Story 3.

Story 3.Chapter One.The Poetry Club.During one of my terms at G— (and in speaking of that famous old school it is quite unnecessary to mention more than the first letter of its name) a serious epidemic broke out. It affected chiefly the lower half of the upper school, and during the brief period of its duration it assumed so malignant a type that it is still a marvel to me how any one of its victims ever survived it. The medical and other authorities were utterly incompetent to deal with it. In fact—incredible as it may seem—they deliberately ignored its existence, and left the sufferers to pull through as and how they could. Had it been an ordinary outbreak, as, for instance, scarlatina or diphtheria, or even measles, they would have cleared the school between two “call-overs,” and had us all either in the infirmary or in four-wheelers at our parents’ doors. But just because they had not got this—the most destructive kind of all epidemics—down on their list of infectious disorders, they chose to disregard it utterly, and leave us all to sink or swim, without even calling in the doctor to see us or giving our people at home the option of withdrawing us from our infected surroundings.I love the old place too well to dwell further on this gross case of neglect. The present authorities no doubt would not repeat the error of their predecessors. Should they be tempted to do so, I trust the present harrowing revelation may be in time to avert the repetition of the calamity of which I was not only a witness but a victim.The fact is, in the term to which I allude, we fellows in the upper Fifth and lower Sixth took towriting poetry! I don’t know how the distemper broke out, or who brought it to G—. Certain it is we all took it, some worse than others; and had not the Christmas holidays happily intervened to scatter us and so reduce the perils of the contagion, the results might have been worse even than they were.Now, one poet in a school is bad enough; and two usually make a place very uncomfortable for any ordinarily constituted person. But at G— it was not a case of one poet or even two. There were twenty of us, if there was one, and we each of us considered our claim to the laurel wreath paramount. Indeed, like the bards of old, we fell to the most unseemly contentions, and hated one another as only poets can hate.It was my tragic lot to act as hon. secretary to the “Poetry Club,” which constituted the hospital, so to speak in which our disease worked out its course during that melancholy term. Why they selected me, it is not for me to inquire. Some of my friends assured me afterwards that it was because, having no pretensions or even capacity to be a poet myself, I was looked upon as the only impartial member of our afflicted fraternity. No doubt they thought it a good reason. Had I known it at the time I should have repudiated the base insinuation with scorn. For I humbly conceived that I was a poet of the first water; and had indeed corrected a great many mistakes in Wordsworth and other writers, and written fifty-six or fifty-seven sonnets before ever the club was thought of. And Stray himself, who was accounted our Laureate, had only written thirty-four, and they averaged quite a line less than mine!Be that as it may, I was secretary of the club, and to that circumstance the reader is indebted for the treat to which I am about to admit him. For in my official capacity I became custodian of not a few of the poetical aspirations of our members; and as, after the abatement of the disease, they none of them demanded back their handiwork—if poetry can ever be called handiwork—these effusions have remained in my charge ever since.Some of them are far too sacred and tender for publication, and of others, at this distance of time, I confess I can make nothing at all. But there lies a batch before me which will serve as a specimen of our talents, and can hardly hurt the feelings of any one responsible for their production.Our club, as I have said, was highly competitive in its operations. It by no means contented us each to follow his own course and woo his own muse. No, we all set our caps at the same muse and tried to cut one another out. If I happened to write an ode to a blackbird—and I wrote four or five—every one else must write an ode to a blackbird too; until the luckless songster must have hated the sound of its own name.It was no easy work finding fit subjects for these poetic competitions. But the papers lying here before me remind me at least of one which excited great interest and keen rivalry. Complaints had been made that the club had hitherto devoted itself almost altogether to abstract rhapsodies, and had omitted the cultivation of itself in the epic or heroic side of its genius. On the other hand, the abstract rhapsodists protested that any one could write ballads, and that the subject to be chosen should at least be such as would admit of any treatment. One member suggested we should try the fifth proposition of the first book of Euclid, as being both abstract and historical—but he was deemed to be a scoffer. Eventually Stray said, why not take a simple nursery rhyme and work upon it, just as musicians take some simple melody as the theme of their great compositions?It was a good idea, and after some consideration—for we had most of us forgotten our nursery rhymes—we fixed upon the tragical history of “Jack and Jill;” and decided to deal with it.The understanding was that we might treat it any way we liked except—notable exception—in prose!And so we went off to our studies and gave ourselves up to our inspirations. The result, the reader shall judge of for himself. Only he shall never know the real names of the poets; nor will anything induce me to disclose which particular production was the performance of the humble Author of this veritable narrative.I will select the specimens haphazard, and distinguish them only by their numbers.Number 1 was a follower of the classic models, and rendered the story in Homeric fashion.Attend, ye Nine! and aid me, while I singThe cruel fate of two whom heaven’s dread kingHurled headlong to their doom. Scarce had the sunHis blazing course for one brief hour runWhen Jack arose and radiant climbed the mountTo where beneath the summit sprang the fount.Nor went he single; Jill, the beauteous maid,Danced at his side, and took his proffered aid.Together went they, pail in hand, and sangTheir love songs till the leafy valleys rang.Alas! the fount scarce reached, the heedless swainTurned on his foot and slipped and turned again.Then fell he headlong: and the woe-struck maid,Jealous of his fell doom, a moment stayedAnd watched him; then to the depths she rushedAnd shared his fate. Behold them, mangled, crushed.Weep, oh my muse! for Jack, for Jill your tears outpour,For hand-in-hand they’ll climb the hill no more.After this somewhat severe version of the story it is a relief to turn to the lighter rendering of the same affecting theme by Number 2. Number 2 was evidently an admirer of that species of poetry which begins everything at the wrong end, and seems to expect the reader to assist the poet in understanding what it is the latter is driving at.What’s the matter, Jack? Lost your head, poor wight!I always told you the block wasn’t screwed on too tight.Tumbled? Is that it? It’s a mercy you lit on your head.Nothing brittle in that;—if you’d come on your feet instead—Broke it? No, never! You have? I knew it was slightly cracked:Never mind that there was nought to come out—that’s a comforting fact!What! two of you? Who is the other? Not Jill, I declare!Is her head cracked too? On my word, you’re a pair.Have I seen a pail lying about? Why, no, I have not.Pails don’t grow wild on this hill—that is, that I wot.Oh, you dropped it, you did? Oh, I see, ’twas your pail,And it tumbled you both o’er the rock? That’s your tale.It may turn up somewhere, perhaps. So you fellOff the edge of the path that leads up to the well?Well, all’s well that ends well, at least so ’tis said;But next time you’d better stay down, and try to fall uphill instead.Some of us at the time thought highly of this performance. I remember one fellow saying that Number 2 seemed to have caught the spirit of Mr Browning without his vagueness, which was a very great compliment.Number 3’s poetry ran chiefly in dramatic lines. He therefore boldly threw the narrative into dialogue form:—Shepherdess.—Alas, my Jack is dead!Shepherd.—I mourn for lovely Jill.Both.—A common fate o’ertook them on the hill.Shepherdess.—I watched them go—him and the hateful minx.Shepherd.—I smiled to mark his footsteps on the brinks.Both.—Cruel deceiver he/she! shameless intriguer she/he!Shepherdess.—’Twas she who lured him o’er the cruel ledge.Shepherd.—’Twas he who basely dragged her to the edge.Both.—Oh! faithless he/she! oh! monstrous traitor she/he!Shepherdess.—Her fate no tongue shall mourn, no eye shall weep;Shepherd.—His doom was all deserved upon the steep.Both.—Oh! hapless he/she! oh! wicked wicked she/he!Shepherdess.—Take warning, Shepherd; trust no faithless Jill.Shepherd.—Nor you, fair nymph, with Jack e’er climb a hill.Both.—Oh, woe is me! and woe, oh woe is thee!Shepherdess.—With thee, poor youth, I fain would shed a tear.Shepherd.—Maiden, with thee I’d sit and weep a year.Both.—Wouldst thou but smile, I too would dry mine eye; Nay, let’s do both, and laugh here till we cry.Number 4 was a specimen of the simple ditty style which leaves nothing unexplained, and never goes out of its course for the sake of a well-turned phrase.When Jack was twelve and Jill was tenTheir mother said, “My dear children,I want you both to take the pailWe bought last week from Mr Gale,And fill it full of water clear,And don’t be long away, do you hear?”Then Master Jack and Sister JillRaced gaily up the Primrose Hill,And filled the pail up to the top,And tried not spill a single drop.But sad to tell, just half way downJack tripped upon a hidden stone,And tumbled down and cut his headSo badly that it nearly bled.And Jill was so alarmed that she.Let drop the pail immediatelyAnd fell down too, and sprained her hand,And had to go to Dr BlandAnd get it looked to; while poor JackWas put to bed upon his back.Number 4 regarded his performance with a certain amount of pride. He said it was after the manner of Wordsworth, and was a protest against the inflated style of most modern poetry, which seemed to have for its sole object to conceal its meaning from the reader. We had a good specimen of this kind of writing from Number 5, who wrote in blank verse, as he said, “after the German.”I know not why—why seek to know? Is notAll life a problem? and the tiniest pulseBeats with a throb which the remotest starFeels in its orbit? Why ask me? Rather sayWhence these vague yearnings, whither swells this heart,Like some wild floweret leaping at the dawn?’Tis not for me, ’tis not for thee to tell,But Time shall be our teacher, and his voiceShall fall unheard, unheeded in the midst!Still art thou doubtful? Then arise and singInto the Empyrean vault, while IDrift in the vagueness of the Ambrosian night.We none of us dared inquire of Number 5 what was the particular bearing of these masterly lines upon the history of Jack and Jill. I can picture the smile of pitying contempt with which such a preposterous question would have been met. And I observe by the figures noted at the back of this poem that it received very few marks short of the highest award.Number 6 posed as democratic poet, who appealed to the ear of the populace in terms to which they are best accustomed.’Twas a lovely day in August, at the top of Ludgate HillI met a gay young couple, and I think I see them still;They were drinking at the fountain to cool their parching lips,And they said to one another, looking up between their sips—Chorus—I’d sooner have it hot, love; I’d rather have it hot;It’s nicer with the chill off—much nicer, is it not?They took a four-wheel growler for a drive all round the town,And told the knowing cabby not to let hisgee-geedown;But they’d scarcely got to Fleet Street when their off-hind-wheel wentbang,And they pitched on to the kerb-stone, while the crowd around themsang—Chorus—I’m glad you’ve got it hot, love; I’m pleased you’ve gotit hot;It’s nicer with the chill off—much nicer, is it not?Moral.Now all you gay young couples, list to my fond appeal,Beware of four-wheel growlers with spokes in their off-hind-wheel;And when you go up Ludgate Hill, all on a summer day,Don’t drink much at the fountain; or if you do, I say—Be sure and take it hot, love; be sure and take it hot;It’s nicer with the chill off—much nicer, is it not?This poem was not highly marked, although Number 6 confessed he had sat up all night writing it. He thought we had missed the underlying philosophy of his version, and was sorry for it. As he said, the first essential of a poem is that it should be read, and he believed no one could deny that he had at least written up to that requirement.There was a more serious moral hidden in Number 7’s version, which was stated to be on the models of the early sonnets:—Two lovers on one common errand bound,One common fate o’erwhelms; and so, me-seems,A fable have we of our daily round,Who in these groves of learning here are foundClimbing Parnassus’ slopes. Our aim is one,And one the path by which we strive to soar;Yet, truer still, or ere the prize be won,A common ruin hurls us to our doom.’Twere best we parted, you and I; so, Fate,Baulked of her double prey, may seek in vain,And miss us both upon the shadowy plain.The writer of Number 8 I always suspected of being a borrower of other people’s ideas. In fact it seemed as if he must have had “A Thousand and One Gems” open before him while he was at work, and to have drawn liberally from its pages.The way was long, the night was cold,And Jack and Jill were young and bold.“Try not the hill,” the old man said,“Dark lowers the tempest overhead.”A voice replied far up the height,“We’ve many a step to walk this night.”Ah, luckless speech! ah, bootless boast!Two minutes more and they were lost.Who would not weep for Jack and Jill?They died, though much against their will.And the birds of the air all fell sobbing and sighingAs they heard of these two unfortunates dying.The concluding line (which was the only original one in the poem) was specially weak, and Number 8, I observe, only received one vote, and that was probably given by himself.But, for originality and humour, Number 9’s version was the most distinguished of the lot. With it I conclude, and if I may express an unbiassed opinion, many years after the memorable contest, I consider it far and away the best version of the story of Jack and Jill I have ever met with.Jack and JillWent up a hillTo fetch a pail of water,Jack fell downAnd broke his crown,And Jill came tumbling after.

