Chapter II: Part 2

Immediately all the nurses looked to the sky to see the imaginary balloon, and while they were looking here and looking there, the Master Thief sprang to the opal perambulator, released the brake on the golden wheels, and, pushing the carriage ahead of him, ran like mad down the flower-bordered alleyways and out the garden gates to the highroad.

Across the landscape in a long straight line fled the Master Thief on his wonderful legs, pushing the perambulator all the while. Now they saw him bouncing it across furrowed fields, now they saw it speed like a jeweled boat through a sea of waving green grain, now they beheld it scattering the silly sheep in the upland wilds.

Presently the bells of the city set up the maddest ringing; foot soldiers were turned out on the roads, and squadrons of cavalry were sent galloping after; but all in vain--the jeweled carriage, blazing in the western glow, sped like a meteor over the land. The last they saw of it was a moving streak of light along the steep slope of a mountain, a light which gleamed for a moment on the crest like a large, misplaced, and iridescent star, and then swiftly sank from view.

When the Master Thief reached his secret haven in the valley, he shouted aloud for triumph, and swiftly wheeled the perambulator down to the museum. _The most magnificent perambulator in the world!_ Once more drawing forth the most comfortable chair, the Master Thief sank into it and contemplated his newest prize.

Suddenly, a strange sound, half cry, half gurgle caused him to sit bolt upright. Had someone discovered his secret treasury? What could it mean? And now there came a second cry which ended in a long protesting wail.

The Master Thief had stolen the invisible baby along with the carriage!

Now the notion of having to take care of a baby, of any baby, was a matter which might well alarm the Master Thief; but as for an _invisible_ baby, that was indeed a trial! All at once, however, the Master Thief slapped his knee and chuckled for joy--he had thought of the spell-dispeller! Holding aloft the brightest lantern in the world, the robber made his way to the little side-cavern in which he had placed the talisman.

His heart jumped. The spell-dispeller was gone!

Baffled and perplexed, the Master Thief began a nervous search of the little cavern; but never a sign of the spell-dispeller could he find. Vowing not to restore the Prince till he had found the talisman and tested its power, the Master Thief at length abandoned the search and carried the Prince through the caverns to his dwelling.

* * * * *

And now days passed, and months passed, and even years, without bringing to light the spell-dispeller. From an invisible infant the Prince grew to be an invisible boy, whose merry voice and friendly presence played about the house of the Master Thief like a capful of summer wind on a mountain lake.

Heigho, but after all it wasn’t so bad to be invisible! One could see things and find things hidden away from all other mortals; one could climb to the side of a bird’s nest, sit still, and watch the mother bird feed her young; one could dive, unseen, into the clear, cold pools of the mountain streams and pinch the lurking trout by their rippling tails; one could follow the squirrel to his secret granary!

Now, during the Prince’s fifteenth year, it came to pass that the Master Thief suddenly became ashamed of his wicked ways, so ashamed indeed that he resolved not only to forgo further _collecting_ but also to return every single thing he had stolen! The invisible Prince, I am glad to tell you, was of the greatest possible service to the Master Thief in this honest task. And now, all over the kingdoms of the world, people began to find their stolen possessions waiting for them when they came down to breakfast in the morning: the stuffed cat became once more the pride of the Blue Tower, the most interesting book went back to its place on the shelves of the royal library, the golden scroll of the funniest joke appeared as if by magic on the wall of the king’s own room. Alas for human waywardness, there were actually people who had grown so accustomed to the loss of their belongings that they reviled the Master Thief for their return. Dreadful to relate,--the style having changed,--the handsomest lamp-shade was actually tossed in a well!

At the end of the fifth year, the opal perambulator and the invisible Prince were the only two stolen things left to return. The invisible youth was twenty years old. With a sorrowful heart, for the youth was as dear to him as a son, the repentant Master Thief began preparations to restore prince and perambulator to the unhappy parents.

Now it came to pass that, on the morning of departure, the Master Thief descended for the last time to the forlorn and dusty corridors of his great museum and walked about the galleries, leaving footprints in the dust and musing on the glories that had been. Here had stood the shiniest rubber-plant, here the most beautiful hat-rack, here the only eraser which had never rubbed a hole in the paper. A tear gathered in his eye. He had loved them; he had stolen them; he had restored them; he was free!

All at once his glance, roving empty shelves, fell on a tiny box wedged in a sombre corner. With a loud shout of joy, the Master Thief recognized the spell-dispeller! It had fallen behind a shelf and had lain there concealed for almost twenty years! Thrusting it into his pocket’s depth, the Master Thief bounded up the secret stairs to the joy of the sun.

After a pleasant rambling journey in a huge coach, the Master Thief and the invisible Prince reached the city at the twilight hour, and took lodgings at a quiet, comfortable inn. The invisible Prince, I must remind you, was still invisible.

Now it came to pass that when supper had been served and eaten, the Master Thief and the invisible Prince went for a stroll through the royal city. Much to the surprise of the travelers, they found the city hung with streamers and bunting of the gayest kind. Stranger still, in spite of this display, the citizens of the royal city appeared to be particularly out of spirits.

“Good host,” said the Master Thief to the landlord of the inn, “pray what means this air of jubilee? Do you make merry for some kingly festival?”

