Chapter V: Part 5

“Oh, excellent,” she replied, panting. “By this time I am sure my stepfather has driven the whole lot out of doors.”

“And now I must hide you away,” said the Fiddling Goblin, stepping out of the door and searching the country up and down with his rolling eye.

As soon as she had recovered her breath they plunged into the wood. Dusk was beginning to fall, for the musical competition had taken place late in the evening. At last they came to a place where there was nothing but horse-chestnut trees in full bloom. The Goblin struck his heel upon the ground, and, to Laurine’s astonishment, the white flowers of the chestnuts on either side became suddenly lit up, looking like so many blazing candles on so many Christmas trees.

The avenue of light stretched away before them, narrowing to the distance, and when they had walked to the end of it, they found themselves in front of a magnificent mansion with a high steep roof covered with golden weathercocks. “This is my house,” observed the Goblin, “and here you will be a welcome guest for as long as you like. No one can find the path to it unless I light up the horse-chestnut candles to show the way, so you will be perfectly safe from your stepfather.”

When the door was opened Laurine found herself in a beautiful hall. There were golden staircases, woven curtains, groves of myrtle-trees in pots; and servants came from every corner of the place to wait upon her. The Fiddling Goblin told her to use everything as though it were her own, and then left her, promising to return upon the morrow.

We must now return to the Baron’s castle, and hear what happened after Laurine’s flight.

The noise went on without intermission: the more the Baron raved, the more furiously the musicians played. It seemed as though the howling deep and all the thunder of the firmament were let loose together. The air was alive with vibration and everyone rushed about in terror, as though he were crazy. As the pandemonium grew the young man with the big drum began to be depressed, for the sound of his drum was getting swallowed up in the shrill blare of the trumpets. But he set his teeth and went on harder and harder, and at last he struck it with such violence that it broke in two and the drumstick went right through at one end and came out at the other.

There was no use in going on any more; he was vanquished, and all hope of winning the beautiful Laurine was gone. In despair he threw the remaining drumstick to the farther end of the hall and strode out of the castle to avoid his sad thoughts and the terrific noise that still raged. Once clear of the place, he sat down on a stone, and, burying his head in his hands, thought of all he had lost. He determined to leave the country and seek his fortune far away from the scene of his disappointment; so when he got up, he walked straight forward, without caring where he went, and soon found himself on the edge of a wood. It was growing dark, and he wandered on, meaning to take the first shelter that offered itself for the night.

A little way on was a thatched hut, and when he saw that the door was open and the place empty, he went in. He scarcely troubled to look about, he was so weary, and soon he threw himself down full-length on the hearth and fell asleep.

It was about midnight when he awoke with a start and saw the Fiddling Goblin sitting on a chair by the fire, preparing to tune his violin. He arose at once, and began to apologize to him for his presence.

“Don’t mention it,” said the Goblin, “and pray sit down again. I will play you a tune upon the fiddle.”

“Oh, anything but that!” cried the young man, leaping up in horror. “I have heard so much noise to-day that the very sight of any musical instrument is death to me!”

“Then you are one of the suitors who came to play before the Baron for the hand of the beautiful Laurine!” exclaimed the Goblin.

“I am indeed,” replied he, “and why I am not dead I don’t know.” And then he told him the whole story. They talked almost till daybreak.

Now, as the Goblin listened he began to like the young man, and as he saw how brave and handsome he looked, he had a mind to help him; for he thought the best thing that could happen to Laurine would be to get such a fine fellow for a husband.

“Don’t despair,” said he, at the end of the history. “I think I can do you a good turn, for I must tell you that Laurine is at my big house not far from here at this moment. Does she know you by sight?”

“I hardly think so,” replied the young man. “I have often watched her as she walks abroad, but I don’t think she has ever noticed me. There was such a crowd in the hall while the music went on, and such a turmoil, that, as I was behind the drum, it is likely she never saw me at all. And yet she wrote to me as if she had every wish I should succeed. I can’t understand it.”

The Goblin looked so sly that it was frightful to see him.

“Well,” he continued, “to-morrow I am going to my house, and she will be there. If you have a mind for it, I will take you with me, and you will then have the chance of making yourself agreeable.”

“You are too kind!” cried his companion; “but on what pretext can I intrude on her? She has probably repented of her letter.”

“As she does not know you by sight, I will say you are my nephew,” replied the Goblin; “so mind you call me ‘uncle.’ You can address me as Uncle Sackbut. We are a musical family, and all named after instruments. One of my brothers is called Shawm and the other Hautboy. What is your name?”

“Swayn,” said the young man.

“Very well, Nephew Swayn,” said the Goblin, “to-morrow we will set out.”

