Chapter IV: Through Flood and Fire (4)

Then Hilda besought her father that by any means he should constrain Horant to sing again. And Hagen being no less crazed with the song, recked not for aught else, and he promised the singer a thousand pounds of gold by weight if he would sing again at eve.

At evening Horant sang. The people filled the hall and flocked about the castle for a great space. The sick came thither and remembered their pains no more.

The beasts in the forest and the cattle in the fields left their food; the worms forgat to go in the grass, and the fishes left swimming in the sea. And when the song was done and the folk went their ways, they heard the minster choirs and the chiming of the bells, but took no more pleasure in them.

Hilda sent twelve purses of gold to Horant, entreating him to come and sing to her in her chamber. The singer came and sang the song of Amile, the like whereof no man had ever heard save on the wild flute. No gold was ever so good. The maiden laid her hand within the singer’s and bade him choose whatever he listed for a song-gift. He said: “I pray thee give me but the girdle from thy waist, that I may take it to my master.” She asked: “Who is thy master?” He answered: “No banished men are we, but servants of Hettel, King of Denmark, come to woo thee for his bride.” Then Hilda said: “So thou couldst always sing to me at morn and eve, I would not care whose bride I were.” Horant said: “Lady, within my master’s courts abide twelve minstrels, better far than I; and yet with all the sweetness of their singing my lord sings best of all.” And Hilda said: “If that be so, I fain would follow thee and be King Hettel’s bride. But I know not how. My father will give me to no suitor with his good will. I would go but I durst not.” Horant answered her: “Since thou wouldst, be it ours to dare. We ask no more.”

Then Horant and his comrades got ready their ship for sea, and afterward they came to Hagen, saying: “The time for our departure draweth nigh, and we must sail to other lands. But before we go, we pray you bring the queen and your fair daughter, that they may see the treasures which we have within the ship.” So on the next day, after mass, King Hagen came down to the beach, with his queen, and the fair Hilda and her maids; with them went a thousand good knights of Ireland. The ship was swung to a single cable, the anchor aboard, the sail tackle free. Upon the sands were spread the Danish treasure chests, filled with costly raiment embroidered with gold and jewels. There was a crowding round the chests to see; Yarl Wate was there, and Frute, and Horant; and in the crowding Hilda was parted from her mother. Hagen and his knights saw nothing for the crowd, and the queen forgot her daughter at beholding the glories of the raiment. But suddenly they heard a shout, and looking up beheld Yarl Wate leap on the bulwarks with fair Hilda in his arms; the next moment Horant and Frute sprang on board with two other maidens. Yrolt smote at the cable with his axe; it parted. The sail was hauled aloft, and twenty oars shot out from either side to lift the ship along. Hagen and his knights ran quickly down into the sea; but the rowers rowed hard, and armed men in the ship arose, seven hundred strong, and laid about them. Short was the fight, and soon the vessel reached deep water. Loud laughed the Danes to see on the fading shore the angry crowd, the weeping queen, and Hagen raging like a madman, up to his waist in the sea.

Fast sped the ship and the wind was fair. The Danes made Hegelingen in ten days, and Hettel was wed to Hilda with great joy.

But while they yet sat at the marriage feast Hagen’s war-ship bore down upon their coast. Quickly the Danes rose from the tables, put their armor on, and ran down to the shore. Hagen drave his ship upon the sand, and leaped into the water with his men. A shower of arrows thick as hail was his greeting. Hettel rushed foremost to withstand him. There was fierce fighting between the two for a little space; then Hettel fell, sore wounded; and over his body Hagen and his knights pressed on and hewed their way to land. Fast fell the men, both Danes and Irelanders. Then Yarl Wate encountered Hagen; and the battle anger fell on both the men; they fought like wild beasts of the wood, till, Wate being wounded on the head, Hagen’s war-pike brake at the next blow he struck. Meantime the battle raged furiously. The Irelanders kept their footing, but could not drive back the Danish men; the numbers slain on either hand were equal, man for man. Then Hettel’s wounds being bound up, the Danish king cried out to Hagen: “Of what avail shall it be to you or me to fight this battle out? For every man of mine that falls a man of thine goes down. When it is done there will be an end to Danes and Irelanders alike. But if thou must needs prolong the fight, I will now meet thee, and if Hilda weeps for a dead husband she shall mourn a dead father too.” Then Hagen cast down his sword, and called off his men. And he said to Hettel: “Give me thy hand; for in sooth my child has married a brave man; and had I half a score more daughters they should all come to Hegelingen.” So the kings made peace together. And the marriage feast was all begun again, and kept for twelve days in King Hettel’s palace. Moreover a wise woman brought forth herbs and roots, and healed the warriors of their wounds. And after the feasting, Hagen and his men were loaded with gifts, and they entered into their ship and departed to Ireland.

THE LADY OF KYNAST

By Xavier B. Saintine

The Lady of Kynast owned a large domain, and on this domain a ruined old tower which stood on the summit of a steep, high rock, surrounded on all sides by a deep abyss.