During one of my terms at G— (and in speaking of that famous old school it is quite unnecessary to mention more than the first letter of its name) a serious epidemic broke out. It affected chiefly the lower half of the upper school, and during the brief period of its duration it assumed so malignant a type that it is still a marvel to me how any one of its victims ever survived it. The medical and other authorities were utterly incompetent to deal with it. In fact—incredible as it may seem—they deliberately ignored its existence, and left the sufferers to pull through as and how they could. Had it been an ordinary outbreak, as, for instance, scarlatina or diphtheria, or even measles, they would have cleared the school between two “call-overs,” and had us all either in the infirmary or in four-wheelers at our parents’ doors. But just because they had not got this—the most destructive kind of all epidemics—down on their list of infectious disorders, they chose to disregard it utterly, and leave us all to sink or swim, without even calling in the doctor to see us or giving our people at home the option of withdrawing us from our infected surroundings.

I love the old place too well to dwell further on this gross case of neglect. The present authorities no doubt would not repeat the error of their predecessors. Should they be tempted to do so, I trust the present harrowing revelation may be in time to avert the repetition of the calamity of which I was not only a witness but a victim.

The fact is, in the term to which I allude, we fellows in the upper Fifth and lower Sixth took towriting poetry! I don’t know how the distemper broke out, or who brought it to G—. Certain it is we all took it, some worse than others; and had not the Christmas holidays happily intervened to scatter us and so reduce the perils of the contagion, the results might have been worse even than they were.

Now, one poet in a school is bad enough; and two usually make a place very uncomfortable for any ordinarily constituted person. But at G— it was not a case of one poet or even two. There were twenty of us, if there was one, and we each of us considered our claim to the laurel wreath paramount. Indeed, like the bards of old, we fell to the most unseemly contentions, and hated one another as only poets can hate.

It was my tragic lot to act as hon. secretary to the “Poetry Club,” which constituted the hospital, so to speak in which our disease worked out its course during that melancholy term. Why they selected me, it is not for me to inquire. Some of my friends assured me afterwards that it was because, having no pretensions or even capacity to be a poet myself, I was looked upon as the only impartial member of our afflicted fraternity. No doubt they thought it a good reason. Had I known it at the time I should have repudiated the base insinuation with scorn. For I humbly conceived that I was a poet of the first water; and had indeed corrected a great many mistakes in Wordsworth and other writers, and written fifty-six or fifty-seven sonnets before ever the club was thought of. And Stray himself, who was accounted our Laureate, had only written thirty-four, and they averaged quite a line less than mine!

Be that as it may, I was secretary of the club, and to that circumstance the reader is indebted for the treat to which I am about to admit him. For in my official capacity I became custodian of not a few of the poetical aspirations of our members; and as, after the abatement of the disease, they none of them demanded back their handiwork—if poetry can ever be called handiwork—these effusions have remained in my charge ever since.

Some of them are far too sacred and tender for publication, and of others, at this distance of time, I confess I can make nothing at all. But there lies a batch before me which will serve as a specimen of our talents, and can hardly hurt the feelings of any one responsible for their production.

Our club, as I have said, was highly competitive in its operations. It by no means contented us each to follow his own course and woo his own muse. No, we all set our caps at the same muse and tried to cut one another out. If I happened to write an ode to a blackbird—and I wrote four or five—every one else must write an ode to a blackbird too; until the luckless songster must have hated the sound of its own name.

It was no easy work finding fit subjects for these poetic competitions. But the papers lying here before me remind me at least of one which excited great interest and keen rivalry. Complaints had been made that the club had hitherto devoted itself almost altogether to abstract rhapsodies, and had omitted the cultivation of itself in the epic or heroic side of its genius. On the other hand, the abstract rhapsodists protested that any one could write ballads, and that the subject to be chosen should at least be such as would admit of any treatment. One member suggested we should try the fifth proposition of the first book of Euclid, as being both abstract and historical—but he was deemed to be a scoffer. Eventually Stray said, why not take a simple nursery rhyme and work upon it, just as musicians take some simple melody as the theme of their great compositions?

It was a good idea, and after some consideration—for we had most of us forgotten our nursery rhymes—we fixed upon the tragical history of “Jack and Jill;” and decided to deal with it.

The understanding was that we might treat it any way we liked except—notable exception—in prose!

And so we went off to our studies and gave ourselves up to our inspirations. The result, the reader shall judge of for himself. Only he shall never know the real names of the poets; nor will anything induce me to disclose which particular production was the performance of the humble Author of this veritable narrative.

I will select the specimens haphazard, and distinguish them only by their numbers.

Number 1 was a follower of the classic models, and rendered the story in Homeric fashion.

Attend, ye Nine! and aid me, while I singThe cruel fate of two whom heaven’s dread kingHurled headlong to their doom. Scarce had the sunHis blazing course for one brief hour runWhen Jack arose and radiant climbed the mountTo where beneath the summit sprang the fount.Nor went he single; Jill, the beauteous maid,Danced at his side, and took his proffered aid.Together went they, pail in hand, and sangTheir love songs till the leafy valleys rang.Alas! the fount scarce reached, the heedless swainTurned on his foot and slipped and turned again.Then fell he headlong: and the woe-struck maid,Jealous of his fell doom, a moment stayedAnd watched him; then to the depths she rushedAnd shared his fate. Behold them, mangled, crushed.Weep, oh my muse! for Jack, for Jill your tears outpour,For hand-in-hand they’ll climb the hill no more.

After this somewhat severe version of the story it is a relief to turn to the lighter rendering of the same affecting theme by Number 2. Number 2 was evidently an admirer of that species of poetry which begins everything at the wrong end, and seems to expect the reader to assist the poet in understanding what it is the latter is driving at.

What’s the matter, Jack? Lost your head, poor wight!I always told you the block wasn’t screwed on too tight.Tumbled? Is that it? It’s a mercy you lit on your head.Nothing brittle in that;—if you’d come on your feet instead—Broke it? No, never! You have? I knew it was slightly cracked:Never mind that there was nought to come out—that’s a comforting fact!What! two of you? Who is the other? Not Jill, I declare!Is her head cracked too? On my word, you’re a pair.Have I seen a pail lying about? Why, no, I have not.Pails don’t grow wild on this hill—that is, that I wot.Oh, you dropped it, you did? Oh, I see, ’twas your pail,And it tumbled you both o’er the rock? That’s your tale.It may turn up somewhere, perhaps. So you fellOff the edge of the path that leads up to the well?Well, all’s well that ends well, at least so ’tis said;But next time you’d better stay down, and try to fall uphill instead.

Some of us at the time thought highly of this performance. I remember one fellow saying that Number 2 seemed to have caught the spirit of Mr Browning without his vagueness, which was a very great compliment.

Number 3’s poetry ran chiefly in dramatic lines. He therefore boldly threw the narrative into dialogue form:—

Shepherdess.—Alas, my Jack is dead!

Shepherd.—I mourn for lovely Jill.

Both.—A common fate o’ertook them on the hill.

Shepherdess.—I watched them go—him and the hateful minx.

Shepherd.—I smiled to mark his footsteps on the brinks.

Both.—Cruel deceiver he/she! shameless intriguer she/he!

Shepherdess.—’Twas she who lured him o’er the cruel ledge.

Shepherd.—’Twas he who basely dragged her to the edge.

Both.—Oh! faithless he/she! oh! monstrous traitor she/he!

Shepherdess.—Her fate no tongue shall mourn, no eye shall weep;Shepherd.—His doom was all deserved upon the steep.

Both.—Oh! hapless he/she! oh! wicked wicked she/he!

Shepherdess.—Take warning, Shepherd; trust no faithless Jill.

Shepherd.—Nor you, fair nymph, with Jack e’er climb a hill.

Both.—Oh, woe is me! and woe, oh woe is thee!

Shepherdess.—With thee, poor youth, I fain would shed a tear.

Shepherd.—Maiden, with thee I’d sit and weep a year.

Both.—Wouldst thou but smile, I too would dry mine eye; Nay, let’s do both, and laugh here till we cry.

Number 4 was a specimen of the simple ditty style which leaves nothing unexplained, and never goes out of its course for the sake of a well-turned phrase.

When Jack was twelve and Jill was tenTheir mother said, “My dear children,I want you both to take the pailWe bought last week from Mr Gale,And fill it full of water clear,And don’t be long away, do you hear?”Then Master Jack and Sister JillRaced gaily up the Primrose Hill,And filled the pail up to the top,And tried not spill a single drop.But sad to tell, just half way downJack tripped upon a hidden stone,And tumbled down and cut his headSo badly that it nearly bled.And Jill was so alarmed that she.Let drop the pail immediatelyAnd fell down too, and sprained her hand,And had to go to Dr BlandAnd get it looked to; while poor JackWas put to bed upon his back.

Number 4 regarded his performance with a certain amount of pride. He said it was after the manner of Wordsworth, and was a protest against the inflated style of most modern poetry, which seemed to have for its sole object to conceal its meaning from the reader. We had a good specimen of this kind of writing from Number 5, who wrote in blank verse, as he said, “after the German.”

I know not why—why seek to know? Is notAll life a problem? and the tiniest pulseBeats with a throb which the remotest starFeels in its orbit? Why ask me? Rather sayWhence these vague yearnings, whither swells this heart,Like some wild floweret leaping at the dawn?’Tis not for me, ’tis not for thee to tell,But Time shall be our teacher, and his voiceShall fall unheard, unheeded in the midst!Still art thou doubtful? Then arise and singInto the Empyrean vault, while IDrift in the vagueness of the Ambrosian night.

We none of us dared inquire of Number 5 what was the particular bearing of these masterly lines upon the history of Jack and Jill. I can picture the smile of pitying contempt with which such a preposterous question would have been met. And I observe by the figures noted at the back of this poem that it received very few marks short of the highest award.

Number 6 posed as democratic poet, who appealed to the ear of the populace in terms to which they are best accustomed.

’Twas a lovely day in August, at the top of Ludgate HillI met a gay young couple, and I think I see them still;They were drinking at the fountain to cool their parching lips,And they said to one another, looking up between their sips—Chorus—I’d sooner have it hot, love; I’d rather have it hot;It’s nicer with the chill off—much nicer, is it not?They took a four-wheel growler for a drive all round the town,And told the knowing cabby not to let hisgee-geedown;But they’d scarcely got to Fleet Street when their off-hind-wheel wentbang,And they pitched on to the kerb-stone, while the crowd around themsang—Chorus—I’m glad you’ve got it hot, love; I’m pleased you’ve gotit hot;It’s nicer with the chill off—much nicer, is it not?Moral.Now all you gay young couples, list to my fond appeal,Beware of four-wheel growlers with spokes in their off-hind-wheel;And when you go up Ludgate Hill, all on a summer day,Don’t drink much at the fountain; or if you do, I say—Be sure and take it hot, love; be sure and take it hot;It’s nicer with the chill off—much nicer, is it not?