When they arrived at the Goblin’s house, Swayn was astonished at its magnificence; but he had no time to think of anything but Laurine, and to hope that, if she had ever seen him, she would not recognize him. He could not imagine why she had not so much as looked his way after writing such a condescending letter. But the Goblin bade him keep up heart, and in they went.

She was sitting among the myrtles when they approached, and the Goblin introduced his friend, being careful not to mention his name.

“This is my nephew,” said he, “my sister’s only son. He has come to pay me a visit, and as I have no room for him in my hut, I propose that we shall both keep you company here.”

Laurine received them in the most charming manner, and so much pleased was the Goblin that he spent all day in practising his fiddle, so that the young people should be left together. In this manner two whole weeks went by. They spent a delightful time, and Swayn grew more hopeful every day. They strolled in the gardens, they hunted in the woods, and it was evident that Laurine looked upon him with great favour.

One morning he and the Goblin were together on a terrace where there was a little green arbour.

“Swayn,” said the Goblin, “it is high time that you asked Laurine to marry you. I think so well of you that I mean to leave you this house when I die, though you are not my nephew at all; and while I live you can stay here with me, whether you have a wife or not.”

“Uncle Sackbut,” said Swayn, “I can hardly believe such good fortune! How little I thought when I threw away my drumstick and left the Baron’s castle what luck was in store for me!”

At this moment there was a movement in the arbour, and Laurine, who was in it and had heard every word they said, came rushing out.

“And so you are not the Goblin’s nephew at all?” she cried. “And you are one of those horrible musicians who came to play? I will go away at once!” she shrieked. “I will never see you again! I will not stay here another hour!”

Then she turned to the Goblin. “Good-bye,” she said. “Never, never will I forgive you for deceiving me!”

And, before they could stop her, she had rushed out of the garden into the wood.

They ran after her, they shouted, they called, they implored—nothing was of any use. She fled so swiftly that they could not even see which path she had taken. At last, after a long time, they gave up the search. They felt very much crestfallen.

“We shall never see her again, I fear,” said the Goblin; “she has gone back to the Baron’s castle, and the best thing we can do is to try and think of something else. We have made a terrible mess of it.”

“As for me,” said Swayn, “it is not so easy to think of something else as you fancy. I shall go off and try to better my fortunes elsewhere. What I am to do I don’t know. It is a sad thing that I am a gentleman, for I have learnt no trade, and now, though I have every will to work, there is nothing I can do.”

“I have a good mind to come with you,” remarked the Goblin. “I can always return here if I get tired of it, and we can pass for uncle and nephew still. I’ll take my fiddle, and we will make our living by it. You can play the drum.”

“They won’t go well together,” said Swayn moodily.

“What of that?” cried the Goblin. “Very few people have any ear for music. You’ll see—they’ll be delighted, and pay us well.”

So next day the two comrades set out together. The Goblin locked up his house, put his fiddle in a bag, and when Swayn had procured a new drum, they left the wood by its farther edge and made for the boundary of the kingdom, which was not far off.

At the first village they came to they determined to try their luck, so, having found the village green, the Fiddling Goblin mounted the steps of the market-cross, and struck up with his bow, while Swayn, at a little distance, kept time with the drum. Soon figures began to appear at every door, and women left their houses and men their work; children came capering up, and everybody’s feet could be seen tapping the ground. When the Goblin at the market-cross saw that, he stood on tiptoe, and looking round with a shout, burst into the fastest country dance he could think of. In one moment the whole crowd was stamping, chasséing, and pirouetting to the music, seizing one another round the waist, and swaying like corn in the wind. On and on they played, till the Goblin had lost his hat and Swayn’s arm ached, and the people were whirling round in fours and sixes together instead of in couples. It was as if the whole world had gone mad. When at last the Goblin stopped and signed to his friend to go round and ask for money, it poured in so handsomely that they were able to go to the nearest inn and take the best lodgings to be got.

When they looked out next morning, there was a crowd under their windows.

“Come out! come out!” cried the people. “Come out and play!” Their feet were going already at the very recollection of the music.

So the friends set up again at the market-cross and played as they had done before; and from far and wide, people, hearing of their fame, came pouring into the village to dance. No work was done, and none of the children were sent to school, for their parents were too busy dancing to attend to the matter. Besides which, the schoolmaster had taken to his bed, having sprained his ankle in hopping and skipping.

“We must depart,” said the Goblin, “or everyone will go crazy.”

So they rose in the night and made off, while the world was snoring after its exertions. They went travelling on towards a great city, and at each village they made enough money to lodge well; but they were always obliged to leave secretly in the night, because the people would never consent to their departure.