“A festival, yes,” replied the host, looking about to see if anyone were listening, “festival it is, but only in name. Have you not heard the news? Let us walk a little to one side and I will tell you the story.

“Three years ago our gracious sovereign, the good King Valdoro the Fourth--weary of the cares of state and still stricken to the heart by the loss of his son, the invisible Prince of whom you may have heard--gave over the guidance of the kingdom to the Marquis Malicorn. Last week this official made himself master of the royal power, imprisoned our dear King and Queen in a dark tower, and proclaimed himself successor to the throne. The coronation is to be held to-morrow afternoon in the great hall of the royal palace. Alas for the people and the nation! Oh, if the invisible Prince would only return!”

To this the Master Thief nodded his head, his busy brain plotting all the while. All at once he smiled. He had devised a plan.

And now it was once more the great hall of the castle, and once more a sunny afternoon. Bells rang, but their cry was wingless and leaden, and there was a dull and joyless note in the cannon’s roar. Crowded as densely together as ever they were twenty years before, the magnificoes sullenly awaited the arrival of the usurper and his train.

Presently the portals were once more swept apart, revealing Malicorn and his followers. Not a sound rose from the assembly.

Growling for rage beneath a huge pair of dragoon’s whiskers, the wicked Marquis made his way to the dais and the coronation chair. The noise of bells and cannon ceased. An official in blue advanced with the royal robe.

Just as he was about to throw it over the waiting shoulders of the usurper, an invisible something snatched the robe from him and, lo, it melted into the air!

Exceedingly angry, yet disturbed at heart, Malicorn hoped for better luck with the sceptre, but this, too, was snatched by an invisible hand. As for the royal crown, it vanished from its purple cushion in the twinkling of an eye.

Speechless with rage, Malicorn now rose to his feet, and stood before the throne, glaring about into the air. Cries of defiance, mingled with shouts of derision, rose from among the magnificoes. And now, even as the turmoil was at its height, the Master Thief, who had been concealed behind some curtains, strode boldly forth to the dais, thrust Malicorn aside with a sweep of his long arms, and shouted to the audience:--

“Magnificoes of the Realm, you came to see your King. Your rightful King is here. Would you behold him?”

“Yes!” shouted the assembly in one voice. And now the Master Thief touched the invisible Prince with the spell-dispeller.

The instant he did so a flash of deep golden light set everyone blinking, fairy music was heard, and suddenly the invisible Prince stood visible before the throne. He was tall, dark-haired, brown-eyed, and a bit slim, and the crown was on his head, the robe on his shoulders, and the sceptre in his hand.

And now the bells and cannon began to boom in real earnest, and a gay breeze came sweeping in to toss the flags and banners that had hung so still. Overcome by emotion, the generalissimo seized the Lord Chancellor by the waist and swung him into a jig, the soldiers all tossed their caps into the air and cheered like mad, whilst the organist became so excited that he began to play two tunes at once. Everybody was laughing and hallooing and hurrahing.

As for Malicorn and his crew, they were tumbling out the back door as fast as their legs could carry them, and nobody has seen them from that day to this.

Presently the old King and the Queen, released from the dark tower, came hurrying in to greet their son.

“He resembles you, my dear,” whispered the King to the Queen.

The Master Thief was forgiven everything.

Singing and rejoicing, the people of the city poured from the houses into the sunny streets.

Clang, clang! Boom! Clang, clang! Boom, boom! Boom! Boom!

And they all lived happily ever after.

THE TWO MILLERS

Once upon a time, in a pleasant country of meadows sweeping seaward from wooded inland heights, there were two millers and two mills. If you came to the country in a ship, you saw the windmill first, for it was built upon a tongue of land rising above the wide salt meadows and the washing midnight-tides; but if you came to the country by the land, it was the water mill you saw, for it stood beside the highway in the valley of a brooklet rushing to the sea.

Now the wind-miller, who was a great tall man with blue eyes and fair hair, had a daughter named Cecily, whilst the water-miller, who was a little nimble man with a red face and crisp, black curls, had a son named Valentine. And because both the millers were merry men, and there was a plenty of grain for both the mills to grind, these millers were excellent cronies, and the maiden Cecily had been betrothed to the young man Valentine.

Every eve, when the day’s task at the water mill had been brought to an end, the gates lowered, and the brooklet turned free to rush unhindered down the glen, Valentine would walk from his wooded hills to the headland by the sea, and call at the mill for Cecily. The nights were often still, and the golden shield of the moon, rising over the hilly woods, gleamed upon the curling foam of the little long waves, and filled their glassy hollows with her light.

Now it befell that as Valentine and Cecily walked by the shore on such a night, they heard from the hollow of the hills a faint and far-off rumble like the echoing of thunder. Such mysterious sounds were forever rising in the hills, and because no one could tell whence they came, a legend had grown up that somewhere in the forest depths there dwelt a hidden someone, known as the Husbandman of the Hills.

“Listen, Valentine,” said Cecily, “the Husbandman of the Hills is closing the door of his barn. Think you that some day a mortal may find him in his hiding-place in the hills?”

“But suppose it were naught but an idle tale?” said the merry youth, with a smile.

“Oh no, Valentine,” said the maiden seriously. “All my life long have I dwelt here on the shore, and heard the mysterious echoes from the hills. Sometimes the sound is of the lowing of cattle, sometimes of the threshing of grain, sometimes ’tis the creaking of a hay wain in a field. And always the old and wise tell of the Husbandman of the Hills. Some day a mortal will find the hidden Husbandman--do you but wait and see.”

