Chapter IV: Part 4

“I feared lest mishap destroy it,” continued the court fool, “so yestereve I took it from my bower. You see, I believe in the wonderful tune; and without my note, this last note, your tune would scarce be worth the playing. And now, your hand, little minstrel, for you must hurry away at once through the wind and rain.”

So the minstrel pressed the hand of the court fool and, hastening down a tiny corner staircase, went forth into the storm. And as he fled, he cried aloud to the thunder and the rain and the wild wind:--

“The wonderful tune, the wonderful tune! I have it, I have it--the wonderful tune!”

And now the storm wore itself away, the summer stars shone forth in the clearest of blue skies, and the only sound to be heard was the rain drip-dripping from the trees. Drenched to the skin, but with a fire of joy in his heart, the minstrel hurried through the night toward the Kingdom of Music far away.

When he arrived there, on a summer’s morning, he found the people of the palace assembled in the hall of state, and the King upon his throne.

“I have it, Your Majesty!” cried out the little minstrel breathlessly; “I have it, every note; here is the wonderful tune!”

“What! The wonderful tune?” cried the King, leaping to his feet. “Quick, somebody, ring all the bells, send trumpeters through the streets, assemble the orchestra, and call hither the Violinist-in-Chief, the Lord Organist, and the Grand Harper. We shall play it over at once!”

* * * * *

“H-m,” said the Violinist-in-Chief, after he had put on his huge spectacles and studied the wonderful tune, “Don’t you feel that those last bars ought to be played very fast, like this: tum-diddy-tum--tum-diddy-tum--tum-diddy-tum--diddy-dum-dum-dum?”

“No, I do _not_ agree with you,” replied the Lord Organist, a huge personage with a majestic air and a bad temper. “Those bars should be played slowly,” here he waved a large, solemn finger, “like this: tum--tum--tum--tum--tum--tum--tum--tum--tum!”

“You are both entirely wrong,” interrupted the Grand Harper, a short contradictory fellow with long arms and long fingers. “To my way of thinking the entire tune should be played throughout in the same time, in this fashion; listen to my tapping now: da-da--dee-dee--da-da--dee-dee--da-da--dee-do-dum.”

“Impossible! Absurd! No, never!” cried the Lord Organist and the Violinist-in-Chief in one long indignant breath. “We appeal to the King!”

But the King had ideas of his own on the matter.

And thus it was that the musicians all took to quarreling as to how the wonderful tune should be played, and are quarreling still.

But some day they will make up their minds as to how it should go; the little minstrel will leave the Kingdom of Music and come through the world piping the tune; and then, oh, then, what times there will be!

THE MAN OF THE WILDWOOD

Once upon a time, on a summer’s morning after a night’s rain, a country squire’s son stood within an arched doorway of his father’s house, gazing upon the hedgerows and the fields. The sun was shining after the storm, a high wind was shaking the trees, scurrying gusts fled through the nodding grass, and silvery white clouds sailed the arching sky. And beholding the bright morning and the rain-washed land, a great longing came into the heart of the squire’s son to follow the clouds over hill, over dale, and to see the world. Presently, with his parents’ blessing locked in his heart’s treasury and a purse of gold in his pocket, he leaped to the saddle of his dappled steed, waved his plumed hat, and galloped away.

Long he rode and afar, and presently he found himself in the heart of the deepest and darkest wildwood that was ever to be seen. Before him, behind him, around him all about, were the trunks of numberless trees--trees so tall that they hid the sky, and made of it but patches of cloudy white or speckles of blue; trees--broad trees, slender trees, trees that were like men-at-arms, trees that were shy and aloof as maids, trees that were silent, trees that rustled, everywhere trees. And deep was the wildwood silence and unbroken save for the soft pad of the horse’s hoofs and the rare song of a hidden bird.

At the close of his third day, the squire’s son found himself at the gates of a noble city built of cedar-green glass on an open hill in the heart of the wildwood.

Now as it was late in the day when the youth arrived at the city, it came to pass that he went to an inn for supper and the night. The mistress of the tavern, I must tell you, was a lonely orphan maiden named Miranda. Surely there was never a fairer or a kinder little maid! Beneath her ancient roof the humble wayfarer met with as friendly a greeting as his richer fellow, and with her own hands she gave bread and milk to the unfortunate and poor.

Now it chanced that the youth had been given a chamber overlooking the court of the inn, and presently he heard from below a confused din of voices, laughter, and jeers. In wonder as to what the cause of the hubbub might be, the squire’s son drew open his latticed window and looked down. A great green cage on wheels was to be seen there, surrounded by a throng of curious onlookers who poked fingers at something within it, shrieked catcalls, whistled, and laughed to split their sides.

The youth descended to the court, and made his way into the throng.

Within the cage, clad in a gray wolf’s skin, sat a creature like unto a man. Strong of body was he, and beautiful to behold. His eyes were blue and they were the eyes of a wild thing, and the long hair which fell about his neck was of the strangest tawny gold. Aware of the stir made by a newcomer, the prisoner turned, and fixed the youth with a glance in which lay pride mingled with despair.