Rich, young and beautiful, eagerly sought for by a number of admirers, The Lady of Kynast did not think, in her desire to keep them from becoming too pressing, of undertaking an endless piece of embroidery, like Penelope. She did not embroider; in fact she looked with contempt, and almost with disgust, upon every kind of work that was done by women. She told her admirers that she was betrothed to Kynast—this was the name of the old tower—and that anyone who thought of winning her good graces would first have to compete with her betrothed. To do this nothing was required but to climb up the rock and the tower, and having reached the battlements, to make a complete round, not on foot, however, or assisted by the hands and knees, but on horseback, without other assistance than the bridle.

The flock of lovers took flight instantly; only two remained, two brothers who had completely lost their heads.

After having cast lots, the first one attempted the task and seemed on the point of being successful. But that was all. He had no sooner reached the crenelated top of the old tower than he was seized with vertigo and instantly fell into the abyss.

The second brother, in his turn, climbed to the top and actually succeeded in riding some distance along the battlements; but soon his horse, feeling the stones slipping from under its hoofs, and the whole tower rocking under the weight, refused to go on. Determined to carry through the undertaking he encouraged his horse with his voice and with his spurs, but the poor animal remained immovable, apparently wedged in between the large stones of the tower. In the morning both horse and rider had disappeared.

For quite a while no other claimants appeared to woo the fair lady, when suddenly one day a third lover presented himself and asked leave to attempt the trial.

She did not know who it was, and this surprised her; for how could he have fallen in love with her? He might possibly have seen her on her balcony, or at some royal feast; perhaps he was only allured by her great reputation. However, there was nothing to lose by accepting the offer.

For some days a thick, heavy fog had shrouded the castle and the old tavern from top to bottom, so as to make the ascent impossible. The simple laws of hospitality required, therefore, that the lady should offer her castle to the newly arrived knight.

He proved to be a handsome man with a fine commanding figure, and the large number of his servants bespoke his high rank and large fortune. During three days he spent almost all his time with the young lady, but as yet he had not dared say a word of his love. On her side, however, the young lady felt herself gradually conquered by a feeling which had, until now, been unknown to her heart.

When the dense veil of mist was at length torn aside and the Kynast shone forth in its full splendor, she was on the point of telling the knight that she would not insist on the trial in his case.

When the moment came the Lady of Kynast felt her heart fail her. She shut herself in, she wept and she cried, and prayed that he might be successful. Loud clamors were heard below, and as she thought the spectators were bewailing the death of her last lover, she fainted away.

Cries of joy and of triumph roused her again; the knight had successfully accomplished the task. Overcome, she rushes to meet him, and in her excitement she forgets that all eyes are upon her, and breathlessly cries out: “My hand is yours.” But he draws himself up to his full height, and haughtily and harshly he replies, with a proud smile:

“Have I ever asked you for your hand? I only came to avenge my two brothers, whom you have killed, and I have done it, for I do not, could not, love you, and yet you love me. Farewell!”

That same evening the wretched lady had herself conducted up to the top of the tower, from whence she wished, she said, to watch the setting sun. She was never seen alive again.

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL

By Xavier B. Saintine

A white figure appeared before the young girl as she awoke. “I am your Guardian Angel!”

“Then you will grant me the wishes which I shall mention?”

“I shall carry them to God’s throne. You may count upon my assistance. What are your wishes?”

“O White Angel, I am tired of continually turning the spindle and my fingers are getting to be so hard by constant work that yesterday, at the dance, my partner might have imagined he was holding a wooden hand.”

“Your partner was that fine-looking gentleman from Hesse? Did he not tell you that he adored blue eyes and fair hair, and that he would make you a baroness, if you would go home with him, if you would wickedly run away?”

“White Angel, make me a baroness!”

The evening of that day a young peasant came and asked Louisa’s mother for her daughter’s hand. The mother said, Yes.

“White Angel, deliver me from this poor man. I want to be a baroness!”

The mother, who was a sensible woman, and a widow, had good sense enough and energy enough for two. The White Angel did not appear again, and Louisa married the peasant—and she kept on turning the spindle.

One day her husband, who was a hard-working man, had over-exerted himself and was taken ill. In the meanwhile Louisa had seen her handsome gentleman again.

“White Angel,” she said, “he loves me still. He has sworn he would marry me if I were a widow.” She dared not say more. The husband recovered from his illness. The White Angel still turned a deaf ear to her wishes. She lost all hope of ever becoming a baroness.

Later her husband became more successful, so that his work alone supplied all their wants. Two beautiful children had come to gladden their lives, and now, when Louisa worked at the spindle, it felt quite soft in her fingers.

One evening, when she was only half asleep, the white figure appeared once more, and a gentle voice whispered in her ear this story:

“A little fish was merrily swimming about in the water and looking seriously at a pretty blackcap which first circled around and around in the air, and then alighted on a branch of a willow which grew close to the bank of the river.

“‘Oh,’ said the little fish, ‘how happy that bird is! It can rise up to the heavens and go high up to the sun to warm itself in its rays. Why cannot I do the same?’