It was the early summer now, and all went merry as a marriage bell. The heavy water-wheel turned with a rolling thunder and a sound of endless splashing; and the four arms of the windmill spun with a windy thrum and a clock-like clack from the rising of the wind to the calm of sundown and the eve.

And now, alas, events were at hand which were to shatter the plans of the two millers and wreck the hopes of Cecily and Valentine!

At the close of the harvest-tide, the Princess Celestia, only daughter of the King and Queen of the country, was going to be married. Now it chanced that the Queen, her mother, was famous in the land as a maker of cake, and presently this good lady promised her daughter a wedding cake so splendid and delicious that painters would beg to be allowed to paint its portrait, and poets to praise it in glorious and immortal song.

Yes, the Queen would make the cake with her own white hands, the batter should be mixed in a golden bowl with a golden spoon, the two best hens in the kingdom should be summoned to lay the eggs, the oven should have a door of diamonds, and as for the flour, that should come from the finest fields and the best mill in all the land.

“I know what I’ll do; I’ll offer a rich reward for the best flour,” said the good Queen. And calling the royal herald to her presence, she bade him summon all good millers to strive for the prize, and to bring of their new flour to the palace at the close of the harvest yield.

Now it chanced that the Queen’s herald, all dressed in blue-and-white and sounding a silver horn, came cantering first to the water-miller’s door.

“I should like to win that treasure,” said the water-miller to himself, musing in the doorway.

“After all, my flour _is_ better than the wind-miller’s meal. That treasure should be mine, must be mine. Yes, mine, mine, mine!”

Now it was the custom of the country for millers to visit the farms in midsummer, view the growing, green grain, and bargain with the husbandmen for the yield of the tossing fields. Suddenly the water-miller, coveting the treasure, determined to purchase all the standing grain, so that the wind-miller should not have any good grain to grind! And this he did, forgetting the while that the deed was sharp and unfriendly.

A day or two passed, and presently the wind-miller climbed to the saddle of his fat white steed, and rode away to buy his customary grain. Alas, there was none to be had. Every turn of the road disclosed new fields of grain, but every single ear was pledged to the miller by the brook!

At first--I must tell you--the wind-miller was more hurt than angry at his old crony’s trickery; but the more he thought of it the angrier he grew. Storming about the windmill in a rage, he gave a great roar for Cecily, and when the frightened maiden appeared before him, he bade her dismiss all thoughts of Valentine from her heart, and consider herself fortunate to be rid of the son of such a father.

The water-miller, however, was not to be outdone. The moment he heard of the wind-miller’s wrath, he too fell into a rage, and presently forbade Valentine, on pain of dismissal, so much as to look at the maiden Cecily.

And now the youth and the maiden were very sad indeed, for in spite of the strife between their fathers, they continued to love each other very much. Presently Valentine could endure it all no more, and stole away one night to have a word with Cecily.

The mill brook was babbling in the dark when Valentine returned to the mill, and a single light was burning in a window by the door. Opening the portal gently, the youth presently discovered his father seated on the stair clad in a flowered nightcap and a long white dressing-gown.

“Valentine,” said the water-miller in a voice deep as the bottom of a well, “where have you been?”

“I’ve been to the windmill to see Cecily,” said Valentine truthfully and bravely.

“Sirrah!” cried the water-miller, shaking with such temper that his flowered nightcap trembled on his head. “Did I not forbid you to go to the windmill, on pain of being turned away from this my house? Go!” And the angry water-miller pointed a level finger out into the night.

“But, father,” protested Valentine.

“But me no buts,” thundered the miller. “Go, sirrah, for this house is yours no more.”

“But whither, father?” asked bewildered Valentine.

“That, sirrah, is your affair,” replied the angry miller. “Go anywhere you please; go find the Husbandman of the Hills!”

And with this last bit of advice, the wrathful water-miller pushed his son out of the mill and drew the long, grinding bolt across the door. A moment later the single light went out, and the mill was dark.

And now Valentine, in search of shelter for the night, sought out a farm in the gloom of the wooded hills. Leaving the broad white road, he followed first a country lane, then a pathway winding through a great woodsy mire, and then another lane, softly carpeted with moss and last year’s fallen leaves.

A star fell from the twinkling heavens; a hunting owl hooted in a tree. Ever so far away a silver bell struck the midnight hour.

Suddenly Valentine knew that he had followed a strange path, and was lost in the heart of the hills. It was a very strange path indeed, for the trees and the brambles along it seemed to have grown together in the dark, and pressed forward to form a thick imprisoning wall.

Uneasy at heart, the youth now turned to retrace his steps, only to see that the same mysterious trees had risen up behind!

Hours passed. Stars that were high in the heavens vanished over treetops in the east, a silvery dawn began to pale, and there were chirps and stirs and peeps and feathery noises in the wood. At the rising of the sun, Valentine arrived at the farm of the Husbandman of the Hills.

Now the Husbandman of the Hills--I must tell you--was the farmer of the fairies. It was from this farm in the hills that the goblins of the mountain-tops, the elves of the silver river, and the peoples of the fairy kingdoms of the world had their apples and clotted cream, their cherries and plums, and their butter-pats stamped with a crown.

