Chapter II: Part 2

After a while they dipped out the soft food and fed the cows; and then, when they had milked them, one of the girls poured out a bowlful of new milk and set it beside the stone hearth, and then they both went off singing toward the house.

Now Elsa knew, as every little Finnish farm girl knows, that the fresh milk was set there for the fairies; for should any roving band of elfin people chance to wander thither, they might be vexed and do mischief if they did not find a fresh, sweet draft awaiting them. So Elsa felt quite safe, sure that the fairies would not trouble her; and, by and by, lulled by the soft breathing of the cows, she fell asleep.

Very early in the morning she awoke, and though at first much bewildered, she soon remembered everything, and determined to slip away before any one should find her.

So fastening her cloak and taking her little belongings, she again set forth. As she stepped out in the early morning light, a white frost glittered over the fields; and as she gazed around seeking the road, she saw a faintly-marked path that seemed to lead to the highway. She made a little breakfast from the things she found in her basket, and then walked on; but the path, instead of leading to the highroad, took her farther and farther from it, for she did not know that the farm whither the cows had led her was a long distance from the way she wished to follow.

Indeed Elsa was lost; and as she went on the country grew wilder and more rugged. Before she knew it the path had disappeared altogether and she could find no trace of it; and as far as she could see, there was no living being near.

All the while she was becoming more and more frightened, yet still bravely she went on, vainly seeking the road. Before long she came to a dense wood of firs, and thinking that perhaps the way lay just beyond, she slowly entered the forest, stepping timidly between the dark resinous trees. Once or twice she trembled as a fox crossed her path, but, by and by, as she looked ahead, her heart fairly stood still with terror. For there in the distance, where a great ledge of rocks cropped out of the ground, she saw a large brown something; and the more she looked the more certain she felt that it was a bear.

And true enough, it was a bear, “honey-paw,” as Elsa would have said, for so the Finlanders call the brown bear, because of his great liking for wild honey. Now, as it happened, this particular honey-paw was for the time so intent upon his own affairs that at first he did not see Elsa. He was walking carefully round and round the great mass of rock, hunting a good spot where he might curl up, bear fashion, and sleep through the coming winter. He had been looking at these rocks for many days, as is the custom of bears, trying to decide which of the little caves they offered would suit him best for his long sleep; and he was still perplexed about it when he happened to look in Elsa’s direction.

The little girl was standing still, frozen with terror, when he saw her. Perhaps he would not have noticed her had it not been for the red hood she wore, which, of course, could be seen for a long distance. When honey-paw realized, however, that some one was looking at him, he was greatly displeased; for when bears are selecting their winter hiding places they like to keep the matter as secret as possible. So with a little growl of resentment he started toward her. At this Elsa uttered a scream and, dropping her basket, took to her heels, running as fast as she could, she knew not whither. The bear followed, at an awkward pace, but when he came up and sniffed at her basket she was already far in the distance.

As good fortune would have it, in her wild flight Elsa had come to the edge of one of the great bogs that cover so large a part of Finland, and her light steps had taken her some distance over its uncertain surface. On she went, springing lightly from tussock to tussock of the coarse grass, till at last she reached a little space of firmer ground, and sank down, exhausted, upon the fallen trunk of a willow tree.

Meantime honey-paw also had come to the edge of the bog, but after a few cautious steps had found himself too heavy to gain a foothold on the soft ground, so with another sniff or two he turned about and trotted off.

When Elsa saw him going away, she was so worn out with fright, and so very tired, that she did just what any other little girl would have done: she began to cry, and cried and cried as if her heart would break. She sat there sobbing a long time, and was quite sure she would have to stay in that little spot the rest of her life, till the wicked bog witches found her or the bears ate her up; for she did not think she could ever venture on alone.

Indeed she cried so hard that she did not notice that she was quite near the bank of a good-sized river that flowed to the east, nor did she know that after a while a large flat-boat drifted in sight. It was laden with a great number of bark-bound barrels, and on the deck a man stood guiding the boat with a long pole. As it floated slowly along, the boatman saw Elsa, and called out in surprise.

“Ho, little one! what dost thou in yonder bog? Art lost?” When Elsa heard him, she quickly looked up, and begged piteously that he take her away from that dangerous spot!

“That will I do right gladly,” said he; and directing her how to reach the bank in safety, he guided his boat to land and then helped Elsa aboard.

He gave her a little box on which to sit, and told her that the heavy barrels arranged in rows in the boat were filled with turpentine which he was floating down the river from the pine woods farther inland. Then looking curiously at Elsa, who sat there still tightly holding her little kantele, which she had unconsciously kept through her flight from honey-paw, he said:

“But who art thou, little one?”

The man had a good face and a kindly manner that quite reassured Elsa, who, now that her fear of the bear was relieved, had begun to wonder who her companion might be. When she told him her name, “Ah,” he exclaimed, “I know thy father well! But whither art thou going all by thyself?”

When Elsa told him of her journey to the peasant Ulricborg, he looked astonished, but told her to have no fear, as he would see her safely to the Ulricborg home, which was down the very river on which they were floating, and at no great distance from the bank.

