie's friends, the miller and the grocer, the tailor and the shoemaker, and big Farmer Fairweather spoke highly of the king and his faithful knights, and clenched their fists, and raised their voices to an angry pitch at the mention of the enemy's name. And little Wattie behaved like the rest of them, strutted about, and doubled up his tiny hands, and proclaimed what he should do if Langaffer were attacked--and "if he were only a little bigger!" Whereupon the neighbours laughed and held their sides, and cried aloud, "Well done, Wattie!"

But the following evening brought more serious tidings. Shortly before nightfall a rider, mounted on a sweltering steed, arrived at the village inn, all out of breath, to announce that the army was advancing, and that the General of the Forces called upon every householder in Langaffer to furnish food and lodging for the soldiers.

"What! _Soldiers_ quartered on us!" cried the good people of Langaffer. "Who ever heard the like?"

"They shall not come to _my_ house!" exclaimed Farmer Fairweather resolutely.

"Oh, neighbour Fairweather!" shouted half a dozen voices, "and thou hast such barns and lofts, and such very fine stables, and cowsheds, thou art the very one who canst easily harbour the soldiers."

"As for _me_," cried the miller, "I have barely room for my meal-sacks!"

"Oh, plenty of room!" screamed the others, "and flour to make bread for the troopers, and bran for the horses!"

"But it falls very hard on poor people like us!" cried the weaver, the tinker, the cobbler and tailor; upon which little Wattie raised his voice and began, "Shame on ye, good neighbours! Do ye grudge hospitality to the warriors who go forth to shed their blood in our defence? Every man, who has strength of body and limb, ought to feel it an honour to afford food and shelter to the army of the land!"

"_Thy_ advice is cheap, Wattie!" cried several voices sarcastically, "thou and thy tiny wife escape all this trouble finely. For the general would as soon dream of quartering a soldier on dwarfs as on the sparrows that live on the housetops!"

"And what if we are small," retorted Wattie, waxing scarlet, "we have never shirked from our duty yet, and never intend to do so."

This boast of the little man's had the effect of silencing some of the most dissatisfied; and then the people of Langaffer dispersed for the night, every head being full of the morrow's preparations.

"Eh, Wattie dear," said Mattie to her husband, when the two were retiring to sleep in their cosy little house, "we may bless ourselves this night that we are not reckoned amongst the big people, and that our cottage is so small no full-grown stranger would try to enter it."

"But we must do something, Mattie dear," said Wattie. "You can watch the women washing and cooking all day to-morrow, whilst I encourage the men in the market-place and on the bridge. These are great times, Mattie!"

"Indeed they are, Wattie dear." And so saying, the little couple fell fast asleep.

The following morning Langaffer village presented a lively picture of bustle and excitement. Soldiers in gaudy uniforms, and with gay-coloured banners waving in the breeze, marched in to the sound of trumpet and drum. How their spears and helmets glittered in the sunshine, and what a neighing and prancing their steeds made in the little market-square! The men and women turned out to receive them, the children clapped their hands with delight, and the village geese cackled loudly to add to the stir.

Wattie was there looking on, with his hands in his pockets. But nobody heeded him now. They were all too busy, running here, running there, hastening to and fro, carrying long-swords and shields, holding horses' heads, stamping, tramping, scolding and jesting. Little Wattie was more than once told to stand aside, and more than once got pushed about and mixed up with the throng of idle children, whose juvenile curiosity kept them spell-bound, stationed near the village inn.

Wattie began to feel lonely in the midst of the commotion. A humiliating sense of his own weakness and uselessness crept over him; and the poor little dwarf turned away from it all, and wandered out of the village, far away through the meadows, and into a lonely wood.

On and on he went, unconscious of the distance, till night closed in, when, heartsick and weary, he flung his little body down at the foot of a majestic oak, and covered his face with his hands.

He had not lain long when he was startled by a sound close at hand; a sigh, much deeper than his own, and a half-suppressed moan--what could it be?

In an instant Wattie was on his feet, peering to right and left, trying to discover whence those signs of distress proceeded.

The moon had just risen, and by her pale light he fancied he saw something glitter among the dried leaves of the forest. Cautiously little Wattie crept closer; and there, to his astonishment, lay extended the form of a knight in armour. He rested on his elbow, and his head was supported by his arm, and his face, which was uncovered, wore an expression of sadness and anxiety. He gazed with an air of calm dignity rather than surprise on the dwarf, when the latter, after walking once or twice round him, cried out, "Noble knight, noble knight, pray what is your grief, and can I do aught to relieve it? Say, wherefore these groans and sighs?"