Presently the proprietor of the cage, who had been baiting his horse at the stables of the inn, returned and lowered curtains about the cage and the prisoner. Fearful lest they be summoned to pay the showman his penny, the onlookers took to their heels, and soon the youth found himself alone in the courtyard.

Now this prisoner, I must tell you, was known as the Man of the Wildwood, for some hunters had found him in a net which they had spread in the wildwood a year before. To some an animal-like man, to others a man-like animal, the Man of the Wildwood remained a mystery in the land. As for the prisoner, never a word said he, and none knew whether he would not or could not talk.

Securely locked in his cage, the Man of the Wildwood was shown to all at a penny a head.

And now, as the youth mused alone in the silence, the maid Miranda came forth to light the great lantern in the court. A white apron she wore, a great white cap, and there were red ribbons on her gown. The squire’s son thought he never beheld a maid so fair.

Catching sight of the squire’s son, standing idly by, Miranda said to him, “Pray, good sir, what may there be in yon cage?”

“The Man of the Wildwood,” replied the youth. And he told Miranda what he had overheard amid the throng.

“Alas, poor creature,” said the gentle maiden, “how bitter must be such a cage to one who has known the freedom of the wildwood! I surely must bring him some honey and bread!”

And away she sped to the larder of the inn to fetch the good cheer. The twilight deepened. When Miranda returned again, the youth and the maid walked to the green cage and offered the gift to the Man of the Wildwood.

For a little space the prisoner, crouched in a dark corner of the cage, made neither sign nor sound. Then slowly, very slowly, he approached the gift of the kind maiden and ate of it hungrily. And because he had met with so little pity and compassion, the Man of the Wildwood was moved to his heart’s deep, and gazed upon the young folk with strange eyes.

All evening long the squire’s son mused on the Man of the Wildwood. Suddenly a great pity possessed him, and going to the showman, he purchased the prisoner for fifty golden crowns.

And now it was midnight; and the green cage, drawn by the showman’s horse, rolled down a deserted road to the edge of the wildwood. A moon almost at the full sailed the high heavens, now vanishing under thin, black clouds, now floating forth through silvery rifts and isles. Side by side, saying little to each other, sat the showman and the youth.

Suddenly a high wall of rustling darkness loomed before them at the verge of a moonlit field; the cage had reached the gate of the forest. With a key given him by the showman--who was a little afraid--the squire’s son unlocked the cage, and freed the Man of the Wildwood. And even as he did so, a summer breeze went singing through the wildwood with a great cry of joy.

Free at last, the Man of the Wildwood said naught, but lifted his head to the stars. Then raising his right arm high above his head, he made a stately sign of salutation to the youth, and walked like a king into the darkness of the trees.

The next morning the youth rose early and set forth once more upon his travels. Cities he saw, and nations, and kingdoms, but no one in them whom he thought fairer than Miranda. As for Miranda, scarce had the squire’s son ridden away, than she began to hope for his return.

Little by little the tide of summer rose to its full, and ebbing, left the gifts of golden autumn in the fields.

But now you must hear of the three merchants, the moonstone, and the misfortunes of Miranda.

It was a harvest eve, and presently Miranda, watching by the tavern door, beheld three men habited as merchants making their way along the city street to the inn. Somewhat to her surprise, they came afoot. Two of these merchants, I must tell you, were tall and lean, whilst the third was short and fat and had green eyes. Unwilling to refuse, yet somewhat against her better judgment, Miranda granted the request of these merchants for lodgment at the inn.

Now these three merchants, alas, were not merchants at all but three famous thieves, who had come to the city to steal a certain celebrated gem belonging to the king. This gem was a moonstone--a moonstone of such rare loveliness that men fabled that it had tumbled to earth from the moon, and been found in a forest glade at the end of a ray of summer moonshine. In all the world nothing there was more fair.

And now it was another midnight, and the three thieves, quitting their rooms in the inn, stole as quietly as three cats down the oaken stairway to the empty street. Unknown to them, however, Miranda--wakened by their whispers--followed close behind, now retreating into shadowy doorways, now leaning against a wall lest she be seen.

Presently the rogues approached the huge darkened mass of the palace, and made their way into the grounds through the dreaming gardens. A little fountain splashed somewhere in the night. The moon had set, and a thin layer of cloud dimmed the wheeling stars.

Chuckling softly at their success in having thus far eluded the palace watch, the thieves now pressed open a little window and crawled into the tower of jewels. Hurrying as fast as ever she could, Miranda ran to wake the yeomen of the guard.

Suddenly there was a great outcry, a light appeared in a window, there were shouts and a clash of arms, and the thieves came tumbling out of the window with the moonstone and vanished, all three, into the starry dark. A moment later flaming torches moved amid the trees, a throng of men-at-arms poured into the gardens, and Miranda found herself a prisoner.

Accused of having harbored the thieves and of having had a hand in the robbery, the maiden of the inn was the next morning brought to trial. Shaken to the heart, yet protesting her innocence to the last, the poor maiden made but a confused defense, and presently was condemned to suffer the sternest judgment of the law.

When this was pronounced, however, the friends and neighbors who loved Miranda made such a tumult in the court that the judgment was altered, and Miranda was sentenced to be carried in the gaoler’s cart into the very depths of the great wildwood, and there abandoned to live or perish as she might.