This poem was not highly marked, although Number 6 confessed he had sat up all night writing it. He thought we had missed the underlying philosophy of his version, and was sorry for it. As he said, the first essential of a poem is that it should be read, and he believed no one could deny that he had at least written up to that requirement.

There was a more serious moral hidden in Number 7’s version, which was stated to be on the models of the early sonnets:—

Two lovers on one common errand bound,One common fate o’erwhelms; and so, me-seems,A fable have we of our daily round,Who in these groves of learning here are foundClimbing Parnassus’ slopes. Our aim is one,And one the path by which we strive to soar;Yet, truer still, or ere the prize be won,A common ruin hurls us to our doom.’Twere best we parted, you and I; so, Fate,Baulked of her double prey, may seek in vain,And miss us both upon the shadowy plain.

The writer of Number 8 I always suspected of being a borrower of other people’s ideas. In fact it seemed as if he must have had “A Thousand and One Gems” open before him while he was at work, and to have drawn liberally from its pages.

The way was long, the night was cold,And Jack and Jill were young and bold.“Try not the hill,” the old man said,“Dark lowers the tempest overhead.”A voice replied far up the height,“We’ve many a step to walk this night.”Ah, luckless speech! ah, bootless boast!Two minutes more and they were lost.Who would not weep for Jack and Jill?They died, though much against their will.And the birds of the air all fell sobbing and sighingAs they heard of these two unfortunates dying.

The concluding line (which was the only original one in the poem) was specially weak, and Number 8, I observe, only received one vote, and that was probably given by himself.

But, for originality and humour, Number 9’s version was the most distinguished of the lot. With it I conclude, and if I may express an unbiassed opinion, many years after the memorable contest, I consider it far and away the best version of the story of Jack and Jill I have ever met with.

Jack and JillWent up a hillTo fetch a pail of water,Jack fell downAnd broke his crown,And Jill came tumbling after.

Story 4.Chapter One.Eighteen Hours with a “Kid.”(Copy of a holiday letter from Gus. Cutaway, of the Upper Remove, Shellboro’, to his particular chum and messmate. Joseph Rackett):—Dear Jossy,—If you want a motto in life, I’ll give you one—“’Ware kids!” Don’t you have anything to do with kids, unless you want to lose all your pocket money, and be made a fool of before the fellows, and get yourself in a regular high old mess all round.You needn’t think I don’t know what I’m talking about. I do. Promise you’ll never say a word to anybody, especially to any of the fellows, and I’ll tell you.It was on breaking-up day. You know, all of you went off by the 2 train, and I had to wait till the 3:15. That’s the worst of going through London; the trains never go at the right time. It came in up to time, for a wonder, and I bagged a second-class carriage to myself, and laid in some grub and aB.O.P.and made up my mind to enjoy myself.What do you think? Just as the bell was ringing, a female with a kid rushed on to the platform and made a dive for my carriage. I can tell you I was riled. But that wasn’t half of it.“Are you going to Waterloo, young gentleman?” asks the female, as out of breath as you like.“Yes—why?” said I.“Would you be so kind as to look after Tommy? His father will be there to meet him. He’s got his ticket; haven’t you, Tommy? Say ‘Thank you’ to the kind young gentleman. Bye, bye; be a good boy.”“Right forward,” sings out the guard.“Love to daddy,” says the female.“Stand away from the train,” shouts the porter.And then we were off. And here was I, left alone in a carriage with a kid called Tommy, that I was to give over to a chap called daddy at Waterloo!How wouldyouhave liked it yourself, Jossy? I was awfully disgusted. And, of course, till the train was off, I never thought of saying, “I can’t,” and then it was too late. I can tell you it’s a bit rough on a fellow to be served that way. If ever you’re going by train and see a female and a kid coming along, hop out of the carriage till you see which carriage they get into; and then go and get into another.I made up my mind I’d leave the little cad to himself, so I started to read. At least I pretended to. Really I took a good squint at him while he wasn’t looking. He was a kid of about four and a half, I fancy, with a turnippy head and a suit of togs that must have been new, he was so jolly proud of them. He sat staring at the lamp and swinging his legs for a good bit. Then he got hold of the window-strap and fooled about with that. Then he remembered his swagger togs and looked himself all over, and stuck his hands in his pocket. He twigged me looking at him as he did so.“I’ve got a knife,” he said, as cool as if he’d known me a couple of terms.“Who said you hadn’t?” I responded.“It’s in my pocket,” he said.“Oh,” said I. I didn’t want to encourage him.He pulled it out, staring at me all the time. Then he slipped down off the seat and brought it up to me.“Open it,” he said.“Open it yourself,” said I.“I can’t,” said he. “Open it! Open it!”“All right, keep your temper,” said I, and I opened it. A beastly blunt thing it was. “There you are; take it.”“I want to sit beside you,” he said, when he’d got it.“Do you? I don’t want you. Haven’t you got all the rest of the carriage?”“Lift Tommy up,” he whined.I’d a good mind to chuck him out of the window.“Lift yourself up,” I said, “and shut up. I want to read.” Then I’m bothered if the young cad didn’t begin yelling! Just because I didn’t lift him up. I never saw such a blub-baby in all my life. I couldn’t make out what he was up to at first. I thought he was curtseying and seeing how long he could hold his breath. But when it did come out, my eye! I thought the engine-driver would hear. I was in a regular funk; I thought he’d got a fit or something; I never heard such yelling. He was black in the face over it, and dancing. I’d a good mind to pull the cord and stop the train. But I thought I’d see if I could pull him round first.So I picked him up and stuck him up on the seat. Would you believe it, Jossy? The moment he was up he stopped howling and began grinning. It had all been a plant to get me to lift him up; and as soon as he’d made me do it he laughed at me!I can tell you it’s not pleasant to be made a fool of, even by a kid.“I’m sitting beside you now,” he said, as much as to tell me he’d scored one off me.I was too disgusted to take any further notice of him. I suppose he saw I was riled, and began to be a bit civil. He pulled a nasty sticky bit of chocolate out of his pocket and held it up to my nose.“A sweetie for you,” he said.I didn’t want to have him yelling again, so I took it. Ugh!—all over dust and hairs, and half melted.He watched me gulp it down, and then, to my relief, got hold of theBoy’s Own Paperand began looking at the pictures. He got sick of that soon, and went and looked out of the window. Then he came and sat by me again, and began to get jolly familiar. He stroked my cheeks with his horrid sticky hand, and then climbed up on the seat and tried to lark with my cap. Then just because I didn’t shut him up, he clambered up on my back and nearly throttled me with his arms round my neck; and—what do you think?—he began to kiss me!That was a drop too much.“Stow it, kid!” I said.“Dear, dear!” he said, getting regularly maudlin, and kissing me at about two a second.“Let go, do you hear? you’re scrugging me.”“Nice mannie,” he said.I didn’t know what to do until I luckily thought of my grub.“Like a bun?” said I.He let me go and was down beside me like a shot. You should have seen him walk into that bun! His face was all over it, and the crumbs were about an inch deep all over the place. When he got near the end of bun Number 1, he looked up as near choking as they make them, and said—“I like buns awfully.”“All right, have another,” said I. You see as his governor was going to meet him in town, it didn’t matter much to me if he got gripes at night. Anything to keep him quiet.After the third bun he was about full up, and said he was thirsty. I couldn’t make the young ass understand that I had no water in the carriage. He kept on saying he was thirsty for half an hour, till we came to a station. I had made up my mind I would get into another carriage at the first stop we came to; but, somehow, it seemed rather low to leave the kid in the lurch. So I bought him a glass of milk instead, which set him up again. Nobody else got in the carriage—knew better—and off we went again.He’d got an awful lot to say for himself; about dicky-birds and puff-puffs, and dogs, and trouser-pockets and rot of that sort, and didn’t seem to care much whether I listened or no. Then, just when I thought he had about run dry and was getting sleepy, he rounded on me with—“Tell me a story.”“Me? I don’t know any stories.”“Oh yes; a funny one, please.”“I tell you I don’t know any—what about?”“‘The Three Bears.’”“I don’t know anything about ‘three bears,’” said I.“Do! do!! do!!!” he said, beginning to get crusty.So I did my best. He kept saying I was all wrong, and putting me right; he might just as well have told it himself. I told him so. But he took no notice, and went on badgering me for more stories.I can tell you I was getting sick of it!When I made up a story for him to laugh at, he looked so solemn and said—“Not that; a funny one.”And when I told him a fairy tale, he snapped up and said he didn’t like it.It ended in my telling him the “The Three Bears” over and over again. It was about the sixty-fifth time of telling that we got to Vauxhall, and had to give up tickets.“Now, young ’un, look out for your governor when we get in—I don’t know him, you know.”The young ass didn’t know what I meant.“Look out for daddy, then,” I said.He promptly stuck his head out of the window and said the ticket-collector was daddy; then that the porter was; then that a sweep on the platform was.It wasn’t very hopeful for spotting the real daddy at Waterloo. I told him to shut up and wait till we got there.When we got there, I stuck him up at the window, as large as life, for his governor to see. There were a lot of people about; but I can tell you I was pretty queer when no one owned him. We hung about a quarter of an hour, asking everybody we met if they’d come to meet a kid, and watching them all go off in cabs, till we had the platform to ourselves.“Here’s a go, kid!” said I; “daddy’s not come.”“I ’spex,” says he, “when the middling-size bear found his porridge eaten up, he wondered who it was.”“Shut up about the bears,” said I. “What about your gov.—your daddy? Where does he live?”“In London town,” said he, as soon as I could knock those bears out of his head.“Whereabouts? What street?”“London town.”“Do you mean to say—look here, what’s your name? Tommy what?”“It’s Tommy,” he said.“I know that. Is it Tommy Jones, or Tommy Robinson, or what?”“It’s Tommy,” he repeated. “My name’s Tommy.” Here was a nice go! Stranded with a kid that didn’t know his own name, or where his governor lived! The worst of it was, I had to stop in London that night as there was no train on. My pater had written to get a room for me at the Euston Hotel, so that I should be on the spot for starting home first train in the morning.I was regularly stumped, I can tell you. It never turned a feather on the kid, his governor not turning up; and I couldn’t make the idiot understand anything. He hung on to me singing and saying, “Who’s been tasting my porridge and eaten it all up?” or else cheeking the porters, or else trying to whistle to make the trains go.I thought I’d better leave word with the station-master where I’d gone, in case any one turned up; and then there was nothing for it but to take a cab across to the hotel.The kid was no end festive to have a ride in the cab. It would have been in a little better taste if he’d held his tongue, and shown a little regret for the jolly mess he’d let me into. But, bless you, he didn’t care two straws.“What will daddy say when he can’t find you?” I said, trying to get him to look at things seriously.“Daddy will say, ‘Who’s been sitting in my chair, and broken the bottom out?’” said he, still harping on those blessed bears. I gave him up after that, and let him jaw on.When we got to the hotel I was in another fix. The chap in charge said he’d got instructions about one young gentleman, but not two.“Oh, I’m looking after this boy,” said I, “till tomorrow: I’ll have him in my room.”The chap looked as if he didn’t like it. And, of course, just when he was thinking it over, the young cad must go and cheek him.“What makes that ugly man so red on his nose?” he asks at the top of his voice, for every one to hear.The chap was no end riled at that, and looked as if he’d kick us out. When he’d cooled down he said—“You wait here; I’ll attend to you presently.”That was a nice go! If I had had tin enough I should have gone somewhere else; but I’d only got enough for the journey to-morrow, and so thought I’d better hang on here, where the governor had arranged.The lid went on anyhow while we were waiting in the hall. He ran and stood in front of people, and he pulled waiters’ coat-tails, and got mixed up with the luggage, and called out to me to know where the ugly red-nosed man had gone. At last I had to pull him in.“Look here, kid!” said I; “if you don’t hold your jaw and sit here quietly, I’ll give you to a policeman.”“Tell me about the bears, then.”Oh, how I loathed those bears! Think of me, captain of my eleven, in that rackety hall, with people coming and going, and a row enough to deafen you, telling a kid about The Three Bears! You may grin, Jossy; but I was reduced to it.After a time the hotel chap came and said we were to have a double-bedded room, and he should charge half-extra for the kid, and if we wanted dinner we’d better look sharp, as it was just beginning.So we went up and washed—at least I had to wash the kid’s sticky hands and face for him—and then came down totable d’hôte. I was in a regular funk lest any of our fellows, or any one I knew, should see me. We got squeezed in between a lady in grand evening dress, and a professor chap with blue spectacles; and as they were both attending to their neighbours, I hoped we might scrape through without a scene.You should have seen that kid tuck in! I mildly suggested that he’d better not have any mock-turtle soup; but he began to get up steam for a bowl and a half, so I gave it up.He said it was ugly stuff, but for all that he polished off a plate of it, and then walked into salmon. After that he had a turn at roast pork and apple sauce, and after that a cabinet pudding and some Gorgonzola cheese. He was very anxious to have some beer, like the professor, or some wine, like the lady; but I put my foot down there, and let him have lemonade instead. You should have seen people stare at him! The professor glared as if he was a rum animal.“Your brother?” said he.“Not exactly,” said I.“Uncommon appetite. Would you mind telling me in the morning what sort of night he had? I shall be curious to know.”The lady glared too, chiefly because the kid had sprinkled her silk dress with melted butter, and pork gravy and lemonade. He caught her eye once, and said out loud to her—“Our cat’s called Flossy; what’s your cat called?”The lady turned away; whereupon the kid began his cheek again.“That lady,” said he to me and the company at large, “has got a nice dress and a nasty face. I like nice faces bestest—do you?”“Shut up, or I’ll clout your ear,” snarled I, in a regular perspiration of disgust.“What’s clout?” inquired he. Then, feeling his ears, “My ears don’t stick out like that man’s over there, do they?”“Do you hear? shut up, you little fool!”“We’ve got a donkey at home, and his—”Here I could stand it no longer, and lugged him off, whether he liked it or no. He was just as bad in the reading-room. He wouldn’t sit still unless I told him stories, and made a regular nuisance of himself to the other people. Then (I suppose it was his big feed) he began to get crusty, and blubbered when I talked sharply to him, and presently set up a regular good old howl.“Why don’t you put the child to bed?” said a lady; “he’s no business up at this hour.”Nice, wasn’t it?I had to sneak off with him upstairs, howling all the way. He wouldn’t stop till I gave him a mild cuff on the head. That seemed to bring him round enough to demand the “The Three Bears” once more.Anything to keep him still; so at it I went again.Then I told him to go to bed; and he told me to undress him, as he couldn’t do the buttons.I can’t make out how I got him out of his togs. Then he kicked up no end of a shine because I was going to stick him in bed without his bath.“I’ve got no bath,” said I; “wait till the morning.”“Tommy wants his bath. Bring it! bring it!!” he shrieked.Finally I had to mess him about in a basin in cold water, which set him yelling worse than ever. Then I had to put him in my night-gown, for he’d got none of his own.“I want to get in beside you,” he said, as I stuck him in bed.“I’m not going to bed yet,” said I; “not likely, at eight o’clock!”More yells; and a chambermaid came and knocked at the door to know what was the matter.I tried all I knew to quiet him down. He wouldn’t listen to me, not even when I tried to tell him his “Three Bears.” He bellowed out one incessant “Want to get in beside you! Want to get in beside you!!” till finally I chucked up the sponge and actually went to bed to oblige him.He simmered down after that; and I began to hope he’d drop off and get to sleep. But bless you, Jossy, was it likely, after those buns and the dinner he’d had?We had a fearful night, I can tell you. He kicked till I was black and blue, and rolled over and over till I hadn’t a stitch on me. Then he wanted some water to drink. Then he wanted the gas alight. Then he began to blubber for his mother. Then he wanted the clothes on. Then he wanted them off. Then he got his feet entangled in the night-gown. Then he wanted some chocolates. Then he wanted to know who was talking in the next room. Then he wanted the pillow turned over. Then he wanted a story told him, and shut me up before I’d begun one sentence of it. Then he wanted me to put my arm round him. Then he wanted me to lie over on the edge of the bed. Then he had a pain in his “tummy,” and called on me to make it well, and howled because I couldn’t.Poor little beggar! He was in a jolly bad way, and I couldn’t well cut up rough; but I can tell you it was the worst night I ever spent. He didn’t quiet down till about three in the morning; and then he went off with his head on my chest and his hand on my nose, and I daren’t for the life of me shift an inch, for fear of bringing it all on again.I suppose I must have dropped off myself at last; for the next thing I remember, it was broad daylight, and the young cad was sitting on the top of me as merry as a cricket, trying to prize my eyes open with his fingers.“Can’t you let a chap be?” grunted I; “haven’t you made a beast enough of yourself all night without starting again now?”“I want to see your eyes,” said he.Then he began to jump up and down on the top of me, and explained that he was “riding in the puff-puff.”I wished to goodness he was! Of course I had to wake up, and then we had those brutal “Three Bears” on again for an hour, till it was time to get up.He insisted on being tubbed all over, with soap, and criticised me all the while.“Boys who spill on the carpet must be whipped,” said he. “Mother will whip you, and you’ll cry—ha, ha!”“I don’t care,” said I, “as long as she clears you off.”He never seemed to understand what I said, and wasn’t a bit set down by this.Then came the same old game of getting him into his togs, and parting his horrid hair, and blowing his nose, and all that.I can tell you I was about sick of it when it was done.When we got down in the hall, the first chap we met was the hotel man.“There’s the ugly man with the red nose,” sings out the kid. “I can see him—there is he!” pointing with all his might.“Look here, young gentleman,” said the man, coming to me, “we aren’t used to be kept awake all night by your noise or your baby’s. You may tell your papa he needn’t send you here again. There’s half a dozen of my visitors leaving to-day, because they couldn’t get a wink of sleep all night.”“No more could I,” said I.He was going to say something more, but just then a man came in from the street. Directly he spotted the kid, he rushed up to him.“Why, itisTommy,” said he.Tommy put on a grin, and dug his hands into his pockets. “I’ve got a knife,” said he, “of my very own.”“Are you the young gentleman who left the message at Waterloo?” said the man. “Why, the letter I got said the train got in at 8 a.m., not 8 p.m. You don’t know what a turn it gave me to go down there this morning and not see him. Have you had him here all night?”“Rather,” said I.“Daddy, there’s an ugly man came to this house. I can see him now, with a red nose. Look there!”“I hope he’s been a good boy,” said the proud father. “I’m sure I’m much obliged. I’m afraid he’s been a trouble to you. I’ve got a cab here. My word, I’m glad I’ve got you safe, Tommy, my boy. Come, say good-bye to the kind gentleman.”“He was naughty, and spilt the water on the floor. He must be whipped—ha, ha!” observed Tommy, by way of farewell.He didn’t seem to care twopence about leaving me, and chucked me up for his governor as if I’d been a railway porter. However, I can tell you I was glad to see the back of him, and didn’t envy his governor a little bit.Of course, I’d lost my first train home, and had to wait till mid-day, to endure the scowls of the hotel man, and the frowns of all the people who had been kept awake by the kid’s row. Among others there was the professor.“Well,” said he, “what sort of night did baby have?”“Middling,” said I.“I expected it would be middling,” said he.Now, Jossy, you know what I mean by “’Ware kids.” Keep all this mum, whatever you do. I wouldn’t have any of the fellows hear about it for the world. I can tell you, I feel as if I deserve a week’s holiday longer than the rest of you. Never you utter the words “Three Bears” in my hearing, or there’ll be a row.Yours truly, Gus. Cutaway.