As the boat glided along Elsa’s new friend beguiled the time by telling her of the great pine forests whence he had come, and explaining how the pitch and turpentine were harvested. After a while when he asked if she would sing him a little song, she gladly assented; and striking the strings of her little harp, she sang a Finnish boat-song, her voice ringing out clear and sweet on the frosty air, through which some big snowflakes were beginning to fall. She had scarcely finished her song when she noticed that they were no longer in the center of the stream, but that the boatman was deftly turning his craft sidewise and guiding it toward the bank.

In a few minutes he had made it fast to a stout oak tree that grew near the water’s edge, and then helping Elsa out, he took her hand and led her up a narrow path between tall grasses and yellowing willows; then turning into a lane they came toward a small weather-beaten house standing in the midst of a little group of fir trees. The door stood open, and a short distance from the house they spied a bent old woman gathering pine cones in the forest close by. She had her apron filled, and presently, turning around and seeing her visitors, she straightened herself as best she could and came toward them with greetings. As she drew near, Elsa saw that her face was withered and wrinkled, and her hands brown with toil.

“Good morrow, Dame Ulricborg!” said the boatman, “and how fares thy goodman to-day?”

“Ah,” answered the dame, “he is very weak and grows more feeble every day. This twelve-month past he hath scarce left his bed, and ’tis weary work for an old woman to keep the kettle boiling and the thatch mended over our heads.”

“True,” said the boatman, sympathetically, “thou hast done well, Dame Ulricborg!” Then looking down at Elsa, he added: “Here is a little girl come to see thee.”

The old dame looked curiously at Elsa; then, as the latter held up her little skirt and asked the dame if she might not help carry the cones, she grew more kindly and led the way to the house. But the boatman, seeing Elsa thus safe at her journey’s end, bade them good by and hastened back to his boat.

Now, Dame Ulricborg very much wondered what the little girl could possibly wish with her; but as it is considered unkind to question a guest as to his coming, she said nothing, but waited for Elsa to make known her errand.

As they drew near the door of the house, Elsa hastened to explain to her how she had come, and how she hoped to learn the rune from the lips of the aged peasant Ulricborg. At this the old woman, who had listened attentively, shook her head.

“Ah, little one,” said she, “thou little knowest how feeble he hath grown! He hath strange fancies, too, and I doubt if he will wish to let thee learn it. He hath never been willing to teach it to any one. But,” she added, “thou canst at least ask, if thou wishest.”

By this time they had reached the threshold of Dame Ulricborg’s home, and stepped within. The house was bare, but not uncomfortable; some rings of flat-bread hung from the ceiling; there was a spinning-wheel, two or three benches, and, on the wall over the fireplace, a kantele.

The dame told Elsa to draw one of the benches near the fire and warm herself, while she went into the next room to see how her sick husband fared, as she had been obliged to leave him all alone when she went to gather the cones.

By and by the dame came back, and shaking her head sadly, said to Elsa:

“Nay, to-day ’tis useless; his thoughts are wandering and he will notice nothing. ’Tis often so when he grows overweary. But thou must bide the night with us, and it may be in the morning he will be better.”

So Elsa helped Dame Ulricborg build up the fire till it blazed brightly with the crackling resinous cones, and then as the afternoon waned, she made herself useful in many little ways as they set out their simple evening meal.

Elsa thought no _pimea_ and black bread had ever tasted quite so good, for she was very hungry after her long day, and Dame Ulricborg smiled at her enjoyment. Indeed by the time Elsa crept into the queer little cupboard bed that the dame spread for her, she had so won the latter’s heart that she bent over and kissed the little girl with a pathetic tenderness; for it had been a long, long time since poor old Dame Ulricborg had had any young life about her. Her own little girl had slept in the village churchyard for many years.

The next morning, after they had breakfasted together, the dame told Elsa that she might see peasant Ulricborg, who seemed somewhat brighter with the new day. So taking Elsa by the hand she led her into the room where lay the sick peasant.

He looked very old and feeble; his hair was white as snow, and his thin cheeks drawn into innumerable wrinkles. Elsa went timidly over and stood by his bedside, and in a low quivering voice she made known her request. She told him of Herr Lönnrot’s labors to save the beautiful song-story of Wainamoinen, and of his great desire to learn the lost rune that peasant Ulricborg alone knew; how he wished to write it down, so that it might never again be forgotten and that all the world might enjoy its beauty.

As she spoke, the old man looked at her with dim blue eyes, and seemed to listen as one in a dream. When she ceased, he appeared for a moment lost in thought; then he said slowly and dreamily:

“Yes, thou shalt learn it, Aino; thou shalt hear of the birth of the harp, of the magic fish and of the mighty hero Wainamoinen, little Aino.”

“’Tis our own little maid, Aino, that we lost so long ago!” whispered the old dame to Elsa, as the tears streamed down her face; “thou art so like her!”

But she hushed her whisper, as suddenly the old peasant began to sing in a weak, quavering voice that seemed to grow stronger as he sang, the beautiful lines telling how the ancient Wainamoinen fashioned the first harp, and how he sang till all the birds forsook their nests, the fishes their deep sea homes, and all the creatures of the woods, nay, the very trees themselves, trooped forth from the forests that they might listen to his enchanting music.