The fairy farm lay in a green vale, magically walled about with briery trees. Only at the midnight minute could the wall be passed, and Valentine had chanced to cross it at the sixth stroke of the bell.

And now Valentine found himself made welcome by the Husbandman and his lady, the Goodwife of the Hills. The Husbandman was old; his face was ruddy and his hair silvery white, and in a smock of blue with a white collar was he clad. His spouse was elderly too, and wore a gown of green with short old-fashioned sleeves, a white housekeeper’s-apron, and a cap with ribbons and frills.

I wish I had time to tell you of how the long summer passed at the farm of the fairies--of the brewing, the baking, and the churning; and of how the green elves came to cut the grain with silver scythes no longer than your arm; of how a very young giant, who had a pleasant smile and was as tall as a tree, came to pitch the hay into the barn; of how the orchard goblins came to gather the wonderful apples into baskets of silver and gold; and of the enchanted bear who wore yellow spectacles and turned the butter churn.

Presently the leaves, though green, began to rustle dryly on the trees, and Valentine began to long for his own again.

“You have been a faithful laborer,” said the old Husbandman of the Hills. “A reward is yours. What shall it be?”

“But I seek no reward,” said Valentine, “for you gave me shelter, when shelter I had none.”

“A brave answer,” said the old Husbandman with a smile. “But you have earned your wage, good friend. I’ll give you _a wish_. Be in no haste to use it. And guard it well!”

And now Valentine turned from the vale, passed the magic bound at midnight, and found himself once more in an old, familiar pathway of the wood.

* * * * *

The autumn had been a rainless one, and the water-miller was having forty fits.

The mill brook was running dry!

Already there was scarce water enough to stir the heavy wheel. Another week without rain, and the bed of the brook would be naught but a length of puddles and pools. And the fine golden grain he had purchased was being threshed and winnowed, and would soon be arriving at the mill!

In and out of the door of the mill, a hundred times a day went the water-miller, now to stare at the vanishing brook, now to sweep the sky in hope of rain. But the dry leaves only rustled more dryly, and the sun was bright.

Worse yet, the Princess Celestia’s wedding day was fast approaching, and the Queen would soon be calling for her flour. And sure enough, the Queen’s herald presently rode again through the land, summoning all good millers to bring of their new flour to the palace before sundown on the seventh day.

The following week was indeed an anxious one for the miller by the brook. Alas for his fortunes--not a single drop of rain fell either in the meadows or the hills, and the brook ran dry. You might as well have tried to turn the wheel with a pitcher of water as to turn it with the trickle which remained.

On the night of the sixth day, the water-miller, humbled in heart, rode over to the windmill to make his peace and ask a boon. He would ask the wind-miller to grind the wonderful golden grain, and offer him half of the grain as a reward.

Now the wind-miller had not forgotten the water-miller’s trickery; so he received his old crony with anything but a friendly air.

“Grind grain for you, sir?” said the wind-miller, standing with arms akimbo and feet apart, “yes, sir; but only on one condition, sir, and that is, sir, that you let me choose my half of the grain, sir.

“And hearken, sir, one thing more, sir. You must bring the grain to the windmill this very night, sir.”

Now it came to pass that, as the water-miller, hanging his head, went out into the night, Cecily saw him, and ran to ask him for news of Valentine. But the water-miller was himself troubled because of the absence of his son, and could give no new tidings to the maid.

Groaning many a regretful groan, the water-miller loaded his fine two-wheeled scarlet cart with sacks of golden grain, and carried it to the windmill door. It was a warm night. The water-miller unloaded the sacks, mopped his brow with a red bandanna handkerchief, and sighed.

What a fool he had been not to play fair! What a fool to send away his son!

When the water-miller had driven away, the triumphant wind-miller took a great iron lantern, and went down to see the grain. For a moment or two he stood motionless, chuckling at his unexpected victory. Presently he called to Cecily to gather all the lights and candles she could find, and place them round about.

And now, toiling in a great blaze of candlelight, the wind-miller slowly and carefully sifted out for himself the better half of the wonderful grain. The remaining half--which was good enough, but full of husks and dust--he set apart for his rival.

The dawn was breaking as he finished the task. Some of the candles were burned out, and the lanterns were smoke-begrimed and dim. Wearily rubbing the grain-dust from his eyes, the wind-miller trudged up the circular stair and tumbled into bed. He would grind the grain into flour as soon as he woke in the morn.

And on that same still, autumn dawn young Valentine came out of the fairy wood.

When the wind-miller woke, he woke with a start, for he had slept late, and the sun was high. How warm and misty-moisty it was! Good heavens--there wasn’t a breath of wind!

A ship drifted becalmed upon the glassy sea; a blue haze of wavy summer heat lay upon the meadows, and over the wooded hills hung a motionless mass of bluish cloud with a rim of silvery white. There was not even air enough to stir a dead leaf hanging by a thread.

In and out of the door of the mill, like one distracted ran the miller; he stood upon the balcony and stared about at the sky, the greeny-leaden sea, and the helpless ship; he lifted a moistened finger to the air.

Oh, for a wind!

And now a ship’s bell in the mill struck the eight strokes of high noon, and presently the water-miller came hurrying to the mill in his scarlet cart. A moment’s glance at the two halves of golden grain told him of the wind-miller’s counterstroke, and he ran upstairs into the mill room full of wrath.