And now it was twilight, a golden harvest twilight; and Miranda, standing with her hands tied behind her by the wrists and her head bowed low, was drawn in a two-wheeled cart through the darkening streets of the glass city, and carried far out into the pathless regions of the wildwood. Once there, the gaoler--who pitied her--loosed her from her bonds, gave her a crust of prison bread, and drove away. Fainter and fainter grew the noise of the homeward-faring cart.

The night was moonless, the stars were bright, and a wild wind from some far waste of the world was roaring through the trees, now dying away to a faint and vagrant murmur, now rising to a great wailing rustling cry that arose and broke and ebbed like a wave of the sea. And the swaying branches tossed their clots of darkness against the stars, whilst underfoot so dark it lay that naught was to be seen.

For some moments the unhappy maiden, trembling with dread, stood motionless in the dark of the wildwood. Strange sounds drifted to her ears--the moan of rival branches, the laughter of running water, and the far cry of some hunter of the night. Suddenly she felt herself grow icy cold, and her eyes closing, she sank to the earth and knew no more.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, that very eve, in the distant city, the squire’s son was riding joyously to the inn. Presently he reached his long-awaited goal, and to his great surprise found the windows darkened and the doorway sealed and barred. Seeing him thus wandering about, a neighboring goodwife came forth from her dwelling, and told him, with tears in her eyes, the cruel fate of the good Miranda.

“Oh, wicked judgment!” cried the youth. “Quick--tell me whither in the wildwood have they taken her; for I must find her, come what may!”

“Alas, who can say?” replied the goodwife. “All that I can tell thee is that the cart vanished through the eastern gate, adown the eastern way.”

And now the youth cried to his dappled steed to press on as he had never done before, and galloped through the night to the wildwood. Darker it grew and darker still.

Arriving at length in a little clearing, the squire’s son bade his horse stand halted, and plunged into the wildwood, loudly calling and hallooing for the lost maiden. On and on through briery thicket and stony mire he blundered forward in the gloom. Suddenly an unseen ravine opened beneath him; his feet trod forward into nothingness; his hands caught at the air; and with a cry, he fell. And now as he lay there stunned, strong arms caught him gently up and carried him away.

When he woke to life again, he found himself lying on a bed of skins piled near a fire on a cavern floor. By his side, the torment of his human prison fallen from him like an evil garment, noble and beautiful and strong, stood the Man of the Wildwood.

Lifting himself up and turning toward his rescuer, the youth poured forth his story and sought the eyes of the Man of the Wildwood for a token that he had understood. For a moment, however, the Man of the Wildwood made no sign. Then, of a sudden, with a gesture at once gentle and commanding, he touched the youth by the hand, and going to the cave mouth, opened his arms to the dark wildwood, and called upon it in its secret speech.

And he bade the things of the wild--the brethren who go afoot, the kindred of the air, and the humble folk who crawl upon the earth--to go forth through the wildwood and find the maiden and guard her well. And he called upon them, too, to follow the thieves, and make them prisoners of the wood.

And now a great murmur, even such a sound as heralds the coming of a mighty rain, swept through the wood. Forth from their dens creeping came the bears, the gray wolves, and the little foxes; the shy deer started in their glens; the birds awakened with a flutter in their nests and took wing into the starry dark; the little wood-mice came tumbling out of their warm beds; and even the spotted snakes went forth to seek. Almost in less time than it takes to tell of it, the earth and the air seemed full of the people of the wild, questing here and there in search of the maid.

There passed a little time, and suddenly a great brown owl, half blinded by the firelight, swooped down to the arch of the cave-mouth with the news that he had found the maiden asleep beneath a sheltering pine; and a moment later a nimble gray hare with upstanding ears came hopping in with the tidings that the thieves had been taken on a wildwood road.

Now this news was quite enough to cure the squire’s son of his fall, so jumping to his feet, he followed the staring owl and the Man of the Wildwood to the refuge of Miranda.

You may be sure that Miranda rejoiced to see the squire’s son! As for the thieves, they came upon them standing terror-stricken, huddled together in the heart of a wide circle of watching, silent, flame-eyed animals. Creepers and vines had seized upon them as they fled, and bound their arms behind with leafy fetters.

Suddenly a friendly whinny was heard, and the dappled steed, guided by a benevolent badger, came trotting through the wildwood to its master. To lift Miranda to the saddle was but a moment’s task. The three thieves walking ahead, Miranda riding, and the youth and the Man of the Wildwood following behind, even thus went the little company through the forest dark to the edge of the wildwood.

Morning was at hand; only the brighter stars were left in the wide and cloudless sky; presently the dawn broke over the green horizon of the trees.

Arriving at the bound of the forest, the Man of the Wildwood lifted his arm once more in token of farewell, and with his animals clustered about him, watched his friends till they vanished down the road.

Presently the domes and towers of the city of glass rose before the little company. A swirling autumn mist lay over the fields between the wildwood and the city walls, the sky was rosy overhead, and hundreds of little bells were ringing.

Pausing at the eastern gate, the squire’s son delivered the thieves to the yeomen of the guard.