(Copy of a holiday letter from Gus. Cutaway, of the Upper Remove, Shellboro’, to his particular chum and messmate. Joseph Rackett):—

Dear Jossy,—If you want a motto in life, I’ll give you one—“’Ware kids!” Don’t you have anything to do with kids, unless you want to lose all your pocket money, and be made a fool of before the fellows, and get yourself in a regular high old mess all round.

You needn’t think I don’t know what I’m talking about. I do. Promise you’ll never say a word to anybody, especially to any of the fellows, and I’ll tell you.

It was on breaking-up day. You know, all of you went off by the 2 train, and I had to wait till the 3:15. That’s the worst of going through London; the trains never go at the right time. It came in up to time, for a wonder, and I bagged a second-class carriage to myself, and laid in some grub and aB.O.P.and made up my mind to enjoy myself.

What do you think? Just as the bell was ringing, a female with a kid rushed on to the platform and made a dive for my carriage. I can tell you I was riled. But that wasn’t half of it.

“Are you going to Waterloo, young gentleman?” asks the female, as out of breath as you like.

“Yes—why?” said I.

“Would you be so kind as to look after Tommy? His father will be there to meet him. He’s got his ticket; haven’t you, Tommy? Say ‘Thank you’ to the kind young gentleman. Bye, bye; be a good boy.”

“Right forward,” sings out the guard.

“Love to daddy,” says the female.

“Stand away from the train,” shouts the porter.

And then we were off. And here was I, left alone in a carriage with a kid called Tommy, that I was to give over to a chap called daddy at Waterloo!

How wouldyouhave liked it yourself, Jossy? I was awfully disgusted. And, of course, till the train was off, I never thought of saying, “I can’t,” and then it was too late. I can tell you it’s a bit rough on a fellow to be served that way. If ever you’re going by train and see a female and a kid coming along, hop out of the carriage till you see which carriage they get into; and then go and get into another.

I made up my mind I’d leave the little cad to himself, so I started to read. At least I pretended to. Really I took a good squint at him while he wasn’t looking. He was a kid of about four and a half, I fancy, with a turnippy head and a suit of togs that must have been new, he was so jolly proud of them. He sat staring at the lamp and swinging his legs for a good bit. Then he got hold of the window-strap and fooled about with that. Then he remembered his swagger togs and looked himself all over, and stuck his hands in his pocket. He twigged me looking at him as he did so.

“I’ve got a knife,” he said, as cool as if he’d known me a couple of terms.

“Who said you hadn’t?” I responded.

“It’s in my pocket,” he said.

“Oh,” said I. I didn’t want to encourage him.

He pulled it out, staring at me all the time. Then he slipped down off the seat and brought it up to me.

“Open it,” he said.

“Open it yourself,” said I.

“I can’t,” said he. “Open it! Open it!”

“All right, keep your temper,” said I, and I opened it. A beastly blunt thing it was. “There you are; take it.”

“I want to sit beside you,” he said, when he’d got it.

“Do you? I don’t want you. Haven’t you got all the rest of the carriage?”

“Lift Tommy up,” he whined.

I’d a good mind to chuck him out of the window.

“Lift yourself up,” I said, “and shut up. I want to read.” Then I’m bothered if the young cad didn’t begin yelling! Just because I didn’t lift him up. I never saw such a blub-baby in all my life. I couldn’t make out what he was up to at first. I thought he was curtseying and seeing how long he could hold his breath. But when it did come out, my eye! I thought the engine-driver would hear. I was in a regular funk; I thought he’d got a fit or something; I never heard such yelling. He was black in the face over it, and dancing. I’d a good mind to pull the cord and stop the train. But I thought I’d see if I could pull him round first.

So I picked him up and stuck him up on the seat. Would you believe it, Jossy? The moment he was up he stopped howling and began grinning. It had all been a plant to get me to lift him up; and as soon as he’d made me do it he laughed at me!

I can tell you it’s not pleasant to be made a fool of, even by a kid.