When they got to the capital their fame had run before them, and even the very King and Queen were at the palace windows to see them arrive. By twelve o’clock next day the Lord Mayor and his family had made themselves so ridiculous by the way in which they had kicked their legs about that the King was displeased, and ordered the music and dancing to be stopped. He could not hear the music himself, because his business room was in the centre of the palace, and the walls were thick.

But when the decree went out, there rose such a howl of rage that the Court feared a rebellion. People were rushing about in bands, crying: “Down with the King! Down with the palace! Down with everybody! Hurray for the Fiddling Goblin! Three cheers for the Big Drum!”

The end of it was that the soldiers were called out, and Swayn and the Goblin were thrown into prison. The Lord Mayor, whose antics had done so much harm, took charge of the drum and the fiddle and locked them up in the town-hall, and peace reigned once more.

And now we must hear something of what happened to Laurine when she ran away from the Goblin’s house in such a hurry.

She found it very difficult to get free of the wood, but she did so at last, and, by good fortune, came out on the side nearest to her stepfather’s castle. But when she arrived there the first thing she saw was the Baron himself looking out of a high window. At the sight of her he began to shout with fury and to beat the window-sill with his cane, just as he had beaten the bed-clothes.

“Off!” he roared, “hussy that you are! I have done with you. I have found out all about you. Not content with being the plague of my life, you encouraged all these knaves to break my head with their detestable noise, and I have been at death’s door ever since. Off you go, or I will let loose the dogs! You will soon see what a mistake you have made in refusing all these husbands, for you will have to get your own living as best you can.”

And he drew in his head, banging the window till the iron bars rattled.

Laurine turned to go, trembling, for she could hear the dogs which were kept to chase away beggars howling inside the gates. She dared not even beg a piece of bread from the servants, and she knew she could never find her way back to the Goblin’s house.

She turned sadly away and wandered on till sundown, when a charitable peasant-woman in a village shared her supper with her, and allowed her to rest in a barn when night came on. But Laurine could not sleep for thinking how she was to save herself from starving and what she could do to earn enough to keep herself alive. If she were to offer to work as a servant, people would laugh at her white hands and delicate ways.

The next day, before she departed, she thanked the woman, and said: “Now I will do something to amuse you and your children, for it is all the payment I can make.”

And so saying, she began to dance.

Never had anybody seen anything like her dancing; the village people thought she must be a fairy and were almost afraid to go near her. She gathered up her hair in both hands, whirling it round and round her like a scarf; her feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground. It was wonderful. Everyone came to look on.

It so chanced that there passed by a fine chariot, in which sat a red-faced, crooked old lady, very grandly dressed; and when the dame beheld the crowd, she let down her window and shouted to her coachman to stop, that she might see the dancing. At the end of the performance she threw Laurine a purse.

“Here, girl!” she cried, “that is for you if you will come with me. I am going to give a great feast to-morrow night, and want some new entertainment for my guests. Get in quickly, if you have a mind to come, for I can’t waste any more time here. The whole of the nobility are coming to the party, and I have a great deal to arrange.”

Laurine picked up the purse, thankful for such luck, and they drove away to the nearest city.

As soon as they got there, Laurine, who was determined to do her best, took some gold pieces from the purse and went out to see the merchants’ wares. She bought the most beautiful dress that could be got for money, a girdle of jasmine, a long veil covered with spangles and a pair of golden shoes. Then she came back and practised all the steps she could think of, so as to be perfect in them by evening.

The feast was gorgeous. Several Kings came to it, and even one aged Emperor, who was so much startled by the thunder of applause that he was carried out for dead. The dancing was the talk of the city from end to end, and the only dreadful part of it was that the lady who had given the entertainment grew jealous because no one talked of her and her hospitality, while every tongue was wagging about the lovely dancer.

But Laurine cared very little; she knew that her fortune was made, and she determined to leave the place and travel about, dancing at the various towns through which she passed. When she had taken leave of the lady she set out.

Wherever she went, crowds came to see her dance and criers went before her to tell people what a treat was in store for them. Her stepfather, hearing news of her success, sent a messenger after her, commanding her to return, for he wished to share in her grandeur; but she only laughed, and pursued her way.

At last she drew near the capital city in which Swayn and the Goblin were imprisoned, and the whole place was in a shiver of excitement at her approach. When she got there a deputation waited on her, bringing all the town musicians with it, that she might chose the best among them to play for her dancing.

One after another, she refused them all. There was not one she considered good enough to be of any use; and she grew quite impatient, saying she would depart next day without dancing at all unless something very much better could be found.

“Madam,” said the Lord Mayor, “it is quite true we have nobody fit to accompany your ladyship, except a young man and a Goblin, who are, unfortunately, in prison; but if we could get the King to release them so that they could play for you, they could be put back into prison afterwards quite easily.”