"Foes and traitors, sorrow and shame!" returned the warrior. "But tell me, young man, canst thou show me the road to Langaffer?"

"That I can, noble sir," answered Wattie, impressed by the stranger's tone. "Do I not dwell in Langaffer myself!"

"Then perhaps, young man, thou knowest the Castle of Ravenspur?"

"The ruined tower of Count Colin of Ravenspur!" cried Wattie, "why, that is close to Langaffer. Our village folk call it 'the fortress' still, although wild and dismantled since the time it was forsaken by----"

"Name not Count Colin to me!" cried the knight, impatiently. "The base traitor that left his own land to join hands with the enemy! His sable plume shall ne'er again wave in his own castle-yard!... But come, hasten, young man, and guide me straight to Ravenspur. Our men, you say, are encamped at Langaffer?"

"That they are," returned Wattie; "well-nigh every house is filled with them. They arrived in high spirits this morning; and doubtless, by this time, are sleeping as heavily as they were carousing an hour ago."

"All the better," cried the knight, "for it will be a different sort of sleep some of them may have ere the morrow's setting sun glints through the stems of these forest trees! And now, let us hasten to Ravenspur."

So saying, he drew himself up to his full height, lifted his sword from the ground and hung it on his side, and strode away with Wattie, looking all the while like a great giant in company of a puny dwarf.

As they emerged from the forest Wattie pointed with his finger across the plain to the village of Langaffer, and then to a hill overhanging it, crowned by a fortress which showed in the distance its chiselled outlines against the evening sky. An hour's marching across the country brought them close to the dismantled castle. The moonbeams depicted every grey stone overgrown with moss and ivy, and the rank weeds choking the apertures which once had been windows.

"An abode for the bat and the owl," remarked Wattie, "but, brave sir, you cannot pass the night here. Pray--pray come to my tiny house in the village, and rest there till the morning dawns."

"I accept thy hospitality, young man," said the warrior, "but first thou canst render me a service. Thou art little and light. Canst clamber up to yonder stone where the raven sits, and tell me what thou beholdest far away to the west?" Whereupon Wattie, who was agile enough, and anxious to help the stranger, began to climb up, stone by stone, the outer wall of the ruined fortress. A larger man might have felt giddy and insecure; but he, with his tiny figure, sprang from ledge to ledge so swiftly, holding firmly by the tufts of grass and the trailing ivy, that ere he had time to think of danger, he had reached the spot where, a moment before, a grim-looking raven had been keeping solemn custody. Here the stone moved, and Wattie fancied he heard something rattle as he set his foot upon it. The raven had now perched herself on a yet higher eminence, on a piece of the old coping-stone of the castle parapet; and she flapped her great ugly wings, and cawed and croaked, as if displeased at this intrusion on her solitude. Wattie followed the ill-omened bird, and drove her away from her vantage-ground, where he himself now found a better footing from which to make his observations.

"To the west," he cried, "lights like camp-fires, all in a row far against the horizon!"

This was all he had to describe; and it seemed enough to satisfy the armed stranger.

"And now, young man," he said, when Wattie had, after a perilous descent, gained the castle-yard once more, "I shall be thy guest for the night."

A thrill of pride and pleasure stole through Wattie's breast as he thought of the honour of receiving the tall warrior. But the next instant his heart was filled with anxiety as he remembered the tiny dimensions of his home, Mattie and himself.

All these hours his little wife had passed in sore perplexity because of his absence. At the accustomed time for supper she had spread the snow-white napkin on the stool that served them for a table. She had piled up a saucerful of beef and lentils for Wattie, and filled him an egg-cupful of home-brewed ale to the brim. And yet he never came!

What could ever have happened? A tiny little person like Wattie might have been trampled to death in the crowd of great soldiers that now filled Langaffer! A horse's kick at the village inn might have killed him! He might have been pushed into the stream and been drowned. Oh, the horrible fancies that vaguely hovered round poor Mattie's fireside! No wonder the little woman sat there with her face pale as ashes, her teeth chattering, and her tiny hands clasped tightly together.