“The blackcap, who was looking down at the fish, thought to himself:

“‘Oh! how happy that fish is! The element in which it lives furnishes it at the same time with food; it has nothing to do but to glide along. How I should like to sport in the fresh, transparent water!’”

“At that moment a kite pounced upon the poor little fish, while a scamp of a schoolboy threw a stone at the bird; the blackcap fell into the water—the fresh, transparent water—and for a moment struggled in it before it died, while the little fish, carried aloft, could go up on high to the sun and warm itself in its rays. Their wishes had been granted.”

THE GIANT WHO LAUGHED AT A DWARF

By Xavier B. Saintine

An old duke of Bavaria had at his court a dwarf named Ephesim, and a giant named Grommelund. The giant laughed at the dwarf, and the dwarf threatened to box his ears. Grommelund laughed a big hoarse laugh that seemed to come up from his toes, and dared Ephesim to go ahead. The dwarf accepted the challenge at once, and the duke, having been a witness of the scene, ordered that a field for a single combat should be gotten ready.

Everybody expected to do as the giant had done, and laugh at the pigmy, as the poor little fellow was hardly two feet high and would have had to climb a long way before reaching the giant’s ears.

The dwarf began by walking all around the giant, as if to take his measure. The good-natured giant, standing up immovable, looks down upon him and quietly laughs till his sides shake; but while he is holding his hands to his sides, the dwarf unties his shoestrings and then worries him by kicking and pinching his calves.

Grommelund laughs more loudly than ever, thanks to the tickling; takes a few strides, steps on his loose shoestrings, nearly stumbles, and at last, with thoughtful presence of mind, stoops down to tie the strings.

Ephesim was watching for this. He quickly slapped the giant’s cheek so vigorous and sounding a smack that the duke and all the lords of the court looked up in astonishment.

The poor giant was so shamed and humiliated that he hurriedly shambled off the field and sought refuge in the mountains, where, it is said, he hid himself and refused to come out.

THE LEGEND OF SAINT CHRISTOPHER

By Lillian M. Gask

There was once a man named Offero, so tall and strong that he stood among his fellows as a sturdy oak in a grove of saplings. His eyes were keen and clear as some great eagle’s, his lips spoke nothing but gentle words, and his heart was as pure and tender as a little child’s. His spirit was brave and fearless, and while he was yet in the prime of his strength he resolved to devote it to some good purpose.

“My friends,” he said, when he had called together his companions, “I must leave you now, for something within me whispers that I was born to serve a king so great that fear is unknown to him; a king to whom all men bow.”

Then he strode away into the forest, and was seen by them no more.

For many a day he traversed valley and mountain, inquiring of all he met who was the greatest king. At last he came to a splendid country, where reigned a monarch of high renown. His armies were vast and powerful, and his fleet of warships was like a flock of birds bearing death on their grim brown wings.

When he was told that Offero desired to serve him, he welcomed him gladly, and liked the young man so well that he soon made him his trusted counsellor and friend.

It was Offero’s pride to see how all men trembled at his master’s frown, and he could not believe that there lived a monarch greater than he.

One day, however, when the king was present, a courtier made some remark about “the Evil One;” his Majesty’s august brow grew pale, and Offero could have sworn he saw his stem lips quiver. Pained and surprised, he humbly asked the king why he was troubled.

“I am afraid of the Devil,” said that monarch, “although I fear no mortal man. He is the King of Hades, and more powerful even than I.”

“Then I must leave you, O king!” cried Offero with haste, “since I have vowed to serve none other than the most powerful monarch in existence.” And sorrowfully he turned away.

“Where is the Devil?” he asked the first man he met.

“He is everywhere,” returned the traveller, looking round uneasily; and this was the usual answer that Offero received to his inquiry. Wherever he went men looked uneasy at the Devil’s name, but would not say where Offero was most likely to meet with him.

He found him at last among a group of idle men and maidens on the village green, and hailed him as his master. The Devil was glad to have so strong a follower, and amused himself by showing the astonished giant his power over rich and poor. There seemed to be no limit to his might; he swayed the nobles in their velvet robes, and the peasants in their tattered garments.

“He is indeed master of the world,” sighed Offero, and though he liked not the Devil’s ways, he stifled his distaste that he might keep his word.

One day his master led him through the outskirts of the town into the open country.

“We are going to visit a hermit,” he said with a burst of laughter. “He has left the town to be quit of me, but he will find me in his cave!”

Before Offero could ask him what he meant to do with the good hermit, they came to a turn where four roads met. A rough wind swayed the branches of the trees, and a peal of thunder echoed among the lofty hills. It was neither wind nor thunder, however, that made the Devil tremble, but the sight of a wooden cross which some pious folk had erected here. With gaunt arms pointing east and west it stood immovable; the rain beat down on it mercilessly, as if to cleanse it from the roadside dust; and turning his head away that he might not see it, the Devil hastened past. Not until it was far behind them had Offero an opportunity of asking why he had trembled.

“I was afraid,” answered his grim companion, with another shudder.

“Afraid?” repeated Offero in puzzled tones. “Why, what was there to be afraid of?”

“Did you not see the crucifix?” cried the Devil impatiently. “The figure on it is that of the Christ, and this is why I trembled.”