So the heads of the city appealed to the King, and as the King was extremely anxious to see Laurine, he made no difficulty about the matter.

“Certainly, certainly,” said he; “you can release the Goblin and his nephew at once. We can always execute them if they are troublesome afterwards.”

And so Swayn and his pretended uncle were taken out of prison and set to play in the courtyard of the house where Laurine lodged, that she might judge of their talents.

“That will do beautifully,” said she. “I will dance at nine o’clock this evening.”

But she did not think of looking out of the window.

Nine o’clock came, and the crowd was assembled; and when she saw who the musicians were, she was almost too much annoyed and astonished to begin. But there sat the King with the Queen in her best robes, and all the lords of the kingdom, and she was not sure that they would not throw her into prison too were she to disappoint them. So she gave a sign to the Goblin to strike up, and, whirling her spangled veil, began to glide about like the shadows on a windy moonlit night.

By the time she had finished, the whole court was spellbound and she herself almost in tears from excitement, the Goblin had played so rapturously. Gold was showered upon her, flowers were thrown to her in basketfuls, and the King whipped off his crown, dug out the biggest ruby with his pocket-knife, and presented it to her himself.

“Now then!” cried the head of the police to the Goblin, “back to prison with you! And tell that fierce-looking nephew of yours to go quietly, or it will be the worse for him!”

“If you will come with me as my musician,” said Laurine, “I will beg the King on my knees to let you go. I have never danced to such playing in my life. Will you come?”

“Not without Swayn,” said the Goblin.

“But I hate the drum,” said Laurine.

“Then he need not play it,” replied he.

“And I don’t want _him_,” continued Laurine.

“It is both or neither,” said the Goblin.

“Oh, very well, then,” said she, turning away. “He can come as my servant.”

So she went to the King the very next day, and the King, seeing an excellent chance of getting rid of the prisoners without the expenses of an execution, consented.

So the Lord Mayor gave the Goblin back his fiddle, and the three set out on their travels together.

“Uncle Sackbut tells me that you object to the drum,” said Swayn to Laurine, “so I’ll leave it behind, and I shall have all the more time to attend upon you.”

Certainly he made a most valuable servant. He cleaned her little gold shoes, he robbed all the jasmine-bushes to make her girdles, and when anyone annoyed her, he looked so big and fierce that people were only too glad to get out of the way.

They travelled about for a whole year, and Laurine was beginning to be tired of such a restless life. When they came to a grim-looking town built on a rushing river, she made up her mind to dance there for the last time; for the Goblin had begged her to return with him to his house in the wood, and she had promised to do so. Swayn was to come too, for there was no doubt that it was impossible to get on without him.

“Patience,” said the Goblin to him, “and all will come right.”

“Patience is a long word,” replied Swayn.

As they approached the town gates a crowd of sour-looking men came out to meet them with fierce eyes and frowning faces.

“You need not come here, thinking to bewitch us with light ways and mountebank tricks,” they said to Laurine. “We have heard about you, and we know that you are a witch!”

“A witch! a witch!” they shouted.

“Why,” cried someone in the crowd, “she has even got a Goblin for her musician!”

Then they all began to cry “Witch! witch!” at the top of their voices, till she could hardly hear herself speak. And in a moment they had surrounded her and were dragging her away.

Oh! how the poor Goblin stamped and raved! but, unfortunately, he was too small to hurt anyone much. Swayn began knocking down everybody he could reach, but there were so many that he was soon overpowered.

“It is the witch we want! It is the witch we want!” cried the people.

The crowd turned back to the town. Some seized Laurine by the wrists, and some by her long hair, and the rest held her companions while they hurried her through the city gates, leaving them outside. Then the doors were locked, and they lost sight of her.

As Laurine was dragged along the streets, a very good idea came into her head. She was quite sure that, by hook or by crook, Swayn would try to rescue her, so she managed to pluck the flowers from her jasmine girdle, and to drop them behind her as she went, that he might see which way she had gone; and when there were no more left, she plucked off the leaves, and dropped them too. Just when the very last leaf was gone, they came to a little stone cell built by the parapet of the city wall, where it was low and overlooked the river. Into this dreadful place they thrust her, turning the key in the great lock, and calling to her that they would come in the morning to drown her in the water below. One man was left to stand outside and guard the door, and he tied the large key to his belt.

It was quite dark in the cell, for only a little light could come in at a barred window, whose sill she could just reach by standing on tiptoe. Poor Laurine wept bitterly when she thought that she was going to be drowned next morning, and she cried all the more when she remembered how unkind she had been to Swayn, and how much he loved her. She wished she had not been so cruel. How often she had thrown her gold slippers at him and told him he had not made them shine enough, when he had spent hours rubbing and polishing them! How many times she had seen him sad and heavy with the weight of her scornful words! She was afraid that, even if he got into the town, the jasmine flowers would be so much trampled that he would not guess what they were. She took off her little gold shoes and put them up on the window-sill, just inside the bars. “If he passes he will see them,” she said. The man outside was so near the wall that the depth of the sill hid them from his sight.