“I’m sitting beside you now,” he said, as much as to tell me he’d scored one off me.

I was too disgusted to take any further notice of him. I suppose he saw I was riled, and began to be a bit civil. He pulled a nasty sticky bit of chocolate out of his pocket and held it up to my nose.

“A sweetie for you,” he said.

I didn’t want to have him yelling again, so I took it. Ugh!—all over dust and hairs, and half melted.

He watched me gulp it down, and then, to my relief, got hold of theBoy’s Own Paperand began looking at the pictures. He got sick of that soon, and went and looked out of the window. Then he came and sat by me again, and began to get jolly familiar. He stroked my cheeks with his horrid sticky hand, and then climbed up on the seat and tried to lark with my cap. Then just because I didn’t shut him up, he clambered up on my back and nearly throttled me with his arms round my neck; and—what do you think?—he began to kiss me!

That was a drop too much.

“Stow it, kid!” I said.

“Dear, dear!” he said, getting regularly maudlin, and kissing me at about two a second.

“Let go, do you hear? you’re scrugging me.”

“Nice mannie,” he said.

I didn’t know what to do until I luckily thought of my grub.

“Like a bun?” said I.

He let me go and was down beside me like a shot. You should have seen him walk into that bun! His face was all over it, and the crumbs were about an inch deep all over the place. When he got near the end of bun Number 1, he looked up as near choking as they make them, and said—

“I like buns awfully.”

“All right, have another,” said I. You see as his governor was going to meet him in town, it didn’t matter much to me if he got gripes at night. Anything to keep him quiet.

After the third bun he was about full up, and said he was thirsty. I couldn’t make the young ass understand that I had no water in the carriage. He kept on saying he was thirsty for half an hour, till we came to a station. I had made up my mind I would get into another carriage at the first stop we came to; but, somehow, it seemed rather low to leave the kid in the lurch. So I bought him a glass of milk instead, which set him up again. Nobody else got in the carriage—knew better—and off we went again.

He’d got an awful lot to say for himself; about dicky-birds and puff-puffs, and dogs, and trouser-pockets and rot of that sort, and didn’t seem to care much whether I listened or no. Then, just when I thought he had about run dry and was getting sleepy, he rounded on me with—

“Tell me a story.”

“Me? I don’t know any stories.”

“Oh yes; a funny one, please.”

“I tell you I don’t know any—what about?”

“‘The Three Bears.’”

“I don’t know anything about ‘three bears,’” said I.

“Do! do!! do!!!” he said, beginning to get crusty.

So I did my best. He kept saying I was all wrong, and putting me right; he might just as well have told it himself. I told him so. But he took no notice, and went on badgering me for more stories.

I can tell you I was getting sick of it!

When I made up a story for him to laugh at, he looked so solemn and said—

“Not that; a funny one.”

And when I told him a fairy tale, he snapped up and said he didn’t like it.

It ended in my telling him the “The Three Bears” over and over again. It was about the sixty-fifth time of telling that we got to Vauxhall, and had to give up tickets.

“Now, young ’un, look out for your governor when we get in—I don’t know him, you know.”

The young ass didn’t know what I meant.

“Look out for daddy, then,” I said.

He promptly stuck his head out of the window and said the ticket-collector was daddy; then that the porter was; then that a sweep on the platform was.

It wasn’t very hopeful for spotting the real daddy at Waterloo. I told him to shut up and wait till we got there.

When we got there, I stuck him up at the window, as large as life, for his governor to see. There were a lot of people about; but I can tell you I was pretty queer when no one owned him. We hung about a quarter of an hour, asking everybody we met if they’d come to meet a kid, and watching them all go off in cabs, till we had the platform to ourselves.

“Here’s a go, kid!” said I; “daddy’s not come.”

“I ’spex,” says he, “when the middling-size bear found his porridge eaten up, he wondered who it was.”

“Shut up about the bears,” said I. “What about your gov.—your daddy? Where does he live?”

“In London town,” said he, as soon as I could knock those bears out of his head.

“Whereabouts? What street?”

“London town.”

“Do you mean to say—look here, what’s your name? Tommy what?”

“It’s Tommy,” he said.

“I know that. Is it Tommy Jones, or Tommy Robinson, or what?”

“It’s Tommy,” he repeated. “My name’s Tommy.” Here was a nice go! Stranded with a kid that didn’t know his own name, or where his governor lived! The worst of it was, I had to stop in London that night as there was no train on. My pater had written to get a room for me at the Euston Hotel, so that I should be on the spot for starting home first train in the morning.

I was regularly stumped, I can tell you. It never turned a feather on the kid, his governor not turning up; and I couldn’t make the idiot understand anything. He hung on to me singing and saying, “Who’s been tasting my porridge and eaten it all up?” or else cheeking the porters, or else trying to whistle to make the trains go.

I thought I’d better leave word with the station-master where I’d gone, in case any one turned up; and then there was nothing for it but to take a cab across to the hotel.

The kid was no end festive to have a ride in the cab. It would have been in a little better taste if he’d held his tongue, and shown a little regret for the jolly mess he’d let me into. But, bless you, he didn’t care two straws.

“What will daddy say when he can’t find you?” I said, trying to get him to look at things seriously.

“Daddy will say, ‘Who’s been sitting in my chair, and broken the bottom out?’” said he, still harping on those blessed bears. I gave him up after that, and let him jaw on.

When we got to the hotel I was in another fix. The chap in charge said he’d got instructions about one young gentleman, but not two.

“Oh, I’m looking after this boy,” said I, “till tomorrow: I’ll have him in my room.”

The chap looked as if he didn’t like it. And, of course, just when he was thinking it over, the young cad must go and cheek him.

“What makes that ugly man so red on his nose?” he asks at the top of his voice, for every one to hear.

The chap was no end riled at that, and looked as if he’d kick us out. When he’d cooled down he said—

“You wait here; I’ll attend to you presently.”

That was a nice go! If I had had tin enough I should have gone somewhere else; but I’d only got enough for the journey to-morrow, and so thought I’d better hang on here, where the governor had arranged.

The lid went on anyhow while we were waiting in the hall. He ran and stood in front of people, and he pulled waiters’ coat-tails, and got mixed up with the luggage, and called out to me to know where the ugly red-nosed man had gone. At last I had to pull him in.

“Look here, kid!” said I; “if you don’t hold your jaw and sit here quietly, I’ll give you to a policeman.”

“Tell me about the bears, then.”

Oh, how I loathed those bears! Think of me, captain of my eleven, in that rackety hall, with people coming and going, and a row enough to deafen you, telling a kid about The Three Bears! You may grin, Jossy; but I was reduced to it.

After a time the hotel chap came and said we were to have a double-bedded room, and he should charge half-extra for the kid, and if we wanted dinner we’d better look sharp, as it was just beginning.

So we went up and washed—at least I had to wash the kid’s sticky hands and face for him—and then came down totable d’hôte. I was in a regular funk lest any of our fellows, or any one I knew, should see me. We got squeezed in between a lady in grand evening dress, and a professor chap with blue spectacles; and as they were both attending to their neighbours, I hoped we might scrape through without a scene.

You should have seen that kid tuck in! I mildly suggested that he’d better not have any mock-turtle soup; but he began to get up steam for a bowl and a half, so I gave it up.

He said it was ugly stuff, but for all that he polished off a plate of it, and then walked into salmon. After that he had a turn at roast pork and apple sauce, and after that a cabinet pudding and some Gorgonzola cheese. He was very anxious to have some beer, like the professor, or some wine, like the lady; but I put my foot down there, and let him have lemonade instead. You should have seen people stare at him! The professor glared as if he was a rum animal.

“Your brother?” said he.

“Not exactly,” said I.

“Uncommon appetite. Would you mind telling me in the morning what sort of night he had? I shall be curious to know.”

The lady glared too, chiefly because the kid had sprinkled her silk dress with melted butter, and pork gravy and lemonade. He caught her eye once, and said out loud to her—

“Our cat’s called Flossy; what’s your cat called?”

The lady turned away; whereupon the kid began his cheek again.

“That lady,” said he to me and the company at large, “has got a nice dress and a nasty face. I like nice faces bestest—do you?”

“Shut up, or I’ll clout your ear,” snarled I, in a regular perspiration of disgust.

“What’s clout?” inquired he. Then, feeling his ears, “My ears don’t stick out like that man’s over there, do they?”

“Do you hear? shut up, you little fool!”

“We’ve got a donkey at home, and his—”

Here I could stand it no longer, and lugged him off, whether he liked it or no. He was just as bad in the reading-room. He wouldn’t sit still unless I told him stories, and made a regular nuisance of himself to the other people. Then (I suppose it was his big feed) he began to get crusty, and blubbered when I talked sharply to him, and presently set up a regular good old howl.

“Why don’t you put the child to bed?” said a lady; “he’s no business up at this hour.”

Nice, wasn’t it?

I had to sneak off with him upstairs, howling all the way. He wouldn’t stop till I gave him a mild cuff on the head. That seemed to bring him round enough to demand the “The Three Bears” once more.

Anything to keep him still; so at it I went again.

Then I told him to go to bed; and he told me to undress him, as he couldn’t do the buttons.

I can’t make out how I got him out of his togs. Then he kicked up no end of a shine because I was going to stick him in bed without his bath.

“I’ve got no bath,” said I; “wait till the morning.”

“Tommy wants his bath. Bring it! bring it!!” he shrieked.

Finally I had to mess him about in a basin in cold water, which set him yelling worse than ever. Then I had to put him in my night-gown, for he’d got none of his own.

“I want to get in beside you,” he said, as I stuck him in bed.

“I’m not going to bed yet,” said I; “not likely, at eight o’clock!”

More yells; and a chambermaid came and knocked at the door to know what was the matter.

I tried all I knew to quiet him down. He wouldn’t listen to me, not even when I tried to tell him his “Three Bears.” He bellowed out one incessant “Want to get in beside you! Want to get in beside you!!” till finally I chucked up the sponge and actually went to bed to oblige him.

He simmered down after that; and I began to hope he’d drop off and get to sleep. But bless you, Jossy, was it likely, after those buns and the dinner he’d had?

We had a fearful night, I can tell you. He kicked till I was black and blue, and rolled over and over till I hadn’t a stitch on me. Then he wanted some water to drink. Then he wanted the gas alight. Then he began to blubber for his mother. Then he wanted the clothes on. Then he wanted them off. Then he got his feet entangled in the night-gown. Then he wanted some chocolates. Then he wanted to know who was talking in the next room. Then he wanted the pillow turned over. Then he wanted a story told him, and shut me up before I’d begun one sentence of it. Then he wanted me to put my arm round him. Then he wanted me to lie over on the edge of the bed. Then he had a pain in his “tummy,” and called on me to make it well, and howled because I couldn’t.

Poor little beggar! He was in a jolly bad way, and I couldn’t well cut up rough; but I can tell you it was the worst night I ever spent. He didn’t quiet down till about three in the morning; and then he went off with his head on my chest and his hand on my nose, and I daren’t for the life of me shift an inch, for fear of bringing it all on again.

I suppose I must have dropped off myself at last; for the next thing I remember, it was broad daylight, and the young cad was sitting on the top of me as merry as a cricket, trying to prize my eyes open with his fingers.

“Can’t you let a chap be?” grunted I; “haven’t you made a beast enough of yourself all night without starting again now?”

“I want to see your eyes,” said he.

Then he began to jump up and down on the top of me, and explained that he was “riding in the puff-puff.”

I wished to goodness he was! Of course I had to wake up, and then we had those brutal “Three Bears” on again for an hour, till it was time to get up.

He insisted on being tubbed all over, with soap, and criticised me all the while.

“Boys who spill on the carpet must be whipped,” said he. “Mother will whip you, and you’ll cry—ha, ha!”

“I don’t care,” said I, “as long as she clears you off.”