And thus Wattie found her when he returned at last, bringing the stranger knight along with him. But Mattie was so overjoyed to see her Wattie safe home, and held her arms so tightly round his neck, that he could scarcely get his story told.

Little indeed did the good people of Langaffer, that night, asleep in their beds, dream of the great doings under the modest roof of Wattie and Mattie; all the furniture they possessed drawn out and joined together, and covered with the whole household stock of mattresses, quilts and blankets, to form a couch for their guest's repose.

The knight had eaten all Mattie's store of newly-baked bread, and now only begged for a few hours' rest, and a little more water to quench his thirst when he should waken. As he took off his helmet with its great white plume, and handed it to Wattie, the latter staggered under its weight, and Mattie cried out, "Oh, Wattie, how beautiful, how noble it must be to ride o'er hill and dale in such a gallant armour!"

Then thrice to the Fairy Well in the meadow beyond the bridge of Langaffer must Wattie and Mattie run to fetch water, the best in the land, clear as crystal, and cold as ice; for it required fully three times what they could carry to fill the great stone pitcher for the sleeping warrior.

And the third time the two came to the spring, behold, the water bubbled and flashed with the colours of the rainbow, and by the light of the moon they caught a glimpse of something bright reflected on its surface. They glanced round, and there a lovely, radiant being sat by, with a tiny phial in her hand.

"Hold here, little people!" she cried, "let me drop some cordial into the pitcher."

"Nay, nay!" screamed Mattie.

"Nay!" cried Wattie sternly, "the drink must be as pure as crystal."

"For your noble warrior," added the fairy rising; "but the beverage will taste the sweeter with the drops that I put into it." And so saying, she stretched forth her hand, and shook the contents of her tiny flask into the pitcher; and her gay laugh rang merrily and scornfully through the midnight air.

Wattie and Mattie, half-frightened, hastened homewards; and lo, when crossing the bridge, an old hag overtook them, and, as she hurried past, she uttered a spiteful laugh.

"There is something strange in the air to-night," said Mattie. "See that weird old woman, and hark, Wattie, how Oscar, the miller's dog, barks at the moon."

"Mattie," cried Wattie resolutely, "let us empty our pitcher into the mill-race, and go back once again, and draw afresh! 'Tis safer."

So the tiny couple, weary and worn out as they were, trudged all the way to the Fairy Well once more to "make sure" that the stranger knight should come to no harm through their fault.

And this time the water flowed clear and cold, but with no varied tints flashing through it. Only Wattie seemed to hear the stream rushing over the pebbles like a soft, lisping voice. "Hush! listen! what does it say?"

"To me," cried Mattie, "it whispers, 'Silver sword of Ravenspur.' But that has no sense, Wattie dear. Come, let us go!"

"And to me the same!" cried Wattie, "'Silver sword of Ravenspur.' That means something."

It was now early dawn as the two passed over the bridge and by the miller's house, and they could see the fish floating _dead_ on the surface of the mill-race, and poor Oscar the dog lying stretched on the bank, with his tongue hanging out stiff and cold. And silently wondering at all these strange things the little couple finished their task.

When the hour of noon arrived, the din of battle raged wild and fierce round the village of Langaffer. The enemies of the land had arrived from the west with false Colin at their head, and were met by the soldiers in the plain, below the Castle of Ravenspur. With a loud war-cry on either side foe rushed upon foe, and the fight began. Horsemen reeled over and tumbled from their chargers, blood flowed freely on every side, shrieks rent the air; but the strength of the combatants appeared equal. At last Count Colin and his men pressed closer on the royal army, and forced them back by degrees towards Langaffer.

It seemed now that the enemy's troops were gaining; and groans of despair broke forth from the villagers and countryfolk who watched with throbbing hearts the issue of the day.

At this moment the knight who had been little Wattie's guest dashed forward, mounted on a snow-white charger, his armour of polished steel glistening, and his fair plume waving in the sunshine.

"Back with the faint-hearted, on with the brave, and down with the traitor!" he cried, and rode to the front rank himself.

His word and action wrought like an enchantment on the soldiers. They rallied round the white-plumed stranger, who soon was face to face with false Colin. And then the hostile bands, with their rebel commander, were in turn driven back, and back, and back across the plain, and right under the beetling towers of the fortress of Ravenspur.