Swayn was only waiting till it was dark to get into the town. The river ran all round it, but he could swim well, and he had noticed a place where the wall was low and a beam stuck out which he thought he could reach with a leap. When the moon was up he left the Goblin in a thicket and plunged into the river, and, once across, he ran along under the walls till he came to the big beam. After one or two attempts he managed to spring up and clasp it with his hands, and then he swung himself up without much difficulty, and was soon standing on it, looking down into the moonlit streets of the city.

Nobody was about. The ground was much higher on the inside, so he let himself down easily, but, as he had no notion where they had taken Laurine, he did not know which way to go. He met few people in the deserted streets, and as the whole of the crowd which had captured her was sitting planning how it should drown her on the morrow, no one had any idea who he was.

He was almost in despair, when he noticed a jasmine flower lying at his feet; then he saw that there was another farther on, and yet another after that, and he knew that she had dropped them that he might trace her. He followed the track through several streets, and as he went he kept singing, that she might hear his voice if she were anywhere near.

“Laurine, Laurine, the jasmine white
Shines like a star in the darkest night,”

he sang. He dared not call, for fear of disturbing the sleeping town.

At last he came to where flowers and leaves stopped, near an open space by the town wall. Close to it was a little stone cell with a barred window and a door, in front of which lay a sleeping man, with a key tied to his belt. It was easy to see that no one could get in without awakening him.

Swayn looked up to the window above the sleeper’s head, and saw the two little shoes placed together on the sill. He crept nearer, and sang again:

“Laurine, Laurine, the jasmine white
Shines like a star in the darkest night”;

and in a moment he heard a voice inside the cell singing softly:

“Swayn, Swayn, nearer tread:
Love lives on when the stars are dead.”

He came a little closer and sang:

“Laurine, Laurine, throw your veil:
Dead men’s lips can tell no tale.”

Then the spangled veil was thrown through the window-bars, and he caught it as it fell.

Stealthily he went up to the sleeper and cut the heavy key from his belt with his knife; then, as the man stirred, he thrust the veil into his mouth to stop his cries, and, seizing him in his strong arms, flung him over the low parapet into the river swirling below. In another moment he had unlocked the door of the cell and was embracing Laurine, while she asked his forgiveness for all her unkindness and promised to marry him if they managed to get out of the city alive.

There was an old piece of tattered sacking lying in a corner of the prison, and she took off her rich dress and wrapped the horrible rag about her. They tucked away her long hair and tied a bandage over her face, so that she looked like some wretched beggar, and, when they had locked the door and pitched the key into the river, she set off down the silent streets, Swayn following a little way behind. They hid in a dark alley near the town gates, and waited till the hour should come to unlock them at dawn. The sentry on duty was not the same man who had closed them after Laurine on the preceding day, and he let the poor beggar go through with a jeer. As for Swayn, following at a little distance, he took no notice of him beyond bidding him a friendly good-morning. So the lovers were soon in the open country, pressing forward to the thicket where the Fiddling Goblin had promised to wait for his nephew’s return.

You may be sure that they spared no haste in getting away. By the time the sun was high they had reached a village, where they procured horses. All the money that Laurine had made by her dancing was kept by the Goblin tied up in a bag with his fiddle; so they lacked no means of getting forward, and they turned their heads towards the country from which they had started.

When they reached the wood they could have shouted for joy. As they came to the middle of it the Goblin stamped his heel, and all the candles of the horse-chestnut trees burst into a blaze of light, for they had been away a whole year, and it was the season of blossom again. Swayn and Laurine promised to live with their uncle Sackbut, and never to leave him any more.

They were soon married, with great pomp and solemnity, the only drawback being that the Goblin could not make up his mind whether to be best man, or give away the bride, or play the wedding music on his fiddle. But the matter was happily settled by his doing all three.

THE WITCH’S CLOAK

Peter and Janet and the miller stood on the rising ground by the farm; the sound of the wheel came to them, and the whir of grinding. Before them lay the tidal marshes that stretched to the seaport town. It was the same town through whose streets the Water-Nix followed the pedlar when she left dry land for the last time to swim out and join the water-kelpies. It looked like a blue shadow-town now, cut sharp against sky and sea, with its tall steeple reflected in the wet sand.

“I have often had it in my mind to tell you a strange story my grandmother heard about a man who lived in that place,” said the miller, pointing across the salt marsh.

“Is it true?” asked Peter.