As Elsa heard, the tears came into her own eyes, for she was a poetic little soul and quickly touched by anything beautiful. When the peasant Ulricborg had almost finished the rune, he suddenly broke off and lay back on his pillow exhausted. He lay for so long a while with closed eyes, that both the dame and Elsa grew frightened; but presently he again looked at them, his vision becoming brighter; in a little while all seemed to grow clear to him. He gazed kindly at Elsa, for something about the little girl seemed strangely to soften the old man. He noticed her little kantele, and it seemed to interest him, as he motioned her to lay it beside him. He looked at it a while, and tried once or twice to touch its strings to music, but his strength failed him.

Presently, he said feebly:

“Ah, I thought thou wert Aino come back for me!—but never mind—the rune thou wishest, I can not show thee its music now,”—here he looked sadly at his stiffened fingers, “but the rune itself, yes, thou shalt have it, little one!” Then he added slowly, as he gazed dreamily into Elsa’s shining eyes:

“For thou, too, wilt love it truly!”

Here, as he paused a while, Dame Ulricborg could scarcely hide her amazement, knowing how often before he had wilfully refused the same request from others. Indeed, the peasant Ulricborg had all his life loved poetry with a singular passion; and this particular rune, which had come down in his family, he seemed to set apart as something almost sacred; he treasured its verses as misers hoard gold pieces. Whether he thought it too beautiful to be made overcommon, or for what reason, no one knew; that was his oddity. So, while he sang it sometimes to those he considered worthy, he would teach it to none.

And now at last, as he promised it to Elsa, Dame Ulricborg thought sadly that the promise came too late; for how could he teach it to the little girl, when every breath was such weary effort? And she knew he was unable to write readily even if he had the strength.

But having rested a little, he motioned her to bend down, and then he whispered something to her. She listened with a look of surprise, and then hastened into the living room, and opening a little cupboard, searched, till in the farthest corner she found a small box, and this she brought to the bedside. As she opened it, out fluttered some thin old sheets of paper, closely written over and yellow with age.

The old man’s eyes kindled as he saw these, and as he marked the utter surprise of his wife.

“Ah, dear heart,” he said, “thou didst not know—the priest wrote down the words for me—long ago—I loved it—and wished to keep it—and I hid it away”—but here the dying peasant, too exhausted for further speech, paused, and then, turning to Elsa the blue eyes from which the light was swiftly fading, murmured to her:

“Take it, little one; ’tis the rune—do with it as thou wilt.”

Elsa was so overcome that she fell to crying bitterly, and neither she nor Dame Ulricborg noticed the sound of sleighbells, for the ground was covered with a light snow. In a few minutes, however, the cottage door opened, and in came Elsa’s father, all anxiety for the safety of his little girl. When Elsa, hearing him, came into the living room, he caught her in his arms and kissed her passionately, for he had been greatly alarmed on learning of her journey, and had set off in hot haste to find her.

Herr Lönnrot, too, who had grown much better, had insisted on coming with him, and was even then slowly walking toward the cottage door, for he was still feeble from his illness. He, too, was delighted to find Elsa safely cared for; but both he and Elsa’s father hushed their voices when she told them of the peasant Ulricborg. They stepped softly into the other room, and Herr Lönnrot’s practised eye, for you remember he was a physician, at once saw that his skill could do nothing to help the old man. As the Herr gently smoothed the coverlid the sick peasant gave a faint smile to the faithful old wife who still bent over him, and then, as Elsa stood reverently holding the yellow papers between her little palms, he turned to her a long lingering look that seemed to say:

“Farewell, little one! and farewell to the beloved song, that I have cherished so jealously all these years. I must leave thee now, but I leave thee in loving hands—farewell.” And then peacefully, as the wife laid her withered cheek close to his, his spirit passed away to find their little Aino.

Afterward, when Elsa gave to Herr Lönnrot the precious papers on which the rune was written, at first he looked at them in amazement; but his heart filled with delight when he learned what the papers contained. He drew Elsa to him, and kissing her forehead declared that she had not only pleased him beyond measure, but had done honor to old Finland in helping complete the immortal poem he was striving to save.

When, some weeks later, Herr Lönnrot went away, after providing for the comfort of Dame Ulricborg, he journeyed back to Helsingfors, the capital city of Finland; and told the scholars who were studying the poetry of the land how the little girl had been the means of bringing to light one of the most beautiful of the runes. Then the scholars had a little silver medal made which they sent to Elsa, and which she took great pride in keeping through all her life; and no doubt her great-grandchildren still keep it to this day.

As for Herr Lönnrot, he lived to put together the runes he had collected, and when he had finished he called the poem “Kalevala,” which in our language means “Land of Heroes,” because it tells the wonderful story of the heroes of that ancient land.

And some day, perhaps, you will read this “Kalevala,” for it is one of the noblest and most beautiful poems in all the world. And then when you come to the rune which tells of the birth of the harp, you too will be glad that the little Finnish girl was the means of saving it from being lost forever.