Now Wattie was standing near the ruin, and saw the combat, and heard the sounds of the warriors' voices reverberating from the bend of the hill. How his heart bounded at the brave knight's battle-cry: "_Back with the faint-hearted, on with the brave, and down with the traitor!_" And then indeed the blood seemed to stand still in his veins when he heard false Colin exclaim, "Oh, had I the silver sword of Ravenspur!"

Ah! Wattie remembered the raven, and the one loose stone in the castle wall.

In another instant his tiny figure was grappling with the trailing ivy on the outer fencework of the fortress.

And now he is seen by false Colin, and now the archers bend their bows, and the arrows fly past him on every side. But Wattie has hurled down a stone into the old courtyard, and, from behind it, has drawn forth a silver-hilted brand.

"He is so small that our arrows all miss him!" cry the archers. "Nay," cries false Colin, "but he bears the enchanted weapon of Ravenspur! Take it from him, my men, and fetch it to me."

"Count Colin shall have the _point_ of the sword," cries Wattie, "but the silver handle is for the white-plumed knight!" and, running round the ledge of the castle wall to the highest turret, he flings the shining weapon down amongst the men of Langaffer.

And now there was a fresh charge made on the enemy, and the "unknown warrior," armed with the newly-found talisman, stood face to face, hand to hand, with the traitor.

... _Count Colin fell_, pierced through his armour of mail by the sword that once had been his! The enemy fled, and the victory was won.

Then the stranger knight undid his visor, and took off his armour; and, as his golden locks floated down his shoulders, the soldiers cried out, "'Tis the King! 'tis the King!"

Wattie was called forth by the King of all the Land, and was bidden to take the knightly helmet with its waving plume, and the shield, and the silver sword, and to wear them. The men of Langaffer laughed aloud; but Wattie did as he was commanded, and put on the knightly armour and weapons.

And, behold at that moment he grew up into a great, strong warrior, worthy to wield them! He was knighted then and there, "Sir Walter of Ravenspur," and presented with the castle on the hill, which the king's own army repaired ere they quitted Langaffer.

And then the King of all the Land sent a fair white robe, the size of the Queen's ladies'; and when little Mattie put this on, she grew up tall and stately to fit it. And, for many and many a year to come, she was known as the "Good Dame Martha, the faithful lady of Sir Walter of Ravenspur."

II.

THE KINGFISHER.

Martin was a gardener, and lived in a cottage in the midst of a hamlet near Langaffer. All the country for miles round belonged to the old king and queen; and their beautiful palace was hard by the village, in a stately grove of elms and beech trees. Before the windows extended a lovely garden, which was kept in order by Martin. Here he toiled every day from morning-dawn till evening-dusk; and, in his own churlish manner, he had come to love the flowers that cost him so much labour.

Like many another honest gardener, however, Martin found it very hard that he could not have his own way in this world, even as concerned his plants. For instance, the old monarch would come out every morning after breakfast in his dressing-gown and slippers, and would admire the bloom; but the very flowers he appeared to prize most were those that cost Martin least trouble, and which the gardener in his heart despised as cheap and vulgar.

Then the queen and the young ladies were wont to appear on the terrace before dinner, with their little lapdogs, and call out for posies. They must have the finest tea-roses and moss-roses that were only in bud. Martin might grumble about to-morrow's "poor show," and point to some rare full-blown beauties--but no, they just desired those which were not yet opened.

Moreover, there grew here and there in the garden a plant or shrub, which, Martin considered, would have been better removed; especially one large lauristinus, which, he declared, "destroyed all symmetry," and "hindered the flowers about it from enjoying the sunshine."

But the old king obstinately opposed changes of this sort, and strictly forbade his gardener, on any pretext whatever, to remove the lauristinus; as it was well known at the court that for generations a spell was connected with this special shrub, and that therefore the less it was meddled with the better.

All this interference tended to sour poor Martin's temper; but he himself declared it was nothing compared to the aggravating behaviour of Prince Primus, commonly called "Lord Lackaday," the king's eldest son.

This young nobleman, who was renowned far and wide for his indolent habits, sauntered forth every day with a little boy carrying his fishing-tackle, away through the lovely gardens, without once turning his head to behold the brilliant parterres of "calceolarias, pelargoniums, petunias and begonias," or to inhale the sweet-scented heliotropes,--away through the park, and on to the river; for my Lord Lackaday's sole pastime was angling.