“That’s more than I know,” replied his friend, “for I never asked my granny, and maybe if I had, she couldn’t have told me. If you like the story you can think it true, and if you don’t we’ll say it isn’t.”

“Have you ever been in that town?” the miller asked Janet.

“Never,” said she.

“Well, just where you see the steeple rising and the glint of the sun on the weathercock is the High Street. It’s a wide road, with windows looking down on it from either side; and at the end, as you go to the docks, is an old house with carved gable-ends, and in a niche of its wall is the statue of a man.”

“And is that the man the story is about?” inquired little Peter.

“The same,” said the miller. “But, to tell you about him, I must begin somewhere very far away from the place where the old statue stands.”

“How far?” asked inquisitive Peter.

“I don’t know,” answered the miller, “because nobody I’ve ever seen has been there.

“Once upon a time, long, long ago, there was a Princess who had
five handsome elder sisters.”

“But I thought you were going to tell about the man!” cried Peter.

“If you listen hard enough, you’ll hear the grass grow,” said the miller, “and if you listen long enough, you’ll hear about the man.”

Once upon a time, as I said before, there was a Princess who had five elder sisters, the most beautiful ladies ever seen; and their father thought a deal of them, but not much of the youngest, who was small and not nearly so pretty. But she was very nice, all the same, and the thing she loved best was to go hunting after flowers. Nobody cared what she did or where she went, and she spent all her days wandering in woods and valleys looking for her plants. There was little she did not know about them, and if she had not been a Princess, with no need to work, she might have made her fortune by writing books about them and their histories. One day as she roamed about she came to a place she had never seen before—a little valley full of great trees, with a winding stream rushing through it like a silver thread. Beside the water grew a clump of the most lovely yellow irises.

She liked the spot so much that she returned to it every day; and she would sit for hours at a time beside the iris-bed, with her elbows on her knees, dreaming about wonderful foreign plants she had never seen and the strange descriptions of them she had read in books.

Farther up the valley, beyond the trees, could be seen the roofs of a castle which stood on towering rocks. She did not know who it belonged to, so one day, as she sat by the water, she said aloud: “I wonder who lives there?”

“The witch, the witch!” sang the iris-flowers behind her. The sound went through them like a sigh.

She started and turned round, but there was no one to be seen; and again as she looked the flowers repeated: “The witch, the witch!”

Then she asked them many more questions, but nothing would they say. Perhaps it was all they knew, or perhaps what she took for words was only the rustling of the long stiff leaves one against the other. But that’s as may be. In any case, it roused her curiosity so much that she rose and went off towards the castle. She had no sooner got among the trees than by came the witch herself.

“Who are you?” inquired the old woman.

The Princess explained, and politely asked to be forgiven for trespassing.

“Pray don’t apologize,” said the witch, “and do me the favour to give me your arm as far as my castle. I have, as you see, no staff, and I am not so young as I was.”

The Princess agreed willingly, and they walked on together. The old woman was wrapped in a trailing black cloak, and her hair hung over her eyes, like the hair of all other witches. She seemed rather a pleasant body, though her nose and chin were certainly a little too near together. When they had climbed as far as the castle gate, she invited her companion to come in and rest, and the Princess, who feared nobody, followed her. They sat down together at a window overlooking the valley; from it she could see the winding water and the clump of irises.

“It is the most fortunate thing in the world that I met you,” began the old woman, “for I am much in need of advice from somebody. My difficulty is this: I have grown very tired of being a witch, and I wish to leave my profession and become like other people. I am learning, as you have noticed, to do without my crooked staff. Last week I sold my broomstick and bought a very pretty little brown horse instead, and I have given my black cat to a friend. My appearance is still not quite what I could wish, and I really do not know what kind of clothes to get, nor how to arrange my hair. Other witches can tell me nothing, for they know as little as I do, but your advice would be the greatest help to me.”

“I shall be very pleased to do anything I can,” said the Princess.

“If you will consent to stay with me for a few days till my wardrobe is complete, I shall be more obliged than I can say,” continued the old woman. “Use my house as your own, and everything in it.”

And so it was all arranged in five minutes.

The Princess was uncommonly useful. She brushed the witch’s hair and pinned it up tidily, and made her a fine lace head-dress, which gave her a dignified air. She sent to the nearest town for silks and brocades and buckled shoes, and, instead of the crooked staff that her friend missed so much, she bought her a handsome stick with an amber head.

The witch was delighted, for she looked both refined and venerable as she stood before her glass.

“Here!” she exclaimed, taking up her old black cloak, which lay on the floor, “this must be thrown away.”

She was just going to cast it upon the fire when the Princess stopped her.

“Oh no, no!” she cried, snatching it from her, “don’t destroy it. Pray, pray give it to me!”