“I brought you my grain to grind,” he shouted at the wind-miller, “and you have not done so. I shall take it all back again, do you hear?”

“Wait; you made a bargain with me,” answered the wind-miller.

“I tell you I am done with the bargain,” cried out the water-miller in a passion.

“I tell you a bargain’s a bargain,” shouted the wind-miller. “Touch yon grain if you dare!”

And now, I am sure, the old friends and cronies would have come to blows, had not Valentine and Cecily suddenly hurried and rushed between them.

“Good sirs,” said honest Valentine, “pray you stand apart and do each other no wrong. The brook is dry; the wind is gone; of what use then is this disputed grain? Were it not best, mayhap, to begin anew?”

“Dear father,” said pretty Cecily, “Will you give your share of the grain to me?”

“With all my heart,” said the wind-miller, who hated brawling.

“And will you give your share to me, father?” asked Valentine.

“Yes, and gladly,” said the water-miller.

“Heart’s thanks to you both, good sirs,” said the youth with a bow and the maid with a courtesy. “And now,” continued Valentine, “you shall all behold a great wonder.

“O Husbandman of the Hills, you gave me a wish for a wage. Grant it to me now! I wish for a fine windmill-wind to blow till sundown of this day.”

Out of the hills came the wind. It swept up an inland dust, it sent the leaves on the higher crests a-flying, it rushed over the hot sea-scented meadows, it surged about the mill--and the great arms gathered it, creaked, groaned, and began a-spinning.

Valentine poured a shower of grain down an oaken slide into the grinding thunder of the heavy stones. The grain fell between the upper and the nether wheel, and presently the finest of new flour was pouring down below. And this new flour the three millers shook and sifted and cleansed until it was worthy of the Queen’s own hands, the golden batter-bowl, and the Princess Celestia’s cake. So wonderful indeed was the flour, that it instantly gained the rich reward the Queen had offered as a prize, and won for Valentine the appointment of miller to the King.

Touched by the happiness of their children, I am glad to say, the two millers agreed to forget their strife. And they shook hands, and became cronies again.

On the day following the wedding of the Princess Celestia, Valentine and Cecily were married. The little Princess sent them two thick slices of her cake. It was as white as snow, and frosted with sugar, and there were candied plums, and cherries, and citron nibbles in each slice.

And Valentine and Cecily rejoiced, and lived happily together all their days.

THE ADAMANT DOOR

Once upon a time, on a fine spring morning, a country lad named Hugh took his fish pole from a corner and went to try his luck in a brook beside the road. Now it fortuned that as he stood upon the grassy bank, casting about in the broad shallows of the stream, the boy heard the mighty sound of many men singing together, and presently he beheld a regiment of soldiers on the march. In uniforms of red-and-white they were clad, and an officer in red-and-white and gold was riding at their head.

And now the regiment came to a halt, and broke ranks beside the brook. With shouts and cries the young soldiers hurried to the water, opened their gay coats at the throat, and washed the dust from their sunburnt faces; the sergeants gathered and gossiped by themselves; the horse of the guiding officer sucked up great mouths of water, looked about, and blew the spray from his nostrils; and here and there a man helped a comrade with his pack.

“How splendid it must be to be a soldier!” thought Hugh as he gazed upon the merry company. And, hurrying home to his mother as fast as his legs could carry him, he begged so eagerly for permission to enlist, that at length he won her consent and followed the marching men.

And now the lad Hugh was himself a soldier of the realm with a red-and-white uniform like unto the others, a pack for his back, and a shiny leather hat with a shiny silver star. Soon he knew what it was to lie upon the ground and shiver in a blanket, and to watch the rolling stars, and hear the night wind cry.

Now it chanced that there was another young soldier of Hugh’s age enlisted in the company, and with this lad, whose name was Jocelyn, Hugh presently became the best of friends. This Jocelyn was a mountaineer and was slender and yellow-haired; whilst Hugh was a lad of the plain and was sturdy of frame and dark. And because these two lads were the youngest of the company and were loyal friends, they marched down the highway side by side and shared together the good and ill of life.

Now it came to pass upon a summer’s night, as the soldiers lay encamped in fields by the royal city, that the great bell of the King’s palace broke the quiet of the stars with a loud and unending clangor of alarm. It was late, the watch fires had almost burned away, and the soldiers, waking in the dark, seized upon their arms and wondered at the din. All at once, with a thunder of hoofs, a messenger from the city came spurring in with the news that war was at hand, and that the regiment must break camp on the instant and speed to the borders of the realm. Presently fresh branches tossed upon the embers filled the camp with the light of flames, and bugle calls rang through the tumult and the clanging of the bell.

Left! Right! Left! Right! And the soldiers were marching to the wars. They came to ancient hamlets in the night, and found soldiers of other companies already sleeping in the barns; they marched through lonely forests, and warmed their noonday meal with a blaze of twigs and fallen boughs; they marched singing through the fields of golden grain. Soon the villages and the fields grew rare, a silence fell upon the land, and the regiment found itself at the edge of a vast and lonely moor. Regiments without number were there encamped, and their bivouac fires gleamed at night like a thousand scattered stars.

Leagues away, on barren hills rising to the north, were to be seen the fires of the foe.