COUNT HUGO’S SWORD

HOW THE PEASANT BOY GEOFFREY BY HIS
BRAVERY AND DEVOTION PREVENTED
A DUEL OF GREAT NOBLES AND
BECAME PAGE TO THE
GOOD KING LOUIS

“Tee dee, deedle de de!” shrieked the cockatoo, from his perch high up in the gabled window of the old inn. “Tee de!” He was a pink and white cockatoo, with a beautiful tuft on top of his head; one of his legs was chained to a carved wooden perch that projected from the window-sill, while with his free claw he carefully balanced a large silver spoon, of antique pattern, from the contents of which he was very deliberately dining. For he was no common bird. Monsieur Jean the landlord of this “Guillaume-le-Conquérant” inn, of the ancient town of Dives, being something of a bird fancier, had but lately bought him, and for fear he might fly away, was thus keeping him chained to the window of monsieur’s own apartment until he should grow used to his new home. As he now slowly picked from his spoon the last morsel, and swallowed it with a great ruffling of feathers all the way down his throat, again he shrilled out in a high-pitched mimicking tone, “Tee deedle!” and this time a little boy looked up quickly from the courtyard below.

The boy was seated on a bench under a plane-tree, and held in his hands a sheet of yellow parchment on which was written a musical score, whose large black notes he was trying to hum over.

“Fie, Cockie!” he cried, as he looked up, “dost thou not know ’tis a wicked sin to mock me when I am learning the holy mass music?”

But Cockie only screwed his head to one side, shook his empty spoon, and peered down with an impudent stare, as with a sigh the little boy once more applied himself to his task. In a few moments, however, he was again interrupted, this time by a call from beyond the kitchen:

“Geoffrey! Geoffrey! come hither and help catch this fowl for the Count Hugo’s soup to-morrow!”

After a hot chase, Geoffrey succeeded in catching the fat hen and handing her over to the white-capped cook of the inn kitchen, and then he once more sat down and took up his parchment; for though a serving boy through the week, on Sunday he took his place with the little choristers of the Dives cathedral, and Father Anselm had allowed him to take the score home with him, so that he might practise in his leisure moments.

But as he now tried to go over the black notes, there was a mournful cadence to every tone, for Geoffrey was very unhappy. Usually he was gay as a bird, and indeed sang very like one; but to-day he had a weight on his mind, as he sat there in the courtyard of the quaint old inn.

It was long, long ago that Geoffrey lived—nearly six hundred years. The inn in which he served had been built in the Norman town of Dives nearly three centuries earlier by the great Duke of Normandy, William the Conqueror, whose name, which in French (for Normandy is a part of France) is Guillaume-le-Conquérant, the inn still bore in Geoffrey’s time as it bears to this day. The Duke William had built the house because he wished to have some safe and pleasant stopping place during the time he was overseeing the finishing and freighting of the fleet of boats which lay near by in the river Dives, and in which he meant to sail to the conquest of England.

And so, with such illustrious beginning, the inn had become very famous among the nobles of Normandy, and grown larger and larger, till, in the days when Geoffrey lived, it was a very beautiful place indeed. The courtyard, which one entered through an arched gateway covered with guelder roses, was surrounded by ancient wooden buildings; their dark mossy beams were put together with white plaster, and their innumerable picturesque peaks and gables and wooden galleries and winding stairways were richly overhung with masses of the most lovely vines; for roses, wistarias, clematis, and jasmines clambered everywhere. There were two gardens also; one for the kitchen, the other full of lilies and clove pinks and French daisies, and numberless sweet old-fashioned flowers; for Monsieur Jean, the innkeeper, had much taste and loved both flowers and birds. Indeed, besides several cockatoos, he always kept dozens of peacocks that trailed about the courtyard squawking and spreading their gorgeous tails every time a new guest entered the gateway. There were fine pigeons, too, and rabbits and chickens, and no end of interesting things.

Geoffrey thought it a charming place to live, and he did not in the least mind the work he had to do; for all were kind to him, and moreover, he was happy in being able to give some of his earnings to his family at home, who were very poor. His father was a peasant living on the estate of the young Count Boni, of Château Beauvais, and had it not been for the kind-heartedness of this count, the poor peasant would have had hard shift to keep his little children in bread; for in those days the country had been so wasted by wars that the peasant folk had almost nothing left on which to live. But the Count Boni had always been most generous and considerate to the people on his estate, and especially to Geoffrey’s father, who was honest, and intelligent above his class. The count it was who had secured for Geoffrey the place at the inn, and it was he also who had spoken to the monks of Dives of the boy’s sweet voice, so that the good Fathers had become interested, and were taking much pains in teaching him music.

And now we come to the reason that Geoffrey was so unhappy as he sat under the plane-tree, vainly trying to practise his lesson; for he was thinking all the while of a deadly peril that threatened this good Count Boni, to whom he was deeply grateful for so many things, and whom he truly loved next to his own father.