"Humph! there he goes with his tackle," Martin would murmur, turning from tying up his carnations to stare after him. "If old Martin, now, were to spend _his_ days lying stretched _his_ full length on the grass, with a rod dangling in the water before him, what would the world come to? And where would _you_ be, my beauties?" he added, continuing his occupation. "Hanging your lovely heads, my darlings!" And so he grumbled and mumbled in an undertone to himself the whole livelong day, until he went home to his supper at night; when his good wife, Ursula, would endeavour to cheer him with her hearty welcome.

One evening Martin went with his clay pipe and his pewter ale-pot in his hand to the village inn, to divert himself listening to the general gossip which was carried on there between the host and the little group of customers--weavers, tinkers, tailors, blacksmiths and labourers. To-night they talked of the rich old king and queen, and Lord Lackaday, and all the gay princesses, knights and ladies, who lived at the court, and rode by in such splendid carriages, in such gorgeous attire.

"They eat out of golden dishes," said the tailor, "and the very nails in their boots are silver!"

Martin knew as much about the court as any present; but he was in one of his silent humours this evening.

"The princess gave a hundred crowns," cried the blacksmith, "for a one-eyed lapdog, and My Lord Lackaday--Prince Primus, I mean--two hundred for a certain white fly for his angling-rod----"

"And he never gave _me_ a hundred _groats_," blurted out Martin, who could not stand any reference to the prince in question.

Thereupon the conversation took another turn; wages were discussed, the weaver and the ploughman "compared notes"; and, as for Martin, it was the unanimous opinion of the whole company that he, at least, ought to strike--to insist on an increase of pay, or refuse to labour any more as the king's own gardener.

Accordingly, the next morning Martin watched and waited till his royal master came sidling along the smooth gravel walk in his embroidered slippers, with his dressing-gown floating about him, sniffing with good-humoured satisfaction the sweet fragrance of the standard roses, that formed a phalanx on either side.

"I've got to tell your Majesty," began Martin abruptly, "that, unless your Majesty raises my salary, I can't work any more in your Majesty's garden."

Whereupon the old king started back all astonished; then laughed so heartily that he brought on a fit of coughing.

"Your Majesty may be highly amused," grumbled Martin, "but I've said my say, and I mean to stick to it!"

"But suppose your salary _ain't_ raised," began the king, trying his best to look serious, "what then?"

"Then I'll go!" cried Martin; and, so saying, he flung his spade with such force into the soil, that it stood upright.

"Well, my man, we'll give you a week to come to your senses," replied the monarch, as, gathering up his skirts, he shuffled away down the garden walk.

When Martin arrived home he found a great fuss going on in his little cottage. All the good wives of the hamlet were gathered about the door-porch; and, when he entered, lo, and behold, Dame Ursula held in her arms the dearest little beauty of a baby-boy!

She wept for joy, as she saw how pleased her goodman was with his new little son; but when he related to her all that had passed between himself and his master, the old king, she clasped her hands together, and began to weep and wail for sorrow, "because," as she said, "it was a very bad time to be 'out of work,' and an evil omen for the child. However, we'll have a real nice christening, Martin dear, and invite all the _good fairies_. And next week you will go on with your gardening again, you know, just as if nothing had happened."

So they had as grand a christening as people in their circumstances could afford. The baby was called Lionel, "which," remarked some of the neighbours, "was quite too fine a name for a common gardener's son." Only one bright little, gay little fairy could be found who had time to come to the christening. But she was a good-natured little thing, that somehow always found exactly time to render a great many kindly services. She willingly became Lionel's godmother, and promised to help him through life as far as she could. "However," added the little lady, with a sigh, "there's many a wicked fairy in the land may try to throw a shadow across his path."

Now the day after the christening, and after the fairy's departure, the troubles in little Lionel's home appeared to set in. Martin's leather money-bag hung empty, and there was very little bread in the house for his wife to eat; and this Saturday night no wages were coming due. Oh, how he yearned for Monday morning, that he might go at his digging again; and how anxiously he hoped that all might continue as before!

Slowly the week dragged out, the lagging hours weighing like chains on the heart of the honest yeoman, who was not accustomed to idleness.

At last the Monday morning dawned, with rustling of leaves, and twittering of birds; and Martin flung his clothes on, and hastened forth to the royal garden.