On the following morning the three rogues, brought to trial, declared the innocence of Miranda, confessed their wickedness, and restored the moonstone. A stern sentence was justly theirs; but so pleased was the king at the return of his jewel that he merely condemned them to road-mending for a number of years. To Miranda the king gave a rich reward, to the squire’s son, a fair house whose windows looked forth on the treetops of the wildwood.

And thus it came to pass that the squire’s son married the good Miranda, and lived happily with his dear wife and little ones many a long and pleasant year.

THE MAIDEN OF THE MOUNTAIN

Once upon a time, in a noble realm to the west of the Golden Plain, there towered to the sky a solitary height of such majesty and grave beauty that the realm became known through the world as the Kingdom of the Mountain. Mighty, snow-capped, and serene it rose beyond the little woods and willow-bordered streams.

Now it came to pass that a king ruled in the land who had been left with two little motherless children, the Prince Ariel and the Princess Leoline. The Princess was the elder of the two and, though only three years old, considered herself quite a grown-up personage; as for the little Prince, he was but a child in arms. From a window of their chamber in a tower-top, the children were wont to look forth over the land to the mountain rising afar, now blazing white and bright in the clear midwinter air, now half concealed in summer’s hazy veil.

And now, with the suddenness of a tempest shattering the quiet of the night, a wicked nobleman, Babylan by name, rose against the good King and challenged him to do battle for his throne.

Now it chanced that the wise old nurse to whom the King had entrusted the Princess Leoline had for some time feared that all was not well with her master’s cause, so on the day of battle she climbed to a high tower-top to see what she could see. Already from afar, through the dull still morning, could be heard the sullen tumult of the fray. Closer and closer advancing, hour by hour louder and louder growing, the tide of battle approached the very gates of the stronghold.

Suddenly, enveloped in a cloud of dust, the first stragglers from the King’s defeated army burst from a little wood and came hastening down the road toward the castle. Knowing only too well that all was lost and that the troops of Babylan would be soon battering at the gate, the good nurse caught up Leoline and hurried down the curving stair to warn the guardians of Ariel.

Neither Prince nor guardian, however, could she find. The castle was already in confusion, people were running hither and thither, an alarm bell was wildly clanging, and in the soldiers’ court a runaway was gasping out his story to a handful of frightened listeners. Well aware that her first duty must be the safety of the little Princess sleeping on her shoulder, the old nurse abandoned the search for Ariel and fled from the castle with her charge. And because she had been born in a village of the mountain and knew the region to be inaccessible and wild, the brave nurse turned her steps toward the height.

All night long, down lonely lane and royal highway, by woodland path and river road the brave woman hurried through the dark war-shaken land. The voice of great waters, roaring in the night under turreted bridges, beat upon her ears as she fled; messengers galloped by, spurring fast; and here and there a signal beacon flamed afar on some high crest. But presently the swarming stars grew pale, and streaks of day appeared in the east.

Pausing at a lonely farm at the end of the lowland way, the nurse begged a crock of milk and a morsel of bread for herself and Leoline.

To the east, beyond the hills, rose the great snowy summit of the mountain, outlined against a clear green sky of dawn.

And now the pleasant fields gave way to rocky wind-swept pastures, lying at the foot of a road winding and climbing along a great ridge of the mountain to a tiny village at a valley’s height. To the right of this road, towering steeps of rock soared to a wild, snow-mantled crest; to the left, the mountain side fell away, a terrible precipice, to a torrent all afoam. Up this road fled the old nurse, half carrying, half dragging the weary and bewildered Leoline.

When they arrived at the journey’s end, the day was at its close, the air was hushed, and the wide chasm of the valley lay dark with mist and gloom. The sun had set upon the huddled roofs of the village; but, towering into the upper air, the ruling summit still beheld the western light and reflected a rosy splendor in its snows.

Once safe in the village, the old nurse took refuge in a cottage belonging to her sister, a widow woman who kept a flock of sheep. Fearful lest the cruel Babylan in some manner become aware of the Princess and her refuge, the good woman wisely determined to keep secret the true history of her little guest. In time even Leoline herself forgot all about the palace.

Thus did it come to pass that Leoline the Princess became Leoline the Maiden of the Mountain.

As for the Prince Ariel, his fate remained a mystery. Some said the poor little Prince had perished in a sort of prison, some whispered that the wicked new King had caused him to be abandoned in the wildwood. But, whatever the truth may have been, no one at the palace saw him or heard from him any more.

And now passed many years. Safe within her refuge in the mountain, the Princess Leoline grew from a rosy-cheeked mountain child to a tall, blue-eyed, golden-haired shepherdess. Far and wide through the villages of the height ran tales of her stout-heartedness and great daring, her gentleness and courtesy as well. Again and again, in quest of a strayaway or seeking some rare flower of the snows, she had made her way to heights to which none had ever dared aspire. Indeed, so fearless was the royal shepherdess that presently a poor woman to whom she had brought an armful of snow violets cried out to her that she must surely be under the protection of the Giant of the Mountain!

“The Giant of the Mountain,” asked Leoline, “who is he? Pray tell me, for I have never before heard of him.”