The giant had never heard that Holy Name before, and felt more perplexed than ever as he demanded: “Who is this Christ whom you so fear?”

“He is the King of Heaven,” was the reluctant reply.

“Is he more powerful, then, than you?” persisted Offero, planting himself in the center of the pathway so that his master could not pass on.

“He is more powerful even than I!” admitted the Devil, his eyes becoming points of fire.

“Then I shall serve Him, and Him only,” the giant cried, and, turning on his heel, he left the Devil to go on his way alone.

When Offero reached the cross once more, a man was kneeling before it in prayer. As he rose from his knees, Offero asked him the way to Heaven.

“I cannot tell you,” said the man. “The way is long, and hard to find. ’Tis well that Christ is merciful.”

Offero met with like answers from many wayfarers whom he questioned, but at last came one who advised him to consult the hermit.

“He is a holy man,” he assured him earnestly, “and has retired from the world that he may give his time to prayer and fasting. He thinks he can serve Christ this way better than any other.”

So Offero sought the hermit, and learnt from him many things. He heard of the grandeur and goodness of Christ, and of the greatness of His Kingdom. All that he said made Offero more eager to serve Him than ever, and when the hermit explained that no one could enter the Heavenly Kingdom until he was summoned there by Christ Himself, he bowed his head in disappointment.

“How then can I serve this new Master,” he said, “unless I can see Him and hear His commands?”

“Do as I do,” replied the hermit. “Give up the world, and fast and pray.”

“If I were to fast,” said Offero shrewdly, “I should lose my strength, and then, when He called me to work for Him, I should be useless.” And although the hermit tried to persuade him, he would not stay, but set off again on his journey, determined to find the way to Heaven.

Presently he met a company of pilgrims. They were dusty and travel-stained, and very footsore, but their faces shone with joy. There were men and women and little children; some came from distant lands, and some from near, but one and all they were filled with a deep content.

“Who are you, and whence do you travel?” Offero asked them wonderingly.

“We are the servants of Christ,” they answered, “and we are marching towards Heaven. The path is rough, and the way is long, but His many mansions await us.”

“I will come with you, and be His servant too!” said Offero, and they welcomed him gladly.

The way was long, as they had said, but to the giant the days passed quickly. He was learning so much that he could scarcely sleep for the wonder of it, and his face also shone with happiness. He grew very grave when he heard of the swift-flowing river that all must cross before they could hope to reach the Kingdom of Heaven.

“There is no bridge to span it,” said an aged pilgrim, whose tottering limbs were now so feeble that but for Offero’s support they would hardly have borne him along. “The trembling woman, the little child, must cross it alone in the gloom and darkness, for though they call, no friendly boatman appears in sight. When Christ has need of us, His messenger will appear; he is clothed in raiment white as snow, and although his voice is always gentle, it is as clearly heard in the rush and roar of the tempest as on a summer’s day.”

At length the pilgrims came to the river-bank, and as the giant gazed at the foaming current, and saw the waves dashing against the shore, he marvelled greatly at what he had been told. Surely, he thought, no feeble woman or little child could breast its waters and reach the other side.

Even as he mused on this the white-robed messenger called to an ailing girl who was almost too weak to move. Her Master had need of her, he said, and in the fair courts of Heaven she would be strong again.

What joy was hers when she heard His voice! But alas! when she crept to the edge of the bank, and saw the river that swept beneath it, her heart grew sick with fear. She quivered and shook from head to foot, and moaned that she dare not venture. An exceeding pity moved Offero to go to her help.

“Do not weep,” he said, “but trust to me.” And taking her tenderly in his arms, he lifted her on to his shoulder, and bore her tenderly across. In spite of all his strength, the pitiless current nearly swept him off his feet, and he fought with the icy waters as he had fought no mortal foe. The girl tried in vain to thank him as he placed her on the bank in safety; he would not let her speak.

“Tell Christ,” he said, “that I am His servant, and that until He shall summon me to His side I will help His pilgrims to cross the River of Death.”

From henceforth this was his work. He had no time to wonder when his own call would come, for day and night there arrived at the banks of the river pilgrims from every clime, and, since few had courage to face the dark waters alone, he crossed and recrossed it continually. In order that he might be always at hand, he built himself a rough log-hut by the waterside, and here he made his home.

One night when the waves rolled fiercely and the wind blew high, Offero laid him down to sleep. Surely, he thought, no one would dare to cross in such a storm. His eyes had scarcely closed, however, when he heard a knocking at the door.

“Who are you?” he cried as he threw it open. There was no answer, and by the light of his lantern he saw a wistful child on the river-bank. He was staring down at the rushing waters with piteous dread, but the tone of his voice was clear and firm as he turned and spoke to Offero.

“I must cross to-night,” he said. Offero looked at him with deep compassion.

“Poor child!” he murmured, “I am glad I heard you. With a tide like this it will be difficult even for me, giant as I am, but you would be swept away.”

With gentle hands he placed the boy on his shoulder, and bidding him not to fear, set out for the opposite shore.