He never seemed to understand what I said, and wasn’t a bit set down by this.

Then came the same old game of getting him into his togs, and parting his horrid hair, and blowing his nose, and all that.

I can tell you I was about sick of it when it was done.

When we got down in the hall, the first chap we met was the hotel man.

“There’s the ugly man with the red nose,” sings out the kid. “I can see him—there is he!” pointing with all his might.

“Look here, young gentleman,” said the man, coming to me, “we aren’t used to be kept awake all night by your noise or your baby’s. You may tell your papa he needn’t send you here again. There’s half a dozen of my visitors leaving to-day, because they couldn’t get a wink of sleep all night.”

“No more could I,” said I.

He was going to say something more, but just then a man came in from the street. Directly he spotted the kid, he rushed up to him.

“Why, itisTommy,” said he.

Tommy put on a grin, and dug his hands into his pockets. “I’ve got a knife,” said he, “of my very own.”

“Are you the young gentleman who left the message at Waterloo?” said the man. “Why, the letter I got said the train got in at 8 a.m., not 8 p.m. You don’t know what a turn it gave me to go down there this morning and not see him. Have you had him here all night?”

“Rather,” said I.

“Daddy, there’s an ugly man came to this house. I can see him now, with a red nose. Look there!”

“I hope he’s been a good boy,” said the proud father. “I’m sure I’m much obliged. I’m afraid he’s been a trouble to you. I’ve got a cab here. My word, I’m glad I’ve got you safe, Tommy, my boy. Come, say good-bye to the kind gentleman.”

“He was naughty, and spilt the water on the floor. He must be whipped—ha, ha!” observed Tommy, by way of farewell.

He didn’t seem to care twopence about leaving me, and chucked me up for his governor as if I’d been a railway porter. However, I can tell you I was glad to see the back of him, and didn’t envy his governor a little bit.

Of course, I’d lost my first train home, and had to wait till mid-day, to endure the scowls of the hotel man, and the frowns of all the people who had been kept awake by the kid’s row. Among others there was the professor.

“Well,” said he, “what sort of night did baby have?”

“Middling,” said I.

“I expected it would be middling,” said he.

Now, Jossy, you know what I mean by “’Ware kids.” Keep all this mum, whatever you do. I wouldn’t have any of the fellows hear about it for the world. I can tell you, I feel as if I deserve a week’s holiday longer than the rest of you. Never you utter the words “Three Bears” in my hearing, or there’ll be a row.

Yours truly, Gus. Cutaway.