“What for?” exclaimed the witch. “A Princess in a witch’s cloak? A pretty idea, indeed!”

But the Princess clung to it.

“Surely you will not refuse me,” she said, “since you do not want it any more! How often have I heard you say that you could fly wherever you liked in it? Think what it would be for me if I were able to go off in it to foreign countries, and see all the wonderful plants I have heard so much about! Only give it to me and I will be your debtor for life.”

“Well, after all, why not?” said the witch. “One good turn certainly deserves another. Keep it, my dear. If you put it on, and hold out your arms like wings on either side, it will take you up into the sky, and you can sail along like a ship. When you wish to descend, just fold your arms and you will come down to earth quite gently.”

The Princess took her treasure and locked it up in her own chamber, for fear the witch should change her mind. The next day she bade her farewell, and, throwing on the cloak, spread out her arms. Up she went, easily and gently, and when she had decided where she should go, she turned her face southwards and was soon far, far away, a little speck among the clouds. The witch looked after her till she could see her no more.

She was now in the seventh heaven of joy. She went to every country she had ever heard about. She saw the sea-pinks and water-asters of lonely islands known only to screaming gulls; she stood in forests where creepers were thrown like veils over the branches and the air was heavy with the scent of fringed and spotted orchids, purple and mauve and cream-yellow. She wandered beside lakes, walled in by solemn trees that hid the sun and strewn with red and white lilies; she saw the groves of cherry-blossom that hang on the steep gorges of blue hills far away, and the giant palms and scarlet flowers of the South. At last, after many months of wandering, she flew northward and up the coast of the North Sea till she was right over the town before us.

It was midnight as she stood, wrapped in her black cloak, on the topmost point of the steeple. The folds fluttered and crackled, as you may hear a flag flutter and crackle if you stand by a flagstaff on a tower; but no one noticed it or saw her, for everyone but the watchman was in bed, and _he_ was asleep too, though he was paid to be awake. In the bright moonlight she sailed down to the empty pavement of the High Street, among the dark shadows of the gable-ends. It was winter now and the frost was iron-hard over the whole country. She went quickly through the streets, for she did not care for towns, determining that when the sun rose next day she would be well on her way back to the witch’s castle in the valley. But she was rather tired and wanted a few hours of sleep first. She left the town and flew up this very road and past the mill—so I have heard—till she came to an old deserted cottage that once stood not far from here by the wayside. (There were still a few stones of it left when I was a child, and I used to pass it on my way to school.) The nettle-stalks were all frozen round it as she pushed through the broken door, meaning to lie down and sleep in shelter till morning. She had nothing to fear from the cold, for among the cloak’s other useful qualities was the power of keeping the person inside it perfectly warm. She was exceedingly surprised to see by the moonlight that someone else was in the miserable hovel.

A little starving boy was lying on a pile of straw in the corner. His poor face was thin and blue with cold, and he had crept into the hut because it was the only refuge he could find. He had walked all day, begging from door to door, for he had neither home nor friends nor food, and was worn out with fatigue and hunger. He lay, scarcely knowing where he was, for his wits were beginning to go, and when the Princess came in he was very near death. Strange dreams were in his brain. The moon struck brilliantly on a little window in the wall and the bitter cold had covered it with wonderful frost-flowers. It was the last thing he had seen before he closed his eyes, and he seemed to himself to be looking deep into a white forest that had grown up from the panes. Oh, how freezing it was! The forest was all made of frozen ferns and seaweed and feathers, like the white images on the glass. It stretched far, far away in alleys of fantastic sparkling fronds and glittering branches. How thick the strange, beautiful things grew! He had been once told that, if he was a good boy, when he died a white angel would come and take him to a place where he would never be sad or hungry any more. He was not sure that he did not see someone coming to him between the stems of the frozen forest. Perhaps it was the white angel.

He tried to sit up, but he was too weak. Poor little man, he had just enough life left in him to see that what he had taken for an angel was a woman in a black cloak.

The Princess went to him and bent over him. Then she took him up under the warm folds, bound him to her breast with her girdle, and hurried out of the hut. She spread out her arms, and, sailing with him into the wintry sky, flew over land and sea till she arrived at the witch’s castle.

The witch was overjoyed to see her come back, for she had been away half a year. They took the little boy and put him in a warm bed, in which he lay for many long days. But he was fed with the best of food, and such care was taken of him that when he got well he was able to run about and play in the valley and be happy from morning till night. They were so good to him that he soon forgot he had ever had any troubles at all.