And she turned her head to gaze wonderingly on the wild crest of the mountain half hidden in the morning mist.

“The Giant of the Mountain is the ruler of the height,” replied the village goodwife. “At least so men say, though never in my lifetime have men beheld him. Perhaps he has hidden himself away from mortals. But long ago, Maiden Leoline, in the days of the grandsires, men who climbed beyond the torrents sometimes heard a great voice speaking solemn as thunder in the hills.”

“Would that I might behold him!” cried Leoline. And with wonder in her heart she returned to the daily task of watching her sheep. Clad in a pretty dress of rustic brown and wearing a kirtle of apple green, the royal shepherdess was very fair to see.

Now it came to pass on the afternoon of that very day that, as Leoline was driving her flock home to its fold, she heard the sound of weeping, and presently she overtook a little sister-shepherdess in tears. Catching the child to her, Leoline endeavored to comfort her and asked her why she wept.

“Alas! Maiden Leoline,” replied the ragged little shepherdess, “I weep because the white lamb which my father bade me guard has strayed away and is nowhere to be found. Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?”

And the little shepherdess wept afresh, while her halted flock lowered their silly heads and bleated mournfully.

“A white lamb?” said Leoline. “Come, take heart; he cannot be far away. We shall find him, I am sure, for the sun is still high above the west, and the day is far from spent. Do you but remain here and guard your flock and mine, while I go to search the pasture by the snows.” And with these words the kind maiden turned her face to the height.

Through upland pasture and rocky dell fared Leoline, scanning the waving flower-strewn grass for the lost white lamb, and listening for a forlorn crying; but of the lamb she had neither sight nor sound. Little by little the afternoon drew to a close. Presently a chill of cold and dark crept into the air as the sun vanished behind a great mass of sombre cloud.

Finding a mountain torrent near at hand, Leoline followed the edge of the roaring stream toward the wild steeps of the mountain.

The sky was now but one vast and seemingly motionless sea of cloud. Beneath this cloudy tent, however, floating strangely and swiftly by, fled steamy wisps and fragments of shapeless mist, and ever and anon one of these fugitives enveloped Leoline in its chilly veil. Bravely making her way along a path every step more dangerous growing, the maiden at length attained the last sweep of open land. Strewn with lovely flowers was the field; and two strange crags, which Leoline had never seen before, rose from its further bound.

Now as Leoline gazed upon the two crags, the level floor of rock lifted high between them, and the pinnacled wall of cliff rising behind, she beheld that they formed together a marvelous great throne, of which the two crags were the carven arms and the cliff-wall the sculptured back--a throne for a giant being mighty as the mountain: a being whose feet were of the earth and whose body rose to the clouds and the marshaled stars. And this chair stood exalted high, strange and noble and dark, now outlined against the sullen clouds, now caught up and hidden in their depths.

Presently the unseen sun sank below the crest of the mountain and a wild dark fell. The clouds rolled about the craggy throne.

And now, of a sudden, a great roaring wind arose which swept the mountain-top with a sound of noble music; the cloud veil broke asunder and rolled away; a rich and sudden light poured down upon the field; and Leoline beheld the great throne uplifted high against the sunset’s flare. And within the throne, mantled in a robe that might of cloud have been spun, sat a giant being. The western light was about his head, his hands rested on the crags, and there was mystery in his eyes.

For a long moment Leoline, awed yet unafraid, gazed at the Giant of the Mountain. Then came a sound like unto a far trumpet-clang, the winds were again unleashed, the clouds once more gathered together, and throne and Giant vanished in the mountain gloom.

All at once Leoline heard a pitiful cry and, looking down, beheld the lost lamb at her feet. Whence could it have come? It was nowhere to be seen a moment before.

Lifting the lamb gently up, Leoline carried it through the twilight to the little shepherdess.

* * * * *

And now a year and half a year again passed, and presently disorder reigned once more within the realm. Weary of Babylan and his tyrannies, the people of the land were gathering from far and wide to drive him from his throne. Surely there was never a worse King! Did he demand gold from some unhappy village, gold would he have, or else the villagers would see their houses in flames and their lowing cattle being harried to the royal barns; his prisons were full of innocent folk whose possessions he coveted or against whom he had taken a grudge; no longer in the land was to be found that friendly spirit and good cheer which had reigned there in the time of Leoline’s unhappy father. But, though the anger of Babylan was the anger of the thunderstroke, there is an end to all patience; and presently the land rose against the King.

The leader of the people in this strife was a young forester of humble birth, named Norbert. This daring youth, I must tell you, had once been imprisoned by Babylan for saving a poor family from his oppression, but had succeeded in escaping to the mountain. Courteous, generous, and brave as a lion, the young Captain was the idol of the land.

Presently the tidings of the revolt arrived at the village in the mountain, and from rocky pasture and upland field the youth of the neighborhood gathered in the village square to choose their chief. And because Leoline was so spirited and daring, they cried out that she must be their leader and that no other would they obey. Riding at the head of her band of sturdy mountaineers and clad in the armor of a young knight, even thus went the shepherdess Princess to the wars.