Story 5.Sigurd the Hero.Chapter One.The Tower of the North-West Wind.On the rugged shore of the Northern Sea, where the summer sun never sets, there stood long ago a grim bleak fortress, called the Tower of the North-West Wind. Before it stretched the sea, which thundered ceaselessly at its base, like a wolf that gnaws at the root of some noble oak. On either side of it glittered the blue fiord, dotted with numberless islets, throwing its long arms far inland. Behind it frowned a dense forest of pines as far as eye could reach, in which the wind roared day and night, mingled often with the angry howls of the wolves.The Tower of the North-West Wind stood there, the solitary work of man in all that wild landscape. Not a sign of life was to be seen besides. Not even a fisherman’s hut on the shores of the fiord, or a woodman’s shed among the trees. The stranger might easily have taken the rugged pile itself for a part of the black cliff on which it stood. No road seemed to lead up to it, no banner floated from its walls, no trumpet startled the sea-birds that lodged amongst its turrets.Yet the old castle was not the deserted place it looked, for here dwelt Sigurd, the mightiest hero of all that land, brother to Ulf, the king.Men hated Ulf as much as they loved his brother; for Sigurd, with all his prowess, was just and generous, and lied to no man.“If Sigurd were but king,” said they one to the other, “our land would be the happiest the sun shines upon. As it is, Ulf makes us wretched. We had rather be his enemies than his friends.”But though they said this one to another, Sigurd listened to none of it, and when they urged him to rebel, he sternly bade them hold their peace. And he went forth and fought the battles of the king, his brother, and they followed him, wishing only the battle-cry were “Sigurd!” and not “Ulf!”For all this loyalty the king gave his brother little thanks. Indeed, as victory followed victory, and Sigurd’s fame rose higher and higher, Ulf’s heart swelled with jealousy, and jealousy presently grew to hate. For it was not in Ulf’s nature to endure that another should be held greater than himself. So, instead of rewarding his brother for his service, he accused him and degraded him, and made another general in his place.“Now,” said the soldiers, “our chief will surely rebel, and we will follow his lead, and pluck down Ulf from the throne and set up our Sigurd.”But Sigurd sternly silenced them, and bade them serve their king as they feared him. He meanwhile departed sadly from his brother’s court, and came and dwelt alone in his Tower of the North-West Wind.For many weeks the time passed slowly, as Sigurd brooded over his wrongs and pined in idleness.Yet this grieved him less than the secret visits of not a few of his old comrades, who had deserted Ulf, and now came begging him to lead them forth and rid the land of a tyrant. He sent them each sternly away, bidding them, on pain of his anger, return to their duty and serve the king; and they durst not disobey.So passed many a weary month in the Tower of the North-West Wind, when one bright summer day a little fleet of English ships sailed gaily up the fiord under the castle walls.Sigurd joyfully bade the voyagers welcome to his castle, for the chief of the little band was Raedwald, an English king, whom Sigurd himself only two years before had visited in his own land. There, too, he had met not Raedwald only, but Raedwald’s beautiful daughter, who now, with her gay train of attendants, accompanied her father on this visit to his friend and comrade.And now the days passed gaily and only too swiftly for the happy Sigurd. In the company of Raedwald and amid the smiles of the ladies, Ulf was forgotten, and all the wrongs of the past vanished. The Tower of the North-west Wind was no longer a gloomy fortress, but a gay palace, and, like the summer day in the northern heavens, the sun of Sigurd’s content knew no setting.Before the day of Raedwald’s departure arrived a wedding had taken place in the chapel of the good old Tower, and the English king, as he hauled his anchors and set his sails westward, knew not whether to mourn over the daughter he had given up or to rejoice over the son he had gained.As for Sigurd, he could do nothing but rejoice, and some who saw him and heard him laugh said, smiling—“The queen his wife is a fairer sweetheart than was the king his brother. Ulf and our country and all of us are forgotten in the smiles of this little English maiden.”But three days after Raedwald had sailed a storm broke over the Tower of the North-West Wind. The summer sea lashed furiously against the rocks, and far up the fiord the angry breakers rushed in, so that no boat could live upon their surface for an hour.That night as Sigurd sat heedless of the hurricane without and feasted with his lords and ladies, they came and told him that a raft had been driven ashore at the foot of the castle, with a man upon it half dead. Sigurd bade them instantly bring him to the castle, and give him fire and clothing and food, to revive him in his unhappy plight.This they did, and presently came to the hero with the hews that the man lived and desired to speak with his deliverer. So Sigurd ordered him to be brought up. And as the tempest raged without, his heart rejoiced to know that one man at least had been saved from its ravages.The man was of the common order, and though clothed in a rough woodman’s suit it was plain to see he was a soldier.He fell at the feet of the prince and poured forth his thanks for the shelter given him that night.“And who art thou?” asked Sigurd, to whom such thanks were never welcome.“I am a servant of King Ulf thy brother.”At the mention of the king’s name the faces of those present fell, and Sigurd asked, sternly—“And what is thy errand here?”“I was sent,” said the man, “with two others, to spy into your state here. The king has heard of your merrymakings and of your alliance with the English king. He bade us see how you were armed and how prepared for a sudden assault, and then return secretly and report it to him.”“And is it thus you perform your errand?” cried Sigurd. “Where are thy companions?”“Drowned, my liege, in the fiord, as I had been but for your gracious help.”“And when is the king coming to assault this tower?” demanded an English noble who sat near.“Never,” said the man, shortly.“And why?” asked Sigurd.“Oh, my liege,” said the man, dropping once more on his knees, “please Heaven, in a week’s time there will be no king in all this land but Sigurd.”The hero started from his seat and seized the man roughly.“What is it you say?” he cried. “Speak out, and that plainly, or it will be worse for you!”“On this day week,” said the trembling serf, “Ulf is to visit his castle of Niflheim. He goes there alone, as you, my liege, came hither, to receive his bride. But he will never return the way he came, for Bur and Harald, your friends, my prince, have vowed to slay him there, and at one blow rid the land of a tyrant and give it a just and good king.”When Sigurd heard this he turned white and red with wrath and fear. Fiercely he summoned his guards, and bade them seize the spy and cast him into the dungeon.Then, as soon as words came, he turned to the company and said—“You hear what this knave says?”“Yes, we hear,” cried some, “and we rejoice that Sigurd’s day has come at last. Long live King Sigurd!”Then Sigurd struck the table with his fist as he started to his feet and glared at the rash companions.“Villains!” he shouted, with a voice that made the room itself tremble. “Yes, Sigurd’s day has come—the day for teaching cowards like you the duty of a knight and a brother. Ulf, at his bridal, unarmed, slain by traitors’ hands. Is that the chivalry ye praise? If so, begone from my sight and reach of this arm! But ’tis no time for talk. Without there, my arms! and saddle my horse!”“What means this!” cried all. “Where go you, Sigurd?”“I go to my brother,” he said.“Your brother! Ulf is eight days’ sail from here!”“’Tis but five days across the forest,” said the hero.At this the ladies shrieked, and all looked on Sigurd as a man that is mad.“The forest, said you?” cried one. “It swarms with wolves, Sigurd, and where the wolves are not, the robbers lurk.”Sigurd smiled scornfully. “It is wolves and robbers I go to seek,” he said.“If thou wilt go,” they said then, “we will go with thee.”“No!” cried Sigurd. “I go alone. Let him who loves me remain here and guard my lady. I can trust you to be true to a lady—but ye have yet to learn to be loyal to a prince.”At this many hung their heads and were silent.Sigurd meanwhile put on his armour, and turned hurriedly to bid farewell to his wife. The hero’s voice trembled as he prayed Heaven to guard over her.They all accompanied him to the courtyard, where, quickly mounting, he departed, and rode slowly forward into the forest.Sigurd rode slowly forward into the forest, and as he entered it he turned for one last look at the brave old castle which held within its walls the joy of his life—and a soft voice at his ear whispered “Return!”Yet he halted not, nor did his courage waver, for another voice, louder than the other, cried “Onward!” It seemed like his brother’s voice, as he had known it years ago, before troubles came, and when as merry boys the two lived with but one heart between them. And at the sound he put spurs to his horse and plunged into the wood.Gloomy indeed was this forest of lonely pines, which rocked and groaned in the wind, and in which a dim twilight deepening often into black darkness reigned on every hand. And gloomier still were those distant cries which rose ever and again above the tempest, and caused even the brave horse to shiver as he heard them.But Sigurd shivered not, but rode forward, trusting in his God and listening only to that old-remembered voice ahead.For a league the road was easy and the perils few. For thus far the woodman’s axe had often fallen amidst the thick underwood, clearing a path among the trees and driving before it the sullen wolves into the deeper recesses of the forest.But as Sigurd rode on, and the boughs overhead closed in between him and the light of day, these few traces of man’s hand vanished.His good horse stumbled painfully over the tangled ground, often hardly finding himself a path among the dense trunks. And all around, those wild yells which had mingled with the tempest seemed to draw closer, as though eagerly awaiting the horse and its rider somewhere not far off.Sigurd heeded them not, but cheered himself as he rode on by calling to mind some of the beautiful stories of the old religion of his land. He thought of the elves and fairies who were said to dwell in these very forests, and at midnight to creep up from their hiding-places and gambol and play tricks among the flowers and dewdrops with the wild bees and the summer insects, or dance in magic circles on the greensward. And it did his heart good to feel he was not alone, but that these merry little companions were with him, lightening his way and guiding his course all the night through. And he thought too of luckless dwarfs whom Odin had condemned to dig and delve all day deep in the ground, and throw fuel on the great central fire of the earth, but who at night, like the fairies, might come above and revisit then old haunts. And even these mischievous little companions helped to cheer the heart of the wayfarer and beguile his journey.And so he plodded on all through the night, resolutely plunging deeper and deeper into the forest, and leaving the Tower of the Norths Waistcoat Wind league after league farther behind.The day passed as the night had passed. Save for an occasional halt to rest his horse and refresh his body with food, nothing broke the dullness of the journey. The wolves alone were silent, waiting for the night. As the afternoon wore on Sigurd could see their gaunt forms skulking among the trees, casting many a hungry sidelong glance that way, and licking their cruel jaws as foretaste of the wished-for meal.And now Sigurd needed to stop his ears closer than ever against the voice which cried “Return!” and set his face still more steadfastly towards Niflheim. For though his heart never faltered, his spirits drooped as another night closed in, and weary and oppressed he pushed onward.The fairies no longer cheered him, nor could he smile again at the antics of the dwarfs. The soft voice of one behind was all he heard, and the music of its tones was sad. The voice before still cried “Onward,” but it mingled dismally with the storm overhead and the wild and ever-increasing howling of the wolves. The horse, too, seemed to share his master’s trouble, for he stumbled forward spiritlessly, hanging his head and trembling at each approaching howl.Nearer and nearer those cruel voices closed in around him, not one but half a score. Stealthily at first they dogged their prey. Then, gaining boldness, advanced, and pressed more closely on the heels of the horse. Sigurd, as he glanced quickly round, saw a score of cruel eyes flash out in the darkness, and almost felt the hot breath in his face.One bolder than the rest made an angry snap at the horse’s heel. The unhappy animal, who long ere this had lost his wonted nerve, made a sudden bound forward, which almost unhorsed his rider. The sudden movement was the signal for the pack to leap forward with wild yells, and next moment Sigurd and his gallant horse were fighting for dear life.Desperately fought Sigurd, swinging his trusty axe right and left, and carrying at each stroke death among his savage assailants.At length the horse, beset on all sides, exhausted, wounded, dropped to the ground, unable longer to hold out. With a cry of savage triumph the wolves leapt upon him in a hideous, howling, struggling mass. Sigurd, scarcely gaining his feet after the fall, started forward alone. For the horse that was dead was more to the wolves than the hero who yet lived. And over the carcass they jostled and fought, and screamed ravenously, till nought remained to fight for.Sigurd knew well, as he hastened forward, axe in hand and sword in belt—his spear had broken off short—that the respite was but short. A few minutes and the pack would be once more on the trail, and then it would be his turn. Yet he prayed his God to send him help and bring him through the peril.He hurried on, yet slowly, by reason of the tangled paths and dense underwood of the forest, listening to the angry tumult behind and wondering how long before the hue and cry began once more.It was not long. Scarcely had he forced his way a half-mile when he could hear the pack following. Onward they came at a rush with hideous tumult, and Sigurd knew that the foremost would be upon him in a moment. He strode on, casting a glance back at every step, and gripping fast his trusty axe. Presently, just as he reached a small clearing among the trees, the brushwood behind him crackled, and a pair of eyes gleamed close at hand.Then Sigurd turned, and putting his back against a broad tree, waited.On they came, half sated, doubly savage with the taste of blood on their jaws.Desperately once more fought Sigurd, swinging his axe right and left and dealing death at every blow, till he stood surrounded by a half-circle of dead or dying wolves.Sigurd fought till he could scarce stand or wield his axe. Many a cruel wound weakened him, his eyes grew dim, his hand unsteady, his blows uncertain. He could do no more. The axe fell from his grasp, and he reeled back.As he did so there rose, loud above the wind and above the howling of the wolves, a cry which caused Sigurd to start once more to his feet, and the wild beasts to pause midway in their mortal onslaught.It was the deep-mouthed voice of a dog, and next moment a huge mastiff dashed from out of the thicket and fastened on the throat of the foremost wolf.It was Sigurd’s own watch-dog Thor, whom some dear hand had loosed from his chain and sent forth into the forest to guard and maybe save his master.At the sight of the great champion, and at sound of his bark, the cowardly wolves one by one slunk sullenly back into the woods, and Sigurd felt that he was saved.A joyous meeting was that between gallant master and gallant hound.“Thor, my brave dog,” cried Sigurd, “is it to thee, then, I owe my life—my brother’s life? Yet not to thee so much as to the fair lady who sent thee, a messenger of love and life to me. Thanks, Thor, thanks lady, thank most to God. Now shall I reach Niflheim even yet.”Thor wagged his great tail and barked joyfully in answer.All that night Sigurd lay secure, watched over by the sleepless Thor, whose honest bark was the sweetest music that ever lulled a hero to repose.For two days Sigurd trudged safely onward through that dense forest, with Thor, the dog, beside him. The way was hard and painful, and the hero’s limbs, now his only support, crashed wearily through the thickets. But, faint and weary though he was, his bold heart and the thought of his brother carried him through.Four days had come and gone since he quitted the Tower of the North-West Wind, and in three more Ulf would either be saved or slain. Sigurd, as he thought of it, strode sternly forward and shut his ears to all the backward voices.And, with Thor at his side, all danger from the wolves seemed at an end. As the two pressed on many a distant how! fell on their ears, many a gaunt form stole out from among the trees to gaze at them, and then steal back. Thor’s honest bark carried panic among those cruel hordes, while it comforted the heart of Sigurd.For two days, without sleep, without rest, without proper food, the hero walked on, till, on the fifth morning after quitting his castle, the light broke in among the trees, the woodman’s cheerful axe resounded through the glades, the angry howling sounded far behind, and Sigurd knew he was on the other side of the forest.In one day he would reach Jockjen, and scarce two hours’ march beyond Jockjen lay Niflheim.Thor seemed to guess his master’s mind, and with a hopeful bark bounded forward. But Sigurd regarded his companion sadly and doubtfully. He called him to him, caressed him lovingly, and said—“Good Thor, thou hast been like a messenger from God to bring me through this wood. Alas! that we must part.”Thor stopped short as he heard these last words, and moaned piteously.“Yes, good Thor,” said the hero, sadly, “for I cannot live another day without sending a message to my lady that I am safe, thanks to her and thee.”The dog, who seemed to understand it all, looked up in his master’s face beseechingly, as if to persuade him against his resolve.“The danger now is past,” said Sigurd. “No wolves haunt the forest betwixt here and Jockjen, and in the town thy presence may discover me. So haste back, good Thor, to my lady with this my message.”So saying he took from the ground a smooth strip of bark, on which, with the point of his sword, he wrote something. Then, turning to Thor, “Carry this,” he said, “to her.”And as Thor turned and hastened off on his errand, Sigurd looked after him and sighed, and wished he too were going that way.But time forbade that he should linger long thus, and once more he turned his face resolutely towards Jockjen and went on alone.Although the forest stretched some leagues farther, the trees were no longer dense or the path difficult. In parts large clearings had been made, and felled timber here and there betokened the busy hand of the woodman. Sigurd met more than one of these, who accosted him. He would not, however, tarry with any of them, but pressed eagerly forward, so that they would turn and look after this noble knight and wonder who he was, and whither he hasted.One of these simple folk with whom he waited a few minutes to partake of a hasty meal said, at parting—“Beware, my lord, of the robbers who haunt the skirts of the forest. They come suddenly upon the unwary traveller, and have no pity.”Sigurd smiled.