And now it was the morn of battle: a red sun was rising above the brown hills and hollows of the moor, the air was sluggish, and flat gray clouds lay motionless and low. Tarantara! Tarantara! went the bugles, regiment after regiment came marching to its post, the plain shook to the tramp of feet, the horsemen gathered behind, the drums began to sound, the men in red-and-white marched down to the moor, and presently the great hollow of the waste rang like a brazen cup with the beginning tumult of the fray.

The soldiers of the enemy were clad in black-and-white, and wore shiny leather hats with shiny golden stars.

The young comrades marched into battle side by side. And even as a branch, thrust gently from the bank of a racing river, first moves slowly in calm waters by the edge of the stream and then is caught up and tossed about by the wild mid-torrent, so did the great tide of the battle catch up Jocelyn and Hugh. They fought as in a dream, scarce knowing what they did.

Now it came to pass that, at the storming of a grassy hillock of the moor, Hugh was taken prisoner by the men in black-and-white, but was bravely rescued by Jocelyn who fought his way undaunted to his side. Presently the enemy yielded the disputed hill, and the company in red-and-white made ready to hold it for their own.

The day waned; a tide of dark and threatening cloud rose over the horizon to the east, and a cold wind rode before it, bringing rain. All at once a wild and terrible storm burst over the battle on the moor; and, under cover of the thunder and confusion, the men in black-and-white strove to regain the hillock for their own. A bellowing wind whipped the heavy rain in the soldiers’ eyes, and it was very hard to see.

Now it fortuned that, in the dark of the storm and the tumult of the fray, the boy Hugh became separated from his comrades and suddenly found himself out of the battle, and wandering quite alone. Night was rushing on, the din of the combat was muffled in the roaring of the rain, and the young soldier scarce knew where to go.

Now it was his duty to return to the battle, seek out his comrades, and fight beside them to the end. Alas, so weary and shaken was the soldier lad that he made no effort to return to his hard-pressed friends, but fled away from the battle through the dark! Presently the all but roofless ruin of a shepherd’s hut appeared ahead, and Hugh took refuge within it from the battle and the storm.

All night long he lay there on the stones of the floor, sunken in a shivering sleep; but the dawn woke him at last, and he crept to a window to look forth upon the moor.

All was still. The battle was lost. The men in black-and-white were encamped upon the nearer hillocks of the moor, and a company of their horse was guarding a square of some hundred men in white-and-red.

Suddenly the runaway soldier heard the beat of a distant drum and, gazing through a cranny of the ruined house, beheld a number of prisoners marching by, forlorn. A triumphant dragoon in black-and-white was riding at their head; the drummer of his own company followed close behind, mournfully beating his drum; and then, trudging wearily on, appeared the good comrades whom he had deserted in their need. And Jocelyn walked among them bareheaded, with his arms tied behind him at the wrist.

And now the dark waters of sorrow and shame welled up in the heart of the runaway soldier, and he wept bitterly that he had failed to return into the fray. He would have leaped from the house and taken his place with his comrades, save that he could not bear that they should know of his flight.

Now it came to pass, when the drum-beats had faded into the silence of the moor, that Hugh discovered a shepherd’s smock and wide-brimmed hat hanging on a peg, and abandoned his uniform for these. Thus clad, he fled from the hut in the dead of night and made his escape across the moor. Because of the triumph of the enemy, he dared not return into his own land, but fled to a kingdom in the west.

Presently he came upon a village lying at the foot of a hill crowned with a ruined tower, and there took service in the harvest fields.

As for Jocelyn and his comrades, they were marched into the enemy’s country, thrust into dungeons, and held for ransom, one and all.

* * * * *

Now it fortuned that one noontide, as Hugh rested with fellow laborers in the greenwood shade, he asked them of the ruined castle on the hill.

“Yon castle,” said a big harvester with an important air, “was built centuries ago by an old knight who was known throughout the land as a magician. A treasure lies hid within, but none dare seek it; for those who do--”

“Never come back!” croaked another harvester, a little lean man with thin legs and large red ears.

“Once there was a brave adventurer who went to seek the treasure,” said a man with long, uncut, locks and a pointed nose. “We watched him climb the hill, we saw him enter the castle, and all at once we heard--”

“A terrible yell!” said the big harvester and the red-eared man together.

“And he never came back,” said somebody else, shaking his head.

“Bless us,” cried Hugh, “but what do you suppose it is that guards the treasure?”

“Well, if you ask me, I’ll tell you,” said the big harvester; “it’s a trigorgon.”

“A trigorgon?” questioned Hugh. “And pray, sir, what is a trigorgon?”

“A trigorgon is a creature that has only three legs,” continued the big harvester. “It’s triangular and flattish, the one leg being at the front under the long neck, the two legs riding behind. Short, thick, elephant-like legs, body like a turtle, double rows of teeth, violent disposition. I’ve read of it in a book.”

“Bother your book,” cried red-ears. “The trigorgon you describe, my good sir, is quite impossible. A trigorgon has its two legs in front, and its one leg behind. A neck has got to have shoulders to rest on, hasn’t it? You see, young man, the trigorgon uses its one hind leg to push itself ahead at a frightful speed. I know!”

“How do you know?” asked the big harvester with some displeasure.