He had not overestimated the difficulties he had to face. Time after time he was beaten backward, and the icy waters nearly engulfed them both. It took all his strength to bear up against them, and the weight of the child seemed greater than that of the heaviest man he had ever borne. When at last he climbed the steep, high bank, he was bruised as well as breathless, for the hidden rocks had worked him grievous harm.

“Tell Christ——” he panted. And then he saw that the figure beside him was not that of a little child, but of a radiant Being of kingly mien, with a crown of glory on His brow. The giant knelt before Him, and the Vision smiled.

“I am the Christ,” He said, “whom thou hast served so long. This night thou hast borne Me across the River of Death.… Thou didst find Me a heavy burden, for I bore the sins of the world.”

Then He named Giant Offero “Christopher,” meaning “He who has carried Christ,” and took him to dwell with Him in His Heavenly Kingdom.

PRINCE IVAN AND THE GRAY WOLF

By Lillian M. Gask

In a far-off land surrounded by snow-capped mountains, and watered by rivers that flowed swiftly down to the sea, dwelt a mighty tsar. His people loved as well as feared him, for the glance of his eagle eye was very kind, and he was ever ready to listen to their pleas for help or justice. When he rode abroad on the great white horse that was shod with gold, they flocked to bless him, and throughout the whole of his wide dominion there was not one discontented man, woman, or child. He had no foes to trouble him, since rival monarchs knew full well that their troops would be dispersed like mist in sunlight before the charge of his victorious army, and his three sons, Dimitri, Vasili, and Ivan, were all that a father could desire. Yet the good tsar’s brow was clouded as he walked in his garden, and from time to time he uttered a deep sigh.

This garden was his greatest pride. In days gone by the forests had been rifled of their most splendid trees that they might spread their shade over the rare and lovely flowers that travellers brought him from every part of the globe. The perfume of his million rose trees was carried on the wind for fifty miles beyond the palace, and so wonderful were their colors that the eyes of those who beheld them were dazzled by so much brilliance. There were the gorgeous orchids which, in order that the garden of their beloved tsar might be the most beautiful in the world, men had risked their lives to obtain, and every imaginable kind of fruit hung in tempting clusters from the drooping boughs of the trees. To look at them was to make one’s mouth water, and the sick folk in his kingdom shared with the tsar the pleasures of taste and touch.

The tree that gave him most pleasure bore nothing but golden apples. When spring came round, and tender buds appeared upon the whispering branches, the tsar caused a net of fine white seed-pearls to be spread around it, so that the sweet-voiced choristers who filled his groves with music should not come near them. They might feast at will on every other tree in his garden, he said, but the golden apples they must leave for him; and as if in gratitude for his many kindnesses, even when the net of pearls was taken away, and the apples gleamed like fairy gold amid the emerald-green of their shapely leaves, not one of the birds approached them. When cares of state pressed heavily upon him, the tsar sought rest beneath the loaded branches, and forgot his troubles in watching the sunlight play on the golden balls.

Now all was changed, and the tsar’s deep sigh betokened feelings of deep annoyance. Morning after morning he found the apple tree stripped of its golden treasures, and its emerald leaves strewn on the ground.

This was the work of the Magic Bird, who once upon a time had lived in the great cloud castles that gather in the West, but was now the slave of a distant king. The feathers of the Magic Bird were as radiant as the sun-god’s plumes, and her eyes as clear as crystal. When she had wrought her will on the apple trees, she would fly blithely home to the garden of her own master, and, try as they would, not one of the tsar’s head gardeners could even catch sight of her.

The good tsar meditated much upon the matter, and one windy morning in autumn he called his three sons to him.

“My children,” he said, “the source of my grief is known to you, and now I entreat your help. Will you each in turn forego your sleep, that you may watch in my garden for the Magic Bird? To him who shall capture her, I will give the half of my kingdom, and when I am called thence he shall reign in my stead.”

“Willingly, O my father,” answered each of his three sons; and Prince Dimitri, as the eldest, claimed the right to the first watch.

The garden was flooded with moonlight as the prince threw himself down on a moss-grown bank that faced the tree, and the fragrance of the roses soon worked its drowsy spell. From a grove of myrtles came the song of a sweet-voiced nightingale: “_Glück—glück—glück_,” she trilled, and in listening to her the prince fell fast asleep. When he awoke it was light again. The tree had been once more despoiled, and the Magic Bird had flown.

The same thing occurred when Prince Vasili took his turn in watching. It is only fair to him to say that he did not fall asleep until the night was far spent, but as the east began to quiver with light, he too became overpowered with slumber. The Magic Bird was watching her opportunity, and yet again she robbed the tree. When questioned by the tsar, both princes solemnly assured him that no strange bird had visited the garden during the night, but though he fain would have believed them, he could not doubt the evidence of his eyes.

It was now Prince Ivan’s turn to watch. He was not nearly so good-looking as his brothers, but he had a stout heart and a cool head, and he made up his mind to keep awake at any cost. Instead of reclining on the ground, he perched himself in the boughs of the tree, and when the song of the nightingale threatened to lull him to sleep, as it had done the elder princes, he put his fingers into his ears that he might not hear it.