“I have passed the four-footed wolves,” he said; “I fear not the two-footed.”“Nay, but,” said the peasant, “they are not to be despised. Ever since Sigurd was banished many of his soldiers have deserted the king, and now live the robber’s life in these woods. Stay here, my lord, till a band of us will be going to Jockjen together.”But Sigurd smiled scornfully, and, thanking the man, started forward, fearing nothing save arriving too late at Niflheim.Yet the woodman’s warning was not lost upon him, for he walked with his drawn sword in his hand, keeping both his eyes and ears open as he went.All that day he pressed onward, and towards evening came to a lonely part of the wood, where the trees for a short space all round closed thickly overhead and shut out the light. He had passed through this spot, and was once more emerging into the open, when three men suddenly sprang out of the thicket and faced him.Two of them were in the garb of common peasants, and carried, the one a club, the other a knife. Sigurd guessed them at once to be two of the robbers of whom the woodman had warned him. Their companion was a powerful man in the dress of a soldier, and carried a sword. In him, though he knew not the man, Sigurd recognised a soldier of the army of the king, who, as he might guess, had deserted his lawful calling for the life of a bandit.The party was plainly unprepared to meet a knight fully armed. They had expected rather to find some defenceless merchant, or even woodman, whom they might easily overcome and as easily rob.They fell back an instant before the noble form of Sigurd, but the next, true to their calling, rushed upon him, shouting to him to surrender and yield up whatever of value he might possess on his person.Sigurd wasted not a word in replying to this insolent challenge, but defended himself against the sudden assault. At the first onslaught the two bandits were foremost, who thought to bear him down by sheer weight. But Sigurd, stepping back a pace, caught the knife of the one on his shield, while with his own sword he ran his comrade through the body. So quickly was it done, that the soldier, advancing wildly to the attack, stumbled and fell over the body of the prostrate man; and before he could rise again to his feet, a second thrust from Sigurd’s sword had laid low the other bandit beside his comrade.The soldier, therefore, was the only adversary that remained, and of him Sigurd thought to make short work; but in this he judged wrongly, for this robber proved to be a man of extraordinary strength and agility, while Sigurd himself was faint and jaded with his long and painful march.For an hour that afternoon the woods resounded with the clash of swords. The two men spoke not a word, but fought with teeth set and lips closed. Once and again, by common consent, they halted, leaning on their swords for breath, but as often closed again more furiously than ever. It surprised Sigurd to find an adversary so resolute and dextrous. At another time it might have pleased him, for he loved courage even in an adversary; but now, when every hour lost meant peril to Ulf, his bosom swelled with wrath and disappointment. By force of superior weight he drove his adversary back inch by inch, till at the end of an hour the two stood some yards distant from the spot where the fight began.Yet, though falling back, the soldier kept a bold guard, and while not inflicting any wound on his enemy, was able to ward off all blows aimed at himself.At length, when for a moment Sigurd seemed to flag in the combat, the man gathered himself together for one mighty stroke at the hero’s head. It fell like a thunderbolt but Sigurd saw it in time and caught it on his uplifted sword, and with such force that the soldier’s weapon broke in two, and he himself, overbalanced by the shock, fell backwards to the ground.Then Sigurd, with a glance of triumph, planted his foot on the body of his prostrate foe, and prepared to avenge the delay of that hour’s combat.The man neither struggled nor called for mercy, but looked boldly up in his victor’s face and awaited death with a smile.The sword of Sigurd did not descend. Some passing memory, perchance, or some soft voice breathing mercy, held it back. He drew back his foot, and sheathing his weapon, said—“Keep thy life, and return and serve the king thy master.”The man lay for a moment as one bewildered, then springing to his feet, and casting from him his broken sword, he knelt and cried—“Oh, merciful knight, to thee I owe my life, and it is thee I will serve to the world’s end!”“Peace!” said Sigurd, sternly; “this is no time for parley. I must be in Jockjen this night. Follow me if thou wilt thus far.”And with that he began to stride once more forward with rapid steps, followed closely by his late adversary.Sigurd uttered not a word, but walked with sword drawn as before, fearing nothing save to arrive too late at Niflheim.Once, as they neared Jockjen, two other robbers rushed out from the woods as if to attack him, but when they perceived the stalwart champion who followed hasten forward and place himself beside the traveller, they refrained, and departed suddenly the way they came.And now they were come at last to Jockjen. But when Sigurd made as though he would enter the town, his follower hastened to overtake him, and said—“My knight, avoid this town, for Ulf, the king, is here, and has commanded that no stranger enter it.”“Is Ulf here?” inquired Sigurd. “They told me he was at Niflheim.”The man looked strangely at him.“My lord,” said he, “you know what only a few know. Ulf is to be at Niflheim.”“When?” demanded Sigurd.“This night,” said the man.Sigurd answered nothing, but walked on quickly. The man, seeing that he was determined to enter the town, followed cautiously and at a distance, waiting to see what might happen.It was evening as Sigurd entered Jockjen. The little town, overshadowed by its grim fortress, was astir with unwonted bustle. For the king’s marriage on the morrow had brought together many of the country people, who, though they loved not Ulf, loved a pageant, and a holiday to see it in. And besides them many soldiers were there who talked mysteriously at street corners, and seemed to have other business than merry-making on hand.Sigurd passed unheeded through the streets, keeping his face hid in his cloak, and avoiding all points where the crowd seemed large or curious.He was hastening thus stealthily down a by-street which led towards Niflheim, when he suddenly became aware of a small group of men before him, under the shadow of a high wall, in eager talk.He halted, for, by their eager gestures and cautious looks, he judged them to be desperate men, whom it would be well for him to avoid rather then meet. Withdrawing quickly into a deeper shade, he waited with impatience till their conference should be over.As he waited he heard them speak.“By this time,” said one, “he should have learned what is in store.”“Doubtless,” said another. “Yet I am glad it was no earlier, for it will all be over before he can prevent it.”“Ulf once dead,” said the first, “Sigurd cannot help being the king, however much he may dislike it.”“Nay, he dislikes not being king, but he is so foolishly tender about his brother.”The other laughed.“There are others, I trust, will not be foolishly tender with his brother this night. At what hour is the deed to be done?”“By midnight.”At this Sigurd, who had heard it all, could not refrain from starting where he stood.The men heard him in an instant, and finding themselves thus discovered, rushed with one accord on the hero.Before Sigurd could draw his sword or offer any resistance he was overpowered and held fast by his assailants who, for fear he should cry aloud and alarm the town, threw a cloak over his head and led him off quickly to the castle.Here, when the guards came out and inquired what it all meant, “This man,” they said, “we know to be an enemy of the king’s, who has come disguised to this town to do him some harm; keep him fast till the morning.”The guard, without so much as uncovering Sigurd’s face, hurried him through the gate, and brought him to a dark dungeon, into which they thrust him, turning the key twice upon him.Then Sigurd cast himself on the floor in despair.To find himself thus confined, after all the fatigues he had suffered and all the perils he had escaped, was fearful indeed, the more so because he knew his brother was close at hand, and yet must die with no brotherly hand to help him. For himself he cared nought. The men who had cast him there called themselves his friends, and, as he knew, desired only to keep him fast, believing him to be a stranger who might disclose their plot. When all was over and Ulf dead, they would release him and perchance discover who he was.Sigurd wished he might die before the morning.But presently, as he lay, he heard a sound of feet on the pavement without approaching his dungeon.The door slowly opened and a monk stood before him.The hope that dawned in Sigurd’s breast as the door opened faded again as a gruff voice without said—“Do thy work quickly, father. A short shrift is all the villain deserves.”With that the door closed again, and Sigurd and the monk were left in darkness.“I am to die, then?” asked the hero of the holy man.“’Tis reported,” said the monk, “you seek the king’s life; therefore in the morning you are to die. But,” added he, speaking lower, “you shall not die, my lord.”Sigurd started, not at the words, but at the voice that uttered them.“Who art thou?” he whispered.“One who owes thee his life, and would repay thee, my lord. I am he whom thou sparedst but lately in the wood.”In the dark Sigurd could not see his face, but he knew he spoke the truth.“Quick,” said the man, throwing off his gown and hood; “off with thy armour, my lord, and don these. There is no time to spare.”For a moment Sigurd paused, amazed at the man’s offer. Then the thought of Ulf decided him.“Brave friend,” said he, “Heaven bless you for your aid. For four hours I accept thy deliverance and borrow my freedom. If before then I have not returned, call me a coward and a knave.”“Speak not of borrowing, my lord,” said the man. “Heaven forbid I should require again the poor life thou thyself didst give me.”“Peace!” said Sigurd, quickly casting off his armour and covering himself in the monk’s garb.In a few moments the exchange was made. Then Sigurd, grasping the hand of his brave deliverer, pulled the hood low over his face, and stepped to the door and knocked. The guard without unlocked the door, and as he did so the robber, crouching in a distant corner of the dungeon; clanked his arms and sighed.“Ha, ha! brave monk,” said the guard to Sigurd, laughingly. “This villain likes not your news, ’tis clear. You have done your task, the headsman shall soon do his.”Sigurd said nothing, but, with head bent and hands clasped, walked slowly from the cell and on towards the gate.Here no man stopped him, but some more devout than the rest rendered obeisance, and crossed themselves as he passed.Once out of the castle Sigurd breathed freely, and with thankful heart quickened his pace through the fast emptying streets in the direction of Niflheim.A double care now pressed on him. The first on account of his brother’s danger, the other lest he himself, in his efforts to save the king, should be detained, and so unable to keep faith with the brave man he had left in his place in the dungeon.He therefore pressed on with all speed, unheeded by passers-by, to whom the sight of a monk hurrying on some mission of mercy was no strange thing.In due time, in the dim twilight, the castle of Niflheim rose before him, and he felt that his journey was nearly done.Late as it was, there was revelling going on in the palace. Knights and ladies crowded the halls, whilst without, in the outer rooms, persons of all degrees congregated to witness the festivities and share in the hospitalities of the royal bridegroom. For though Ulf was hated by all, some, either through fear or greediness, failed not to keep up a show of loyalty and even mirth in the royal presence.Sigurd entered the palace unchallenged, and mingled with the outer throng of onlookers. No one noticed him, but he, looking round from under his hood, could see many faces that he knew, and amongst them the conspirators whom he had that evening overheard plotting in the streets of Jockjen. The sight of these men doubled his uneasiness, for the appointed hour was nearly come, and unless he fulfilled his errand forthwith he might yet be too late.He therefore approached a knight whom he knew to be still faithful to the king, and drawing him aside, said—“Sir, I would speak with the king. I have great news for him.”“You cannot speak to-night, holy friar,” said the knight, “for the king is banqueting. Come in the morning.”“It may be too late in the morning,” said Sigurd.“Why, what news have you that is so urgent?” demanded the soldier.“I bear news of Sigurd, the king’s brother, who is approaching, and may be here to-night.”“Ha!” exclaimed the knight, eagerly; “Sigurd advancing! How many has he with him? and does he come in peace or war?”“You know,” said Sigurd, “there is no peace between Ulf and Sigurd; but I pray you take me to the king, for I have more news that will not bear delay.”At this the soldier went, and Sigurd waited anxiously.The knight soon returned.“The king,” said he, “will see you anon, after he shall have spoken to four worthy citizens of Jockjen who have craved a secret audience.”So saying he left him and advanced to where the conspirators stood expecting to be summoned.Then Sigurd could contain himself no longer. With hurried strides, pushing his way among the crowd, he followed and overtook the knight before he could deliver his summons. Seizing him fiercely by the arm, in a way which made the man of war start in amazement, he led him aside, and said eagerly—“Sir, I must see the king before those men.” The knight, in anger at being thus handled, cast him off roughly. But Sigurd would not be daunted.“Bring me to the king,” he said, “or I will go to him without thy leave.”The knight, amazed at being thus spoken to, looked round, and made as though he would summon the guard; but Sigurd seeing it, and now grown desperate, caught him by the neck, and putting his mouth to his ear, whispered something, which done, he drew back, and for a moment lifted the hood from his face.The knight started in amazement, but quickly recovering his presence of mind, stepped aside with Sigurd.Then Sigurd, knowing the man to be loyal and trustworthy, hurriedly told him all, and charged him to be secret, and see to his brother’s safety.The knight begged him to remain and see the king; but Sigurd, fearing all delay, and feeling that his task at the castle was done, would not stay, but departed forthwith.Before he had well left the place the four conspirators were arrested, and lodged in the deepest dungeon of the fortress. The guards, especially such as stood near the person of the king, were enlarged, the guests were quietly dispersed, and that night Ulf slept secure at Niflheim, little dreaming of the peril he had escaped or of the brother who had saved him.Sigurd, meanwhile, light at heart, sped on the wings of the wind back to Jockjen. People wondered at the wild haste of the monk as he passed. But he looked neither right nor left till he stood once more at the great gate of the castle.The guard stood at the entrance as before.“Thou art returned betimes, holy father,” said he, “for our prisoner is like to want thee for a last shrift presently.”Great was Sigurd’s joy to learn that he was in time, and that the man he had left behind lived still.“When is he to die?” he inquired.“Before an hour is past,” said the guard.“For what crime?”The guard laughed. “You are a stranger in Ulf’s kingdom, monk, if you think a man needs to be a criminal in order to die. But, in truth, the king knows nothing of it.”“What is the man’s name?” said Sigurd.“I know not.”“Did you see his face or hear his voice?”“No; why should we? We could believe those who brought him here.”“And were they the king’s officers?”“The king’s that is now,” said the guard.“Why?” exclaimed Sigurd; “what do you mean? Is not Ulf the king?”“No,” said the man. “When you went out two hours ago he was, but now Sigurd is king.”“False villain!” cried Sigurd, catching the fellow by the throat; “thou art a traitor like all the rest.”The soldier, astonished to be thus assailed by a monk, stood for a moment speechless; and before he could find words Sigurd had cast back the hood from his own head.The man, who knew him at once, turned pale as ashes, and, trembling from head to foot, fell on his knees.But Sigurd scornfully bade him rise and summon the guard, which he did. Great was the amazement of the soldiers as they assembled, to see a monk bareheaded stand with his hand on the throat of their comrade. And greater still did it become when they recognised in those stern, noble features their own Prince Sigurd.Before they could recover their presence of mind, Sigurd held up his hand to enjoin silence, and said—“Let two men go at once to the dungeon and bring the prisoner out.”While they were gone the group stood silent, as men half dazed, and wondered what would happen next.In a few moments the two guards returned, bringing with them the prisoner, whom Sigurd greeted with every token of gratitude and joy.“Brave friend,” he exclaimed, “but for thy generous devotion this night might have ended in murder and ruin, and these knaves and their friends might have done their king and me a grievous wrong. Accept Sigurd’s thanks.”“What!” exclaimed the prisoner, falling on his knees, “art thou Sigurd? Do I owe my poor life to the bravest of all heroes?”“I owe my life to thee, rather,” said Sigurd; “and not mine only, but my brother’s.” Then turning to the bewildered and shame-struck soldiers, he said—“Men!—for I scorn to call you friends!—it remains for you to choose between your duty or the punishment reserved for traitors. You may thank Heaven your wicked plans for this night have been foiled, and that, traitors though you be, you do not stand here as murderers also. Let those who refuse to return to their allegiance stand forward.”Not a man moved.“Then,” said Sigurd, “I demand a pledge of your loyalty.”“We will prove it with our lives!” cried the men, conscience-struck, and meaning what they said.“All I ask,” said Sigurd, “is, that not a man here breathes a word of this night’s doing. Besides yourselves, one man only knows of my being at Niflheim, and he has vowed secrecy. Do you do the same?”The soldiers eagerly gave the required pledge.“I leave you now,” said Sigurd, “at the post of duty. Let him who would serve me, serve my king.”“We will! we will!” cried the men.Sigurd held up his hand.“It is enough,” said he; “I am content. And you, friend,” said he to the late prisoner, “will you accompany me home?”The man joyfully consented, and that same night those