“Because the seventh son of a seventh son’s great-grandmother told me!” exclaimed red-ears triumphantly.

“Bother your seventh son’s great-grandmother!” shouted the big harvester. “Now, my book had large print and most wonderful pictures!”

“Pish!” said red-ears.

“Tush for you and your seventh son of a seventh son’s great-gran--”

“My friends! My friends!” interposed pointed-nose. “Why quarrel over this absurd trigorgon? You are both wrong. The castle is haunted by a thith, a terribly dangerous thith. All over the land they say it’s a thith.”

“Who say?” questioned the big harvester.

“They say,” replied pointed-nose.

“Bother they, and all they say,” shouted the big harvester, forgetting his grammar. “It’s a trigorgon!”

“It’s a thith!” shrieked pointed-nose.

And now began a tremendous uproar in which everybody took part, some agreeing with the big harvester, some with red-ears, and some with pointed-nose. A few who disbelieved in both the trigorgon and the thith stood disdainfully to one side, but suddenly they too began to quarrel violently among themselves as to whether the castle was haunted by a mistophant, a winged bogus, a bristly whiskeroarer or an ugsome vrish. So bitter grew the strife that presently red-ears and pointed-nose fell to fisticuffs and were separated with great difficulty by their fellow-harvesters.

“A treasure!” said Hugh to himself. “Ah, if I could but find it, I would ransom Jocelyn and the comrades.” And with an uneasy heart, he thought of the trigorgon, the thith, the winged bogus, the snarling whiskeroarer, the mistophant, and the vrish.

How terrible it would be to meet creatures so awful that no human being had dared to see them! But Jocelyn and the comrades whom he had failed in their hour of peril on the moor, what of them? They were prisoners in the land of the foe; with the treasure of the castle he could ransom them--was he to fail them again?

All at once the runaway young soldier threw back his shoulders bravely and lifted his eyes to the sky. He would seek the treasure on the morrow’s morn.

The sun was shining brightly, a cold dew was still glistening on the leaves, and the villagers had gathered by the public well to speed Hugh on his way. Shaking their heads doubtfully and mournfully, they watched him go swinging down the road and disappear into the trees upon the hill. Presently the glint of his blue smock began to be seen here and there along the climbing path, close by the summit of the mount. A little anxious time passed, and suddenly there rang from the ruin a long, wild howl.

“There, the trigorgon has got him,” said the big harvester.

“You mean the giant thith,” pointed-nose corrected.

I am glad to tell you, however, that they were both wrong. This is what had happened at the ruin.

Now Hugh had carried an ancient lantern with him from the village, and halfway up the hill he paused, cut a likely branch from an ash, and fashioned himself a stout and serviceable staff. Thus armed, he arrived at the great gate of the ruin, and forced his way through the thorn trees by the portal into the roofless square of the walls. There were trees there, too, and though the leaves were still green, every now and then one went drifting through the silence to the ground. In the heart of the wooded court, a broad flight of steps, overgrown with moss and shrubs of shallow root, led down into a darkness far below.

Grasping his cudgel firmly, Hugh descended the woodsy stair. The sunlight disappeared behind, the green moss grew no more, and clumps of leathery toadstools burst from the muddy crannies of the stone. Suddenly the runaway soldier found himself facing a giant pointed door of blackest adamant. Over the arch of it, in letters of ancient form, was carved a legend saying:--

He who would share the treasure
must conquer a mighty foe within

Behind the door something was roaring and roaring. “’Tis surely the trigorgon,” thought Hugh, his heart pounding at his ribs. Summoning up all his courage, the runaway soldier threw back the adamant door.

The instant he did so, the roaring rose to a howling shriek, and a gust of the storm wind, magically imprisoned in the caves of the hill, went whistling out of the adamant door and up the tunnel of the stairway to the sun. It was this cry of the imprisoned gust which had made them shake their heads in the village below.

And now Hugh bravely set foot into the darkness and, holding his twinkling light at arm’s length ahead, advanced to meet the mighty foe within. Through great halls he fared, and heard queer noises which he took to be the steps of the trigorgon, but were only the echoes of his own steps tapping in the dark; through long tunnels he trod, and heard breathings and whispers which he took to be the sighs of the thith, but were only the echoes of a chuckling brook, flowing somewhere in the wall. On and on went Hugh, and laughed a little to himself when he mistook two shining points of stone for the eyes of the winged bogus, and a monstrous round rock for the bulk of the mistophant.

After a while, I am glad to tell you, he even ceased turning around now and then to see if he were being followed by the whiskeroarer or the vrish.

Presently Hugh began to hear the queerest tinkling-clinking ringing sound, unbroken in its flow as the trilling of a stream. A moment later the youth opened a second pointed door and stood in a lighted chamber, staring at a _fountain of money_.

The chamber was high and square; its roof and walls were of blackest adamant, twinkly-bright with specks of yellow gold, and a magic, ever-burning lamp of adamant hung from above, yielding a golden light. In the height of the further wall a great fountain-like opening there was, framed in a golden star, and through this there poured a ringing cataract of coins of yellow gold! Below the shower of money, a semicircular basin, raised above the floor on pillars strangely carved, received the golden flood and lay full to the brim of clinking pieces of gold rising, falling, tossing, and washing about like waters in a pool. About the brim of the fountain there ran a sculptured band of stone whereon men were shown engaged in honorable labor--the farmer scattered the seed, the harvester gathered the grain, the smith labored at his forge, and a master workman carved a fair statue from a block of faultless stone.