Little by little the army of the revolt swept towards the stronghold of Babylan, and presently encamped at the foot of a huge ridge of land no great distance from the city. And there, in the meadows below the ridge, the people slept, doubting not that the next eve would see their victorious standards in the city streets and Babylan their prisoner.

But when came the dawn they beheld the terrible black horsemen of Babylan drawn up in line along the ridge. The sky was pale behind them, they moved not, and little awakening breezes fluttered their dark bannerets. Midway in the sombre rank, mounted upon a giant charger halted a little ahead of the others, was to be seen the wicked King. All at once there were trumpet calls, some near, others afar, and with a great wild echoing cry the host of Babylan swept galloping down the slope of the ridge upon the surprised soldiery of the people.

And now all was confusion indeed! A panic was at hand. Emboldened, however, by the coolness, courage, and resource of Norbert, the army of the revolt, though taken by surprise, rallied quickly and held its ground. All day long thunder of arms resounded from the fair green fields and fruit-laden orchards. Norbert performed prodigies of valor, and Leoline was ever to be found in the thick of the fray. Now at the head of her mountaineers she brought succor to an encircled group of her comrades in the revolt, now from Babylan’s own color-bearer she wrested the black standard with the scarlet eagles, now was she to be seen giving water to both wounded friend and foe. But, alas! as the day grew old and the shadows lengthened, the host of Babylan slowly gained the mastery, and by nightfall the army of the people was fleeing in disorder through the highways and the fields.

Now it came to pass that Leoline, forced at length to abandon the struggle in which she had played so brave a part, discovered Norbert lying wounded and unheeded in an orchard. Dismounting from her horse, she lifted the young leader to the saddle and, accompanied by her faithful troop, hurried through the night toward the village in the mountains.

And now it was once more dawn. Presently Leoline, Norbert, and their followers arrived at the little cottage in which Leoline’s old nurse and foster mother awaited her return. It was cold, and a crackling fire was burning on the huge hearth. After placing their unhappy young leader on a little pallet, the mountaineers withdrew, leaving Leoline and her foster mother to care for him. As for poor Norbert, alas! so weak was he that he lay helpless and unknowing.

And now, of a sudden, there came a swift knocking at the door, and opening it, Leoline discovered there the little shepherdess whose white lamb she had found the year before.

“Oh, Maiden Leoline,” cried out the little shepherdess, “I have come to warn you! The King has discovered this refuge and is on his way here with a troop of horsemen. They are mounting the road along the ridge; my father has seen them from the high rock. Oh, make haste and hide or you will fall into his cruel hands!”

“But our Captain; what of him?” asked Leoline. “We cannot desert him in his hour of sorrow and defeat. Quick, give me your aid, and we will hide him away in yonder pines.”

But the old nurse shook her head. “Nay,” she said, “stir him now, and he will never again waken into life.”

“Oh, Maiden Leoline, do make haste,” cried the little shepherdess, holding the door ajar.

“Nay, little sister,” answered Leoline, shaking her head, “here shall I remain. Farewell, little friend; I thank thee for the warning.”

Now rose the morning sun in splendor over the shoulder of the mighty mountain, rolling away the mists and revealing the dewy fields, the crags, and the eternal snows in all their bright unsullied loveliness. Leaving Norbert in the care of the old nurse, Leoline ran to the high rock.

Before and below her lay the village, then the deep gulf of the valley opening toward the distant plain. All at once the Princess beheld Babylan and his men! Up the road leading along the side of the higher crest they were mounting. Ever and anon, on lesser slopes of the winding road, they galloped their steeds.

Now crept despair into the heart of the brave Leoline even as the bitter cold of a winter’s night creeps into a room when sinks the fire. And in her heart she beheld the helpless Norbert in the hands of his enemy, her people flying, pursued, to the caverns in the mountain, and her village laid low.

But of whom could she now seek aid? Along the snow-crested ridge nearer and nearer rode the wicked King.

Suddenly Leoline recalled to mind the Giant of the Mountain. Turning her face toward the mountain peak, she lifted her arms to it and cried aloud:--

“O Giant of the Mountain, O Giant of the Snows, help us in our need!”

Loud and clear rang the cry of Leoline through the mountain air and was followed by a silence.

A breeze shook the branches of the dwarfed pines; a bird sang.

Then, suddenly, a far high murmur trembled to a roar, a roar loud and terrible enough to drown all the sounds of the world, and from the snow-capped ridge above the road there flowed and rolled down on Babylan and his men a mighty avalanche. Huge stones were there in it, glistening ice and snow, brown earth and uprooted pines. Sweeping over the road, the mass poured over the precipice into the valley-depth a league below.

Such was the end of the wicked Babylan.

Now it came to pass that, because his horse had gone lame, one of Babylan’s men had fallen behind and, as a consequence, had escaped the avalanche. Upon this fellow the mountaineers quickly fell and were about to do him a mischief when the horseman cried:--

“Hold! Hold! I, and I alone, can tell you of the lost Prince Ariel.”

Hearing these words, the mountaineers thought it wise to take their captive to Leoline. Bound securely, the horseman was thrust into a corner of the cottage and commanded to tell his story to the assembled company.