His knowledge of the count’s danger had come about in this way. It had happened that, the day before, Geoffrey had been sent to the Château Beauvais, which was not far distant from Dives, to carry some rabbits which Monsieur Jean had promised to Isabeau, the little daughter of the count. When Geoffrey reached the château and inquired for the little Lady Isabeau, he had been sent into the garden, and there he found her crying as if her heart would break! Now this grieved Geoffrey very much indeed; as he quite worshiped the gracious little girl who used often to visit their cottage when he lived at home, and who had sometimes gaily carried him back with her for a day’s happy romp in the beautiful château grounds.

When he asked her the reason of her tears, she had told him between her sobs:

“O, Geoffrey! my dear father, the count, is to fight a dreadful duel with the wicked Count Hugo, who will surely kill him with his evil sword! I heard nurse Marie talking with the gardener, and they say he will surely kill him! Oh! Oh! Oh!” and here poor little Isabeau fairly shook with the violence of her sobbing.

Geoffrey tried as best he could to comfort her, but to no avail; she could not be induced even to look at the rabbits she had so much wanted; so at last he was obliged to set them down quietly, and sorrowfully take his leave, though not until he had questioned some of the château pages for more particulars of that which the little girl had told him. He thus learned that Count Boni had indeed been challenged to a duel by the old Count Hugo, who lived in a castle beyond the city of Meaux.

Now in those days, when people got into disputes about things, even a bit of property, instead of settling the matter in courts of law as we do, it was quite customary to fight a “judicial duel,” as it was called; that is, the two men disputing appointed a meeting-place where they tried to wound each other, generally with swords, and the one who succeeded in disabling, or as sometimes happened, killing his adversary, was adjudged the better man and the winner of his case. This was certainly a strange and cruel way of doing, but six hundred years ago people did many strange and cruel things. Had young Count Boni merely engaged to fight an ordinary duel, that would have been bad enough, though it would not perhaps have been a matter of such concern; for the count was brave and a good swordsman,—and, ah, well! one must expect a duel now and then.

But that which caused Isabeau, and Geoffrey, too, when he learned of it, such grief, was that her father was to fight the Count Hugo; for this nobleman was known to be most wicked and unscrupulous. It was his custom to pick an unjust quarrel with some noble whose lands he coveted and falsely claimed; then he would challenge his victim to a “judicial duel,” which always resulted in the noble being slain, and his estates being seized by Hugo. For no one had ever been able to stand against the wicked count, who fought not merely to wound, but to kill, and who had the reputation of being the most skilful and merciless swordsman in all France. Indeed, his cruel sword had slain so many noble lords that people declared it was bewitched; that Count Hugo, who had been a crusader, had obtained it from the heathen Saracens, who had forged it under some evil spell. They insisted the more on the unholy power of this sword, as Count Hugo himself seemed to regard it with great superstition and always preferred it to any other weapon; though, indeed, many people even went further in their talk, and asserted also that the count had got his unhallowed skill from some heathen wizard, and that any sword would, in his hands, be certain to deal a fatal thrust.

And so it was that when he chose a victim for one of his duels, it was considered equal to a death warrant; though he always took care to make the nobles he challenged so angry that they would not listen to reason, and would fight him regardless of the fate of all who had crossed swords with him before. This, too, it was whispered, was a part of his sorcery—though perhaps really it was because the high-spirited Norman noblemen were no cowards, and would let no one assail their honor or seize their property if they could possibly help it.

The more Geoffrey thought of these things, and of the many kindnesses of Count Boni, and then as he saw in memory the sweet, tear-stained face of little Isabeau, his singing became more and more melancholy, till at last he stopped altogether, and gave himself up to thinking. He knew from the inn servants that the Count Hugo was expected there the next day, and that the duel was fixed for the following morning just outside the walls of Dives.

“Oh,” he thought, “if it only, only could in some way be prevented!” Now Count Boni himself would have been very indignant had he known that anybody was thinking it should be prevented; for, just as Count Hugo had desired, he was very angry with his adversary, and had no wish to avoid the encounter. But that could not prevent Geoffrey from wishing it might be avoided for him.

Indeed, Geoffrey had learned many things. He had a quick intelligence, and was very observant, and many travelers came to the inn; so he was by no means so ignorant of affairs as many little boys of his age. He had heard it said that the Norman nobles had long sought in vain for some pretext to rid themselves of the wicked Hugo, who was a rich and powerful lord and seemed to lead a life charmed against all attack, for he had been many times openly assailed. As to his shameless dueling, since that was then within bounds of the law, they could do nothing. So how, thought Geoffrey sadly, how could he, a poor little peasant boy, hope to do anything where the great nobles seemed powerless!

But, by and by, he was aroused from his reverie by Monsieur Jean, who wished his help in the many preparations demanded of the inn folk by the important guest of the morrow, this hateful Hugo who was coming to kill his dear Count Boni! Ugh! had it not been bad enough to have to catch the chicken for his soup? How he wished it might strangle him! And how poor Geoffrey hated himself now because he was compelled to assist in this and that arrangement for the entertainment of the murderous nobleman and his many followers. How he wished they were all at the bottom of the Red Sea!