Ah, me! the place looked neglected since only last week. The roses and carnations hung their heads for want of a drop of water, and the leaves of the fuchsias had mostly turned white. Weeds were staring out boldly right and left; and the box-borders, that had ever been so trim and neat, just appeared as if all the cats and dogs in the country-side had gathered in on purpose to tear them to pieces.

Martin sped to the toolhouse for his watering-can, rake and hoe; but he was somewhat dismayed indeed to find his implements broken in pieces, and lying scattered about.

What could it mean?

He took a few strides towards the "lime walk," and gazed up at the castle windows. The lattices were closed, and all was silent. But then, of course, the old king and queen and My Lord Lackaday, and all the princesses would be sleeping in their beds at this early hour of the morning. Martin must wait until some human creature appeared to tell him how the garden tools came to be broken and scattered.

In the meantime he trudged back to his own domain among the flowers, and passed the dreary moments picking off the withered leaves. By-and-by a light footstep was audible, and "Impudent Jack the jockey" arrived whistling, with a heavy-jowled bull-dog at his heels, and stamped right across the garden parterres, switching off the carnation-tops with his cutty-whip.

"Holloa there, man! Mind what you're about!" cried Martin foaming with wrath. "I wish His Majesty the old king saw you."

"The old king!" cried Jack, standing still, and gazing at Martin with some amazement. "Why, Martin, the old king is _dead_ a week to-morrow, and My Lord Lackaday is master now. And, as for the garden, my man, you may set your mind at rest about that, for his new Royal Majesty has given orders that the whole concern is to be turned into a lake for His Majesty to fish in. Now!" And, so saying, _impudent_ Jack that he was, continued his way, whistling louder, and switching off more carnation tops than before.

Poor Martin was utterly dazed. Could it be true, or was it only a cunning invention of Impudent Jack the jockey's?

Alas, the prolonged stillness that reigned in the park, and the forlorn aspect of the castle windows, made his heart sink like lead within him.

Suddenly a postern door banged, and then a slow, dawdling step was heard in the distance, and Martin perceived, approaching the "lime walk," My Lord Lackaday, with his fishing-rod and tackle. There were two or three young pages with him bearing baskets and nets; and he overheard one of them say, "By-and-by your Majesty shall not have so far to go, once the new pond here is finished."

This was more than Martin could endure. He dashed after the royal fisherman, and screamed forth, "Can it be true that the flower gardens are to be made a pond of? And how is your father's gardener then to get his living?"

"Don't bother us," drawled out the new king; "we don't like flowers, nor do we care whether you get a living or not!"

The blood rushed to Martin's head, and a singing sound filled his ears. "A pond!" he cried. "A common fishpond! And how am I to earn my living now? And what is to become of my wife and little Lionel?"

In his anger and despair, Martin sprang blindly forward, and kicked the standard roses, and wrung the necks of the beautiful purple iris that bloomed in the shade of some laurel bushes. His eye caught the spellbound lauristinus, and, forgetting his late good master's commands, he fell on it furiously with both hands, and tore, and wrenched it from the earth.

Then suddenly, as the roots and fibres of the ill-omened plant with a crackling noise were released from the soil, a wonderful being, which had been buried underneath it--a wicked fairy with an evil eye--uncoiled herself, and rose up straight and tall before him. She gave a malicious smile, and simpered out flattering words to the half-bewildered labourer.

"A thousand thanks, O noble knight, for relieving a spell-bound lady! Pray let me know, is there aught that I can do to indicate my gratitude?"

"Tell me how I can earn my daily bread?" stammered forth poor Martin.

"Daily bread!" cried the fairy, tossing her head contemptuously. "I can tell thee, gallant sir, where to find gold, ay, more real yellow gold than the king and all his court ever dreamed of! I have not been pent up under that lauristinus all these years for nothing! I know a secret or two."

Martin's eyes grew dilated, and his breath came and went, and he seized the fairy by the wrist. "Answer me," he gasped out hoarsely, "where's all that gold to be got? No palavering, or I'll bury you up again, and plant that same lauristinus-bush on your head!"

The fairy rolled her evil eye, and gave a forced laugh. "At the back of yonder mountain!" she cried, pointing with her thin, long hand to a hill whose summit overlooked the park. "The way thou must take is through the forest, till thou comest to the charcoal-burners' huts. Then follow a crooked path leading to the left, round to the back of the hill. Thou wilt find an opening in the earth. _The gold is there!_"

Martin scarcely waited for the last words. He loosened his grasp of the fairy's wrist, and hastened full speed home to his wife and child.