“Babylan gave me the Prince Ariel,” said the man at arms, “and bade me abandon him in the wildwood. But I obeyed not his cruel word and left the child with a good forester, named Hildebrand of the Oaks.”

Now, when the horseman had spoken, all present knew that, by a strange and wonderful turn of Fortune’s wheel, their young leader was likewise their lawful lord and king. For Norbert the daring had passed as the son of the forester, Hildebrand of the Oaks.

And now it was the old nurse’s turn to speak. Said she, “Long enough have I kept my counsel, but now that the danger which kept me silent is no more, I may tell all. Our Leoline, whom you have known as Leoline, the shepherdess, is Leoline, our Princess and own sister to Prince Ariel.”

And she told them all of her flight to the mountain and of how she had saved the little Princess from the cruel Babylan. You will believe that Leoline was amazed to find herself a real Princess. But her heart was filled with joy and pride because of her brother’s deeds.

Now, when Ariel’s wounds had healed and his strength had returned, the people of the mountain escorted him in triumph to the royal city, and there, amid universal joy, the brave Prince claimed and received his own. The annals of Fairyland tell of no better King. I am glad to say that he richly rewarded both the man at arms and the old nurse.

As for Leoline, she took the Mountain for her kingdom and, under the protection of the Giant of the Height, dwelt there long in peace and happiness.

THE BELL OF THE EARTH AND THE BELL OF THE SEA

Once upon a time a brave mariner, who had sailed the blue for many years, married a captain’s daughter and went to live in a pleasant inland country a long way from the sea. Now it came to pass that, as the sailor and his wife dwelt in the inland vale, a sturdy son was born to them whom they named Altair; and this little son grew to manhood with a great longing in his heart to go companying with sailors and sail upon the sea. Presently the old mariner called his son unto him and said:--

“Dear son of mine, a sailor were you born and a sailor you shall be. Go you forth to the ships, have your fill of a sailor’s life, and may honor and fortune come to you upon the sea.”

So now the youth Altair bade his dear parents farewell and followed the northern highway to a certain great city by the sea. Day after day, as he walked, the soft blue skies and golden clouds of the inland country vanished behind, a brightness and a faint glow of green appeared in the arching heavens, and a cold northern wind shook each sombre northern pine. Suddenly one morn the youth heard from afar the endless thundering of breakers and, arriving on a sandy height, beheld great seas tumbling in foam and white confusion on the shore. And thus discovering the sea, something in the heart of Altair shouted and leaped for joy.

To one side and below stood the towers and masts of the city; there were sailors in her streets with brown faces, rich merchants in velvet caps and gowns, brave pilots, and adventurers, and captains coming and going to their ships.

After purchasing a stout jacket, a knitted cap, a blue sailor blouse, and a pair of trousers belling out below, Altair set down his name in the book of a great ship and sailed away upon the sea. Seven years he sailed, now through nights of whispering seas and skies of silent stars, now through storms and howling winds and waves blown white with foam. Little by little the youth’s blue eyes took on the look of one who sees afar, his body grew strong, and he walked as a sailor walks, with feet apart and a roll from side to side. Seven years he sailed, and then became a captain and master of a vessel of his own.

Now it came to pass that, as the blue-eyed captain returned from a long and lonely passage to the Isles of Gold, he beheld a great multitude of ships sailing together down the sea. Across his bow they sailed, great ships stately as castles of oak, little ships that bobbed and courtesied to every wave, ships with pennons, ships with banners, ships of all rigs and colors in the world. And so great was the multitude of ships that some had already crossed the rim of the sea ahead, whilst the swaying spars of others rose faint and far behind.

In great wonderment as to what the gathering might portend, the young captain hailed a passing ship and questioned a master mariner.

“These be the ships of all the world, Sir Captain,” answered the master mariner, “and we sail to the land of the King of the South, for he hath summoned us one and all. There is great news, they say, awaiting us at journey’s end, but of what it may be none can tell. But come: up with your helm, Sir Captain, and follow through the sea.”

Week after week, through weather fair and weather foul, Altair sailed with the ships of the world to the Kingdom of the South. All at once, one fine night between midnight and the morn, the men upon the masts of the first three ships sent back a cry of land, and presently the great blue light of the Kingdom of the South shone forth, far away and low upon the sea. At sunrise the ships of the world, following one another in line, sailed through rocky gates into the wide haven of the King.

The palace of the King was built upon a hilltop between blue mountains and the sea, it was of golden marble made, and a winding marble stair led from it to a pavilion and a landing on the bay. Rising in solitary splendor above the ancient trees of the King’s garden, a great belfry-tower soared to the rosy dawn which overhung the hilltop and the town.

And now, in the hall of columns, stood gathered the captains of the ships of all the world, great captains with plumes in their velvet caps and jeweled swords at their sides, merchant captains in capes of sober blue, and humble fisher-captains with knitted caps and blouses gaily striped. Then came forth to them the King of the South, clad in a scarlet robe and a crown of yellow gold, and said to them:--

“Captains of the ships of all the world, I give you greeting. You wait to hear why I have called you from the seas. Hearken then to my word. A belfry have I built, the fairest belfry which stands beneath the sun, and I fain would lodge in it the fairest and noblest bell in all the world. Find me this bell, O captains of the ships! Go ye to all nations, and speed through all the seas.