But at last, after much labor, that disagreeable day wore to an end for the little boy, though when he went to bed and tried to forget his troubles, he dreamed all night of poor little Isabeau, and seemed to hear her piteous sobs and to see the hot tears streaming down her pretty pink cheeks.

Early the next morning the inn was astir, and busy with more preparations for the expected guests. And, sure enough, just before midday, in through the rose-covered gateway galloped four outriders, wearing the crimson livery of Count Hugo, and insolently jingling their bridle reins and clanking their great gilded spurs.

Shortly after their arrival the coach itself dashed into the middle of the courtyard with a great clatter of hoofs and wheels, followed by a long train of mounted and liveried servants, and lackeys, and pages, and men-at-arms; for traveling in those days was none too safe without a guard of spearmen and lancers. The coach was painted a bright yellow and richly gilded; on the panels of its doors the count’s crest and coat of arms were blazoned in blue and crimson; and no sooner had its wheels stopped than the lackeys jumped from their horses and, running to its side, flung open the doors, which they respectfully held back as still others assisted the nobleman to alight.

Count Hugo was a heavily-built man of middle age, with cold, cruel eyes, and mustachios of grisly gray; he was richly dressed in a green velvet suit with crimson satin facings and ruffles of the finest lace; his shoe buckles sparkled with diamonds. Geoffrey, who from a quiet corner was watching everything, involuntarily clenched his fists as he saw the evil-omened sword, encased in an elaborately-wrought scabbard, poking hatefully out from under the tail of the count’s beautiful velvet coat.

As Hugo, followed by his retinue, crossed the courtyard, there was a great bowing and scraping from Monsieur Jean and all the inn servants; the peacocks spread their gorgeous tails and screamed at the tops of their voices; the pigeons puffed and pouted and strutted about; the cockatoo shrieked loudly and flourished his silver spoon; and the rabbits ran away with their ears flat to their heads with fright, and hid under the cabbage leaves in the garden until the commotion of the count’s arrival had somewhat subsided.

But at last the great man had been ushered into his rooms, where he had breakfasted on the most elaborate products of the cooks’ skill; while on the spits in the great inn kitchen huge haunches of venison and beef were turning and browning in front of the blazing fire, and the white-capped and aproned scullions were running about with big ladles and spoons in their hands making ready the dinner for the large company of guests.

Geoffrey had, at their bidding, done many errands, and last of all had brought up from the garden a great basket of vegetables. He had wished, as he tragically jerked them out of the ground and brandished them in the air, that each separate carrot, leek and radish might stick in Count Hugo’s wicked throat, and stay there forever! Now at length tired out, he sat down to rest on his bench under the plane-tree.

As he sat there, presently through the arched gateway there entered a man dressed in a frayed waistcoat of ragged satin, knee breeches of blue plush much the worse for wear, and leather leggings from which half the buckles were gone. Slung around his neck by a gay green ribbon hung a viol, and in one hand he grasped a slender little chain that held in leash a small monkey wearing a tiny red cap. This motley figure was one of the strolling jongleurs, half juggler, half troubadour, who flourished at that time in all parts of France, and managed to eke out a living from the pranks of their monkeys and the practice of the “gay science,” as it was called; that is, by the singing of songs which they themselves usually made up and set to music.

As this particular jongleur entered the courtyard, he spied Geoffrey, and strolling over to the bench amiably seated himself beside the boy with a friendly “Good morrow, my lad!”

“Good morrow, sir,” answered Geoffrey, rather absently.

The jongleur then caught sight of the coach drawn up by the inn wall.

“Ah,” he said, “small wonder none came forth to welcome us. Other guests are ahead of me, I perceive.” And, as the monkey climbed upon his knee, he added: “Had thou and I fared hither in yonder yellow cart, Pippo, we should have had the whole inn at our feet. And monsieur, the landlord, would have been down on his knees humbly beseeching to know when my Lord Pippo would be pleased to dine! Hey! Pippo! is’t not true?”

But Pippo, paying no attention to him, began mischievously to finger the strings of the viol with his little brown claws, and the jongleur, with a gay laugh, turning to Geoffrey, inquired:

“To whom does yonder gaud belong?”

“It is the coach of Count Hugo,” said Geoffrey; “he came to-day, and is to fight a duel with Count Boni, of Château Beauvias, to-morrow morning.”

“So!” said the jongleur with a short whistle; “well, then, their countships had better let no grass grow under their noble feet, for the king hath but just issued an edict forbidding all such dueling from now on, henceforth and forever.”

“What, sir?” said Geoffrey, suddenly rousing up excitedly; “what is that thou sayest?”

“Well, well, little man! thou seemest to take this matter somewhat to heart! I was merely mentioning the new edict of our blessed King Louis Ninth, God save his soul, which forbids dueling! It seems our sovereign lord hath grown weary of the foolish practice whereby he hath lost so many noble subjects, and moreover, being a wise monarch, hath become convinced that all disputes should be settled in the courts of law, which he hath been studying much since his return from Constantinople, where the law is held in high esteem—in short, he will have no more ‘judicial duels’; and yesterday when I and Pippo were in Rouen, we heard the king’s heralds as they solemnly proclaimed the new edict to the people.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Geoffrey delightedly, “thank the blessed saints, then, the duel can not be fought to-morrow!”