An hour passed slowly; a second, and then a third. Suddenly the whole garden was lit up as if with a burst of sunshine, and with rays of light flashing from every shaft of her golden feathers the Magic Bird flew down and began to peck at the shining apples. Prince Ivan, scarcely daring to breathe, stretched out his hand and caught as much of her tail as he could grasp. With a startled cry the Magic Bird spread her beautiful wings and wrenched herself free, leaving behind one glittering feather, which the prince held firmly. At break of day he took this to his father, humbly apologizing for his ill success in not having caught the Magic Bird herself.

“Nevertheless, you have done well, my son,” said the tsar gratefully, and he placed the feather, which shone so brightly that at dusk it illuminated the whole room, in a cabinet of cedar and mother-of-pearl.

The Magic Bird came no more to the palace garden, and the precious tree was never again despoiled of its golden apples. But the tsar was not content. He sighed to possess the bird that had robbed him, and once more he summoned his three sons.

“My children,” he said, “I am sick with longing for the Magic Bird. Seek her, I pray you, and bring her to me. What I have promised already shall then be yours.”

The princes assented gladly, each anxious to find the Magic Bird. Prince Ivan alone wished to please his father; his brothers were only thinking of the riches and honors they would gain for themselves. So dear was this youngest son to the monarch’s heart that he was loath to part with him when the time came, but the youth insisted.

“It will not be for long, dear father,” he cried “I shall soon return with the Magic Bird you sigh for.” So the tsar blessed him, and let him go.

Prince Ivan took the fleetest horse in the imperial stables, and rode on and on for many days. At last he came to a bare field set in the midst of fair green meadows, and in the center of this stood a block of rough gray stone. Inscribed upon the stone in crimson letters was a strange verse:

“Hungry and cold shall that man be
Who rides in pride straight up to me.
To ride from the left means death and sorrow,
Though his horse shall live for many a morrow.
He who rides from the right shall have good things all,
But ere three days pass his horse shall fall!”

Prince Ivan was greatly troubled at the thought of losing his horse, but to ride from the right seemed the wisest course for him to pursue. Accordingly he did so, and so swift was his horse’s flight that he had soon left the gray stone far behind. On the third day, as he was passing the borders of a gloomy forest, a big Gray Wolf sprang out from a thicket, and, flying at his horse’s throat, threw him on the ground and killed him in spite of Ivan’s gallant attempt to beat him off. Ivan would now have run the Gray Wolf through with the jeweled dagger his father had given him as a parting present, but before he could rise from the spot where he had been thrown, the creature spoke.

“Spare me, wise prince,” he entreated humbly. “I have but done as I was commanded. My death will not give you back your horse, while if you spare my life I will be your friend forever, and will carry you over the world.”

Prince Ivan saw that he would gain nothing by being revengeful, and, mindful of his quest, accepted the Wolf’s offer to be his steed.

“Tell me where you wish to go, dear master!” said the Gray Wolf, “and it shall be as you will.” And, true enough, when he heard the object of Prince Ivan’s journey, he galloped even more swiftly than the horse had done, till toward nightfall he came to a standstill behind a thick stone wall.

“On the other side of this wall,” he said, “is a terraced garden, and there, in a golden cage, is the Magic Bird. The garden is empty now, so no one will stay you if you capture her; but if you touch her cage there will be trouble.”

Dismounting from the Gray Wolf’s back, Prince Ivan climbed the wall without much difficulty, and quickly seized the Magic Bird. She fluttered so wildly, however, as he tried to hold her, though without uttering a sound, that he quite forgot the Gray Wolf’s warning, and hastened back for the cage. As he touched it, the stillness of the garden was broken by the pealing of bells and the clanking of armor, for the cage was connected with the palace courtyard by invisible wires. Before he could escape, Prince Ivan was surrounded by excited soldiers, who quickly carried him before the king.

“Are you not ashamed?” the monarch thundered, noting the young man’s rich attire, “to be caught in my garden like a common thief? Where do you come from, and what is your name?”

“I am the son of a great tsar,” the young prince answered, “and they call me Ivan. My father has a very beautiful garden, in which grows a tree of golden apples that is the pride of his heart. Night after night your Magic Bird rifled this precious fruit, until I all but succeeded in capturing her. She was too quick for me, however, and flew away, leaving one feather in my hand. This feather I took to my father, who admired it greatly, and ever since has longed to possess the Magic Bird.”

Tsar Dolmat looked less angry, though he still frowned.

“If you had come to me,” he said, “and told me what you wanted, I would have made your father a present of the Magic Bird. As it is, I feel inclined to let all nations know how dishonorably you have acted.”

Prince Ivan bowed his head in shame, and after a searching glance at him the tsar continued his speech.

“You shall go forth free, young prince,” he said, “if you will do me a service. In the realm of Tsar Afron, beyond the thrice-ninth kingdom, there is a gold-maned horse which belongs to him, and this I greatly covet. If you will procure it, and bring it here to me, I will forgive your theft of the Magic Bird, and present her to you as a mark of honor.”