“He who finds the bell shall be given a mighty treasure, and be crowned with glory and honor.”

Thus having said, the King of the South led the captains of the ships to a great feast which he had prepared for them, and there they made merry till the closing of the day.

Now, when the sun had set and the city, the still harbor, and the ships were bathed in a gentle golden light, Altair descended the winding marble stair to the pavilion at which his ship’s boat lay awaiting his return. Now it came to pass that, as the young captain approached the end of the steps, he saw standing by a marble pillar there an old bent fisher-wife with a young fisher-maiden at her side. And, because it seemed to Altair that they were fain to speak to him, yet a little afraid, the young captain paused at the pillar and asked the fisherfolk if some misfortune had come upon them.

“Good Sir Captain,” replied the maid, “we are fisherfolk of the Perilous Isles who would fain return to our homes again. In the springtide of the year, while my mother and I were out amid the nets in our little boat, a storm arose which swept us out to sea. For two bitter days and nights we fled before the gale, but on the third morn a great ship chanced to espy us and, rescuing us from the waves, brought us to this realm. Long have we sought a way to return into our own land. You find us here because of our hope that one of the ships of the world might be sailing by the Isles. But though we have asked those who passed before, there was never a one who could help us on our way.”

And the old fisher-wife shook her head slowly and sadly, whilst the maid stood still and said no more. The golden light was fading now from the city, the still harbor, and the ships. Even the belfry tower stood dark, its empty bell-chamber outlined against the sky. Presently the great blue light at the harbor mouth awoke in its stately tower, and a sudden wind brought a little sound of waves on the distant outer shore.

“Be of good cheer, I will take you to the Isles,” said the young captain. And, with stately courtesy, he put the fisherfolk in the boat and went with them to his ship. Then was heard the sound of ropes and blocks and the filling of sails, and presently the ship of Altair fled away like a bird into the dark sea. Already there were lights here and there on the dark waves, the lights of ships gone seeking the marvelous bell.

At the end of a fortnight of favoring wind and fine weather, the ship of Altair arrived by the Perilous Isles. Huge and high and dark were the Isles, and weed-hung reefs encircled them and tossed fountains of spray into the air.

Off the isle of the fishers, the kings of the world had prepared a fairway--for so mariners call a passage--through the cruel rocks, and at the entrance to this passage a warning bell sank and rose and nodded and swung in the seas.

And now the fisher-maiden and her mother bade a grateful farewell to the young captain Altair and were rowed ashore to the isle. The name of the maiden, you must know, was Thyrza. Her eyes were gray, and her hair a pretty ruddy-gold. And so fair she was and so honest and true her gaze, that Altair thought he had never seen her like in all the world.

As for Thyrza, she stood long upon the shore, watching the ship of Altair until it dwindled and disappeared at the edge of sea and sky.

* * * * *

North and south, through the seas of the world, went Altair in search of the bell. To great cities of golden domes he sailed and found silver bells, and brazen bells, and even bells of glass, but never a bell for the belfry tower; by lonely shores he passed and saw the far surf break in a border of white between the yellow sands and the ocean’s sweeping green.

Now it fortuned that the boatswain of the vessel was an old mariner who had sailed with Altair since the days of the young captain’s apprenticeship at sea. And presently this boatswain came to Altair and said to him:--

“Good master, in the isles of the east was I born, and in those isles there runs a tale that somewhere, in the great sea flowing westward down the world, lies an isle of bells. There is a city there, they say, whose citizens take such joy in the ringing of bells that they will be at it all day long; in the mountains of the isle are rare metals most fit for noble bells, and there is a King there who is the bellman of the world. It may be but an idle tale, but I tell it as ’twas told to me.”

“East and north and unto the south have I sought the bell in vain,” said Altair. “Into the seas of the west none have ever sailed. Come, helmsman; about, about, and follow the setting sun; we shall seek this hidden isle.”

Westward into the bright waves and the great glory of the sun sailed Altair. Higher grew the waves, the sun-bright spray fell in showers about the bow, and streams of marbly foam ran hissing at each side. A thousand leagues upon a thousand leagues sailed the ship, and presently there came a windless night of swaying ropes, still waters, and the stars. And, while the ship glided ever so gently on into the night, there was heard over the sea, faint and far, a golden sound of bells.

Now uttered the sailors a cry of joy which rang to the stars and drowned the voices of the bells. And a wind arose, and the sails filled, and when it was dawn the mountain isle of bells stood before them, lonely as a ship in the wide circle of the sea.

Then to the city of bells they went, and found bells on every house and tower, and people wearing bells on the borders of their gowns. All day long great bells were ringing in their towers, chimes were pealing, and clusters of little bells replying--tiny bells that sang like children at their play.

Now it came to pass that, when the old, bearded King of the Bells heard the tale of the brave voyage of Altair, his heart warmed to the sturdy blue-eyed youth and he said to him:--

“Good Sir Captain, you shall have the bell you seek, the fairest and noblest bell in all the world. To-day shall the metal be prepared and melted in the furnace of the mountains, and to-morrow at high noon shall the metal be poured into the mould of the bell.”