And Hugh, pausing to look at the pieces of gold, saw that they were of ancient years and sealed with the seal of old, forgotten kings.

Now it came to pass that, when Hugh had filled his pockets and his hat with gold, he discovered a third adamant door leading from the chamber and, passing through it, found himself blinking in the sunlight on the further side of the hill. Strange to say, in the wall of stone behind him there was never a sign or appearance of a door!

But the mighty foe within--what could it be? He had seen nothing of the trigorgon, the thith, the winged bogus, the whiskeroarer, the mistophant, or the vrish. Yet the inscription had said that he must conquer a foe. Suddenly Hugh threw his hands into the air with a great merry shout; he had found the key to the mystery.

It was all a wise jest of the old knight. The foe to be conquered was fear, and “the mighty foe within” meant the host of silly fears which run and hide in the house of one’s heart. The treasure had been guarded against men by their own fears. Brave men, who sent fears hurrying and scurrying out of their hearts, alone were worthy of the prize.

As for the trigorgon, the thith, the winged bogus, the whiskeroarer, the mistophant, and the ugsome vrish, they had never existed, for they were not creatures, but silly, thoughtless imaginings and fears.

And now Hugh, with his pockets laden with gold, walked over the hills to the enemy’s land, and ransomed his comrade Jocelyn and the dear friends with whom he had marched to battle on the moor.

Presently a just and mighty emperor compelled both kingdoms to make peace, and the men in red-and-white and the men in black-and-white went home to their fields and their dear ones gathered by the fire.

And Hugh and Jocelyn shared the treasure together, and their farms lay side by side.

THE CITY OF THE WINTER SLEEP

Once upon a time, by the banks of a noble river flowing to the sea through a mountain-girdled plain, stood a city of the wisest people in the world. Instead of spending the winter as others did, huddled over smoky fires, freezing ears and noses, bundling themselves up in a pother of clothes, and being cross at breakfast, these sensible folk simply retired to their dwellings, locked their doors, drew down their curtains, put on their nightcaps, got into bed, and _slept the winter away_. The north wind howled there about the shuttered houses and woke no citizen from his dreams; in the empty market place and the silent streets, stainless and untrodden lay the snow. But when the leaves were the size of a mouse’s ear, and the singing birds had returned from their winter pilgrimage, the sleepy citizens would wake, rub their eyes, stretch their arms, and come yawning to open their windows on the sunlight and the spring.

The King of this remarkable city, I must tell you, had three children, the two elder of whom were sons and the youngest a daughter. Now, as occasionally happens, the two sons were models of royal deportment, whilst their sister, the slender, dark-haired, and dark-eyed Princess Theolette, was as wilful and spirited as a mountain bird.

Now, on a day when the year was growing old and only a few half-withered flowers were to be gathered in the fields, it chanced that Theolette, who had been idling about with little to do, took it into her head to pay a visit to the royal library. It was very quiet there, the red autumn sun was shining through the great windows, a million motes of dust danced in the broad and ruddy beam, and Theolette, curled in a huge red-leather easy-chair, had great difficulty in keeping awake. Presently her eyes lit upon a large green book entitled, _Winter Time_, and this Theolette took from its place and opened in her lap.

Somewhat to her disappointment, the print within the old book was in a foreign language, but the pictures--they would have kept anyone from sleeping! There were pictures of snowy mountain-tops, of bright, frozen lakes with people skating on them, of attacks on snow forts, of snowstorms in pleasant country villages, and of belfries agleam with snow beneath the moon. Now, although Theolette had never seen the winter or any snow or ice and could hardly make anything out of some of the pictures, she could see well enough that here was something strange, and new, and wonderful indeed. And then and there she resolved to run away during the winter sleep, see the winter world, and return before the city woke to the coming of the spring!

Shorter grew the golden days, and longer the still cold nights, and presently the great day of the winter sleep was at hand. A trumpeter, posted in the tower of dreams, at sunrise called the city to its last morn of waking life; and scarce had his last notes faded, ere a murmur of bustle and preparations began to rise from every household in the town.

At sunset, in accordance with ancient custom, the edict of sleep was read to the people from a balcony of the palace. This venerable law, I must tell you, summoned all good citizens to go to sleep, and recited the dreadful penalties prepared for all who should dare to stay awake. When the gathering had melted away, and the streets were empty save for a hurrying citizen or two on some belated errand, the gates were locked and the waters of the river turned into the moat about the town.

The enchanted chimes of sleep, which rang of themselves, were to sound at the midnight hour.

Little by little, the royal palace became as silent as a stone. A darkness of slumber and night filled the vast echoing halls, and from afar through the gloom came the faint tramp, tramp of the hob-nailed night-watch on the last round of the year.

After attending the ceremonial winter good-night of the royal family, Theolette hurried away to her own chamber.

“I mustn’t fall asleep now,” said she, clenching her fist, “because if I do, I’ll sleep until the spring!” And with a heart that went thump, thump, thump in the darkness, she waited the midnight hour.

Suddenly the first warning bell--_Nightcaps On!_--struck one great solemn rolling clang which swept out over the city and ebbed away humming to the stars.