Prince Ivan promised to do his best, but he did not feel very hopeful as he rejoined the Gray Wolf, who was patiently waiting for him outside the wall. When Ivan had confessed the reason that led to his capture, the Gray Wolf patted his shoulder with one rough paw.

“It takes a wise man,” he remarked, “to own himself in the wrong, so we will say no more about it. Jump on my back again, and I will take you to the far-famed realm of Tsar Afron, beyond the thrice-ninth kingdom.”

The Gray Wolf ran so swiftly that Ivan could scarcely see the country through which they passed, and after travelling for many nights and days, they reached, at last, their journey’s end. The marble stables of the tsar shone fair and stately in the morning light, and through a door which a careless groom had left half open, Prince Ivan made his way. The horse with the golden mane was feeding on the yellow pollen collected by the bees from the tall white lilies that edged the rose garden, and stared at Prince Ivan haughtily as he approached. Firmly grasping his golden mane, Prince Ivan led him out of the stall. The Gray Wolf had cautioned him more than once not to attempt to bring the golden bridle that hung above the door, but as he was leaving the stable the prince suddenly thought how useful this would be, and turning back, stretched out his hand and touched it. Immediately he did so, bells pealed all over the palace, for, like the cage of the Magic Bird, the Bridle was fastened to invisible wires.

The stable guards came hurrying in, full of alarm, and when they saw Prince Ivan they seized him angrily, and took him before their master. Tsar Afron was even more indignant than Tsar Dolmat had been at the prince’s attempt to rob him. When he had questioned him as to his birth and station his face became sterner still.

“Is this the deed of a gallant knight?” he asked with withering scorn. “I have a great regard for your father’s name, and if you had come to me openly and in good faith, I would gladly have given you my gold-maned horse. But now all nations shall know of your dishonor, for such acts of yours must not go unpunished.”

This was more than Prince Ivan could bear, and with eager haste he protested his willingness to atone for his fault.

“Very well, then,” said Tsar Afron, “I will take you at your word. Go forth and bring me Queen Helen the Beautiful, whom I have long loved with all my heart and soul. I have seen a picture of her in my seer’s white crystal, and she is more fair to look upon than any other maid. I cannot reach her, try as I may, since her kingdom is guarded by elves and goblins. If you can capture her for me and bring her here, in return I will give you anything you ask.”

Prince Ivan hurried away to the Gray Wolf, fearing that since he had disregarded his advice for a second time, he might refuse to help him in this new enterprise. Once more he humbly confessed that he had been at fault, and once more the Gray Wolf consoled him.

“One must buy wit,” he growled. “Well, jump on my back, and I will see what I can do for you.”

Then he ran so swiftly that it seemed as though his feet were winged, and the elves and goblins that guarded the kingdom of Helen the Beautiful scattered before him in all directions, thinking him to be a specter. When he came to the golden streamlet that bordered the queen’s magic garden, he told Prince Ivan that he must now dismount.

“Go back by the road we came,” he commanded, “and wait for me in the shade of that spreading oak tree we passed just now.”

Prince Ivan did as he was told, and the Gray Wolf crouched under a bush of juniper, and waited until evening fell. As the light faded out of the sunset sky and the pale little moon rose slowly over the mountain-tops, Queen Helen walked in her garden. She was so fair and sweet to look upon that even the heart of the Gray Wolf was moved to admiration, and he wished her a worthier mate than the stern Tsar Afron, who knew not how to be gentle even in his love. After a while she approached the streamlet, winding round her dainty throat a cloud of milk-white gossamer, that she might not feel the touch of the evening breeze.

“Do not fear, sweet lady! I will not harm you!” the Gray Wolf cried, as he sprang from his hiding place and crossed the stream. Holding her tenderly by her flowing draperies, he leaped back to the other side, and galloped with her to the prince, who waited under the spreading oak.

When the queen and prince beheld each other, it was as if a veil had fallen from their eyes. Never had the world appeared so beautiful, and as they gazed at each other in the soft twilight, the queen’s fears fled. As for Prince Ivan, he knew from that moment that she was intended for his wife, and when they rode away together on the Gray Wolf’s back, he already felt that she belonged to him.

The journey was all too short, and soon Tsar Afron’s palace loomed before them.

“Why are you weeping?” the Gray Wolf inquired, as their tears splashed on his head. Queen Helen could make no answer, but Prince Ivan’s words poured forth like a raging flood.

“How can we help it, Gray Wolf,” he cried, “since we love each other, and I must resign my beautiful queen to the stern Tsar Afron, or else be branded before all nations as a robber and a thief?”

“I have kept my promise, Prince Ivan,” said the Gray Wolf, “and served you well, but I will do more for you still. By means of magic known to myself alone, I, the Gray Wolf, will take the form of beautiful Queen Helen. You shall leave the real queen here, in the shade of this grove of pine trees, and when you have taken Tsar Afron his strange wolf bride, who will appear to him as a lovely woman with golden hair, he will give you the gold-maned horse. Bid him farewell as quickly as you can, and, taking your queen behind you, ride swiftly toward the west. When I have given you time to journey far, I will ask Tsar Afron to let me walk with my maidens in the woods. Then, if you call me to your mind, I shall disappear, from their midst even as they watch me, and join you and your queen.”