"To a hole at the back of the mountain to look for gold!" Poor Dame Ursula was sorely puzzled when her good-man arrived all excited, and bade her make a bundle of what clothes she possessed, bring the baby Lionel, and follow him to push their fortune at the back of the mountain.

Now at the back of the mountain there was a deep mine where many people, men, women and children, were searching after, and finding, gold. Only they were obliged to descend deep, deep into the bowels of the earth, where all was dark, save for the pale flickering of little lanterns, which they were allowed to carry down.

Poor Dame Ursula wept bitterly at the notion of taking her darling little Lionel into such a dismal pit. But there was no help for it; down they must go, and live like the rest at the bottom of the gloomy mine, whilst Martin, with a pickaxe, wrought for gold.

... The days passed, and the weeks passed, and the months, and the _years_! And little Lionel was growing up amidst the dross. His long hair was filthy, and matted together, and his skin was always stained with the clay. His parents could scarcely know whether he was a lovely boy or not. It was so dark down there, that his mother could not show his blue eyes to the neighbours; yet she ever kept him by her side, for fear of losing him, and also because she dreaded he might learn bad ways from the gold-diggers--to curse and swear like them, and tell lies, and steal other people's treasures.

And poor Martin dug from year-end to year-end, in the weary hope of some day lighting on a great heap of wealth.

The time dragged slowly on, and Lionel's father was getting old and weak, and his pickaxe fell with feeble, quavering strokes into the earth; and Lionel's poor mother was growing blind with constantly peering after her son through the half-obscurity of their underground abode.

Then one morning she missed him altogether, having mistaken for him another youth, whom she followed and then found with bitter anguish to be not her boy. Thus Lionel was alone; and he, too, searched for his mother, and, in so doing, became completely lost in the mine.

On and on he wandered, through endless subterraneous corridors, until at last he spied a feeble glimmer before him. He never remembered to have been here before, or to have seen this light. It was the entrance to the mine.

There was a large basket, with two old men standing in it; and they told Lionel that they were about to be taken up into the daylight.

"Oh, let me go with you!" cried Lionel. "Take me also to the daylight, if only for a little while!"

They hoisted him into the basket; and immediately several unseen hands from above drew all three right up, out of the dark gold mine. The pale, thin ray grew stronger, broader, brighter as they ascended; and, at the mouth of the mine, a perfect flood of golden sunshine overwhelmed Lionel, who now held his hands across his brow, and felt painfully dazzled.

"Young man," said a voice beside him, in mournful accents, "this upper air is not for thee. Go down again to the shady retreat to which thou art accustomed."

It was an aged female that spoke; she sat on the ground all clad in a sooty garment.

"Not for me!" cried Lionel, bursting into tears; "and why should it not be for me as well as for others?"

But just at this instant a fairy-like thing in white glided past the youth, and whispered, "Heed her not, she is an evil genius! Hie thee, young man, for shelter to yonder wood; from its leafy shade thou canst behold the lovely earth with its verdant meadows, rich foliage and brilliant flowers, and the soft, fleecy clouds embracing one another in the azure sky overhead. Never fear, it is all for thee; thine eyes were meant to gaze on it."

Lionel ran, and his young heart bounded within him for joy. He felt like some blind person who sees again for the first time.

All through those dismal years down in the mine his mother had told him how lovely the sunshine was, and the soft green grass; and how pure and sweet the country air; but he had little dreamed it could be so delightful, so beautiful as this!

The forest stood before him with its thousands of singing-birds, and its carpet of many-coloured leaves and wild flowers. He would enter in there.

Suddenly a croaking sound from a branch overhead arrested his attention, and Lionel saw a great magpie staring down at him with dark, piercing eyes.

"Halt!" cried the magpie, "nor enter this wood upon the peril of thy life! Here are lions and tigers, bears and wolves, that will rend thee to pieces."

He was startled and troubled for a moment; but at once his eye caught sight of a pretty little mocking-bird, that laughed like a human being, and shook its tiny head at him.

"_She_ doesn't believe you, anyhow," said Lionel to the magpie. "Nor will I." And he walked away right into the forest.