The witch and the Princess got on so well together that they determined not to part, and they had plenty to do, looking after their charge and teaching him all the things he should know—how to read and write and say his prayers, and how to answer nicely when he was spoken to. When the Princess went, as she did every year, to find new flowers in foreign lands, he went with her, and helped her to carry back roots and seeds, which they planted in the valley; for the cloak was so large that, even when he grew bigger, there was room in it for them both. She taught him all her own knowledge, and as time went by and he grew up to be a man, he became even more learned than herself. He was very clever and so hardy and strong that nobody would have believed him to be the little wretched child who had lain starving in the hovel.

At last the time came when he was ready to go out into the world to seek his fortune. The parting gift that the Princess gave him was the black cloak. He was to have it on condition that he would come back once every year to go to some foreign land with her, and to visit the witch. He was given a small sum of money to start life with; and, as he was anxious to see the country of his birth and the hut in which he had been found, he wrapped himself in the cloak and came down, as the Princess had done, at midnight into the town across the marsh.

He was a fine, sensible fellow. Though he had lived in a castle, and perhaps because he had been brought up by a real Princess, he had no silly notions and was ready for any work he could find. He hired a modest lodging, and, going to the director of a large public garden that had been made in the town, he asked to be employed as a gardener. There was only one place vacant, and that was the very lowest, but he took it eagerly. His work was to wheel barrows, and sweep leaves, and cut grass, but he did it as carefully and put as much heart into it as if he was raising priceless flowers; for the Princess had brought him up strictly, and made him understand that honest work can only be made mean by the meanness of the person who does it.

Every year, when he had a few weeks’ holiday, he returned to the witch’s castle. No one saw him go, and no one saw him come back, and nobody knew how he managed to get the marvellous plants that he brought back with him. Very soon he was no longer an under-gardener, but the head of all, and by the time he was turning grey he had become the greatest botanist and teacher in the country. Learned men came from all parts of the kingdom to talk with him in his house with the carved gable-ends in the High Street of yonder town.

Time went by, and his fame spread all over the world. He grew old and his hair turned white, but still he went about wrapped in the black cloak, from which he never parted. His white beard flowed over his breast as he sat and wrote the books which helped to make him famous, or walked over the country, comparing plants and teaching his pupils out of his stores of wisdom. But at last he grew too infirm to walk long distances, and strangers coming to the town would look with awe upon his venerable figure as he passed through the streets. Everyone loved him, rich and poor alike.

And so it came to be that a great banquet was given in his honour, and the learned from all countries met together.

It was the middle of summer, and the hall in which it took place was decorated with flowers. A laurel-wreath hung over the chair in which he was to sit, costly fruits were brought from far-away lands, and the hall was filled with the glory of blossoming plants, many of which he had carried home with him as tiny seeds from his journeys. Wise men were there and beautiful ladies, students and great personages. All had come to see him and to hear him speak. The town was thronged—you would think there was no room in it for so much as one additional person.

When the feast was over he rose and began his speech, and silence fell upon everyone. Though he was frail and old, his voice was clear as he told them of the countries he had wandered in—the distant islands, the tropics, the golden East. No one imagined he had been so far afield, and his listeners wondered how he had contrived to make such voyages, for they knew that he was not rich and lived very simply in the old house at the end of the street. But everybody was enthralled; his life of work, his modesty, his great age and wisdom adorned him, in the eyes of his pupils and the assembled guests, like the jewels of a crown.

When the long speech was over he sat down, leaning back in his chair under the laurel-wreath, for the effort he had made was great. The guests remained respectfully in their places; they saw that he was weary and would need rest before he could listen to their congratulations. For a moment he closed his eyes, and when he opened them, a wonderful change seemed to have come over the scene before him.

The green boughs that filled the hall and the vases of flowers on the long tables were changing before his failing sight. Instead of the tall sheaves of roses a white forest was rising up, deep and pure, a forest that he had seen before. On either side the frost-flowers hung sparkling, their snow-crystals thick in the maze of white feathers and seaweed and ferns. The sprays and branches crowded on him in their dazzling myriads, dense and high, and far down the white vista into which he looked a figure was coming—a white figure. It was the angel.

He rose and grasped an outstretched hand.

“He is gone,” said the guests. “The exertion has been too much for him.” And his pupils and friends came round him, the tears standing in their eyes.

At that moment a gust of wind ran through the open doors of the hall, and the black cloak, which its owner had laid on a window-sill before he sat down at the table, was blown from it and flew out into the air. No one saw it go, but it rose on the sudden wind and sailed upwards, above the town, above the steeple, and disappeared like a dark cloud into the distant spaces of sky.

* * * * *

“Some day,” said the miller to little Peter, “I’ll take you to the town in my cart and show you the statue of that man in the wall of the old house.”

“And you’ll let me hold the end of the reins and the whip, and drive too, won’t you?” shouted the little boy.

“Well, perhaps I will,” laughed the miller, “only Janet must come too, to keep you in order.”