Prince Ivan once more did as the Gray Wolf said, and great was the delight of the Tsar Afron as he beheld the tall and gracious woman whom the prince presented to him. She was even more beautiful than he had imagined from her picture, and he would have given not only his gold-maned horse, but his crown as well, to her captor had he desired it. Prince Ivan, however, asked nothing but the gold-maned horse, and was soon speeding across the plains with the real Queen Helen nestling against his side. He rode toward the west, where lay the kingdom of Tsar Dolmat.

Tsar Afron was more than content with his wolfish bride, who was not alarmed by his fierce caresses, and only smiled when he threatened to kill her if her love for him should waver for a single instant. On the fourth day after their marriage feast she complained of feeling stifled in the royal palace.

“If I might walk in the meadows,” she said, “the breath of the cool fresh air would refresh my spirit, and I could once more laugh with my lord.”

So the tsar allowed her to walk with her maidens. Just at this time the thought of the Gray Wolf flashed into Prince Ivan’s head.

“I had forgotten him,” he exclaimed remorsefully to his dear wife. “What is he doing, I wonder? I wish we had him here.”

He had no sooner spoken than there came a clap of thunder from the distant hills, and the Gray Wolf suddenly appeared.

“You must let the queen ride the gold-maned horse alone,” he told the prince, “and I will be your steed.”

Somewhat reluctantly, the prince accepted his suggestion, and in this manner they rode to the verge of Tsar Dolmat’s capital. The kindly looks of the Gray Wolf emboldened the prince to ask him another favor.

“Since you can change yourself into a beautiful woman, and then back again into a Gray Wolf, could you not become for a time a gold-maned horse, so that I might give you to Tsar Dolmat, and keep the real one for my dear queen?”

The Gray Wolf readily assented, and striking his right paw three times in succession on a patch of bare earth, became the exact image of the gold-maned horse who bore the fair Queen Helen. Leaving the real horse with his bride in a flower-strewn meadow outside the city, Prince Ivan rode on to the tsar. He was greeted by that monarch with every sign of joy, for the mane of the Gray Wolf-horse shone in the sunshine like purest gold. The tsar kissed Prince Ivan on either cheek, and leading him to his palace, gave him a royal feast. For three whole days they reveled in the choicest wines and the richest viands the kingdom could supply, and on the third, Tsar Dolmat rewarded the prince with many thanks, and the gift of the Magic Bird in her golden cage.

Prince Ivan felt now that his quest was over, and quickly regaining Queen Helen’s side, he fastened the cage of the Magic Bird round the neck of the gold-maned horse, and rode with her toward his father’s kingdom. Early the next afternoon they were joined by the Gray Wolf; Tsar Dolmat had ridden his newly acquired treasure in an open field, and had been heavily thrown for his pains by the false horse, which had then galloped away.

As the Gray Wolf had been so good a friend to him, Prince Ivan could not refuse his request when he asked to be allowed to carry him, so once more the queen alone sat on the gold-maned horse.

Thus they rode on until they came to the place where the Gray Wolf had slain the horse which Prince Ivan had brought from his father’s stable. Here the strange creature came to a sudden stop.

“I have done all that I said, and more,” he told the prince. “Now I am your servant no longer. Farewell!” And he galloped back to the gloomy wood from which he had first come.

Prince Ivan’s sorrow at parting with him was very real, but in the pleasure afforded by the queen’s company he soon forgot his loss. When he came within sight of his father’s realm, he stopped by the shade of a belt of fir trees, and placing the cage of the Magic Bird and the golden bridle beneath their shade, he lifted down his beautiful queen, and rested with her on a bank of fern. They were weary after their long journey, and soon, talking together softly as ring-doves coo in their nests, both fell asleep.

Now Prince Dimitri and Prince Vasili had fared badly on their travels, and were returning to the palace, empty-handed, and sadly out of temper, when they caught sight of the reclining forms of the two sleepers, with the gold-maned horse browsing close beside them. As they stared in amazement, an evil spirit of envy took possession of them, and there presently entered into their minds the thought of killing their brother. Each looked at the other, and then Prince Dimitri drew his sword, and ran it through Prince Ivan as he slept; he died without a murmur, and when the queen awoke, she found him lifeless.

“What is this you have done?” she sobbed to the guilty princes. “If you had met him in fair fight, and slain him thus, he might at least have struck a blow in self-defense. But you are cowards and dastards, fit only for ravens’ food!”

In vain she wept and protested, as the princes drew lots for their dead brother’s possessions. The queen fell to the keeping of Prince Vasili, and the gold-maned horse was adjudged to Prince Dimitri. In a passion of tears, the queen hid her face in her golden hair, as her would-be lord spoke roughly to her.

“You are in our power, fair Helen,” he said. “We shall tell our father that it was we who found you, the Magic Bird, and the gold-maned horse. If you deny our words, we will instantly put you to death, so look to it that you hold your tongue, and keep our counsel.”