“Hold, hold,” said the jongleur, “not so fast, my lad—”

“Nay,” cried Geoffrey, “but how dare they when the king forbids?” and, dragging the jongleur up by the hand, he added: “Come with me now and we will seek the wicked Count Hugo, and tell him the news! Come!”

“Nay, nay,” the jongleur replied, “not I!”

“Why, is it not true?” demanded Geoffrey.

“True as gospel,” said the jongleur, “but thou art but a child; dost thou fancy two noble lords, bent on the sword play, would for one moment be stayed by the word of a poor strolling jongleur? Nay, I should but receive a drubbing for my pains if I sought to inform that cruel Hugo. I prefer, thank you, to keep my bones whole; especially as I could do no good. Moreover, let them spit each other, if they so desire! I do not care, youngster, how many duels they fight!”

But when he looked down and saw the grief in Geoffrey’s eyes, he softened, and added: “But since thou seemest to care so much, little one, I would risk the drubbing, by my faith, I would! if ’twere to any purpose. But I am older than thou, and somewhat a man of the world,” here the jongleur straightened himself up; “and I swear to thee, ’twould work naught but mischief were I to seek out yonder count and strive to prevent his encounter to-morrow. He would simply be angered, and would not believe me, or would pretend not to, because he does not wish to be stopped till he hath killed this Count Boni you tell me of, and got his lands. Naught but the king’s heralds themselves could hinder that affair.” And then, as he meditated, he added: “’Tis a monstrous pity, though! When didst thou say they fight, little one? In the morning? A monstrous pity! For the heralds will no doubt arrive in Dives to-morrow afternoon; they were to come hither on leaving Rouen. Thou knowest they must proclaim the edict through all the cities of the realm!”

Six hundred years ago printing and newspapers and the telegraph were unknown; and so when a war was to be undertaken, or peace settled upon, or a new law made, the king sent his heralds about through all his dominions, and they made proclamation to the people, with a great flourish of trumpets and much quaint ceremony.

But here Pippo became engaged in a squabble with a fat peacock, and the jongleur rising, separated them, and then strolled off toward the inn kitchen; for he had journeyed far, and the savory smells wafted out into the courtyard suddenly reminded him that he was very hungry.

Geoffrey, thus left alone, fell to thinking, and he thought and thought as never before in all his life. So the heralds were on their way to Dives, if what the jongleur told was true, and he believed it was; and the jongleur had said, moreover, that these heralds could stop even the wicked Hugo from carrying out his designs. Geoffrey felt that this was true also, for he knew that not even noblemen dared openly defy the king. And then he reasoned, perhaps more wisely than he knew, that Hugo stirred up and fought these “judicial duels” merely to increase his property and not to satisfy his personal honor; and that if nothing were to be gained, Hugo would surely not fight. The king had forbidden his subjects to acquire property that way; the great thing, therefore, was to prevent the encounter in the morning, so that the heralds might have time to come to Dives and make their proclamation, which would certainly put an end to the whole affair. But how, how could he, Geoffrey, do this?

At last, however, an idea occurred to him that made his eyes brighten and his cheeks flush. If he could only get hold of that bewitched Saracen sword of Count Hugo’s, and hide it, why, probably, as the count was known superstitiously to prefer it to any other weapon, he might be delayed hunting for it till the heralds came.

As Geoffrey thought over this plan, he reflected that if he got possession of the sword it must be that night, as the count wore it constantly all day long; and though he felt like a highwayman and a robber even to plan it, for he was an honest little lad, yet he said to himself there was no other way to save Isabeau’s father.

And so, full of his project, as a preliminary, he got up and sauntered past that part of the inn where he knew was the count’s sleeping chamber, and noticed that it had one window opening upon one of the little wooden galleries which was approached from the outside by a winding stair. The window was barred with heavy wooden rounds; but as Geoffrey measured with his eye the distance between these bars, he felt sure that if he made himself as flat as possible, he could squeeze in through them. It would not be so easy to get the sword out, but perhaps he could manage it somehow; he _must_ manage it!

Having thus made up his mind as to what he would do, Geoffrey passed the rest of the afternoon and evening in a fever of impatience. After supper was over he hid himself in the garden behind a rose bush, and as he watched the inn it seemed as if the last of the clatter would never die away, and people would never settle down and go to sleep! But at length—after weeks, it seemed to Geoffrey—the last candle flickered out and the inn became quiet.

He waited, however, an hour or two longer, knowing the habit of the maids to lie awake and gossip in the dark. But when he heard the Dives watchman passing the inn gateway and calling out, “Midnight! and all’s well!” he crept out, and keeping close in the shadow of the wall, reached the stairway to the gallery by the count’s sleeping room. The moon had risen and might have betrayed him as he mounted it, but fortunately the stair was overhung by vines. He made his way along the gallery to the count’s window. There was no glass in it, and, as it was summer time, the heavy wooden shutter that guarded it was wide open, the bars seeming quite enough protection from ordinary intruders. But they could not keep out this little boy, who drew in his breath and made his little stomach as flat as possible as he cautiously wriggled in between them. At last he stood on tiptoe in the count’s chamber.

As he gazed about, here and there the moonlight touched some object of its quaint furnishings, and although Geoffrey, on the inn errands, had been in the room before, everything now looked strange and unfamiliar to his wide-open, excited eyes. To his dismay he had not considered how he should find the sword; but as he stood wondering and groping about in the dim light, a beam of moonlight fell at the foot of the high-posted, carved and canopied bed where the count lay asleep, and showed the scabbard with the sword in it, hanging by its chased metal hook to a projecting ornament in the heavy carving of the bed. Geoffrey tiptoed over toward it, all the while listening, with his heart in his mouth, to the count’s breathing. He seemed to be sound asleep, for now and then he gave a little snore; but, as with trembling fingers Geoffrey took down the sword, its tip end struck lightly against a tall chest of drawers near by, and the count started slightly. Geoffrey crouched down hopelessly in the shadow of a chair, expecting the count to pounce upon him at any moment.

But in a few minutes Hugo’s regular breathing told that he was again deep asleep.

Geoffrey then hastened to make his way back to the window, though he found the sword in its heavy scabbard rather an awkward burden for a little boy, and it became still more awkward as he prepared to climb between the bars. He first thought he would take the sword out of its sheath; but then how could he drop it to the gallery below without making a noise? He could not climb out with it in his arms. So, on second thought, he decided to leave it in the scabbard, whose metal hook he saw might be useful; then lifting this, which took all his strength, he carefully thrust it outside between the bars, on one of which he hung the hook, thus keeping both sword and sheath from falling.

He next turned his attention to getting himself out, and climbing up, and squeezing and squirming, legs first, at last managed once more to stand outside on the gallery floor. But it had happened that just as he was making the last twist through the bars, his foot had accidentally touched the scabbard, hanging from the window, and it clanked against the wall. This time the sound seemed to penetrate the ears of the sleeping Count Hugo, for he started up in earnest, though not entirely awake; he drowsily arose, however, and crossed over to the window.

Geoffrey, meantime, hearing him coming, drew back into the shadow, tightly clutching the sword, and was hidden by the curtain of vines.

As the count peered through the bars, he caught sight of the cockatoo, whose perch was in one of the gable windows near by. Now, as good luck had it, the cockatoo also had been half aroused from his sleep, and giving a faint screech, began to shift uneasily in his dreams, from one leg to the other, his chain clanking against his perch as he did so. Count Hugo hearing him, at once supposed the cockatoo responsible for that other clanking sound which had aroused him; he swore a round oath, and turned from the window, muttering to himself, “A plague on that jabbering popinjay! What with their everlasting peacocks and monkeys, and heaven only knows what, a man can not get a wink of sleep in this accursed tavern!” He then went back to bed and, angrily flinging himself down, was soon snoring soundly.

After a while, Geoffrey, outside on the gallery, began creeping cautiously along, and at last managing to get down the stairway, stood hesitating a moment at its foot; for he had not fully decided what to do with the sword, now that he had it. He wished as soon as possible to be rid of the wicked thing; for everybody was superstitious in those days, and he felt that some fearful evil threatened him so long as he had hold of the fatal weapon. He would really have very much liked to take it out and throw it in the river Dives, so it could never kill any one else; but as he remembered that to do this he would have to climb over the high wall of the courtyard, for the gate was locked and the portcullis down, and that then he would have to run the risk of meeting the town watchman, he concluded the chances for being caught were too many, and that he must hide the sword elsewhere. Moreover, he thought that to drop it in the river would be too much like stealing, anyway, which he did not wish to be guilty of; he merely wished to keep the count from finding the sword until the heralds came, when he was willing to restore it.

So quickly making up his mind, he sped down into the garden, where he carefully hid it, scabbard and all, under a thick tangle of vines and shrubbery which grew in a secluded corner where the inn people seldom went. This done, he made his way back to his own little chamber under one of the gables, and crept into bed, although he was so excited with his night’s doings that he could not go to sleep.

The next day, as was his custom, Count Hugo lay abed till the sun was well up, for the duel was not to take place until beyond the middle of the morning. When at last he arose, and his serving men came in to wait on him as he made his toilet, they adjusted all his ruffles and laces with the greatest nicety, freshly curled his wig, tied up his queue with a crimson ribbon, and smoothed out his velvets and satins; then everything being ready, they looked about for the sword, without which Hugo never budged an inch. But when they turned to where he told them he had left it the night before, to their great consternation, it was not there! When they timidly ventured to tell the count that he must have put it somewhere else, Hugo, who was busy arranging a heavy gold chain about his lace collar, curtly replied, without turning his head: “Ye blind moles of the earth! I tell you it _is_ there!”

But when again they were obliged to contradict him, the count flew into a temper, and rushing over to the foot of the bed, put out his hand to seize the sword and give them a wrathful prick or two all round—but lo! sure enough, it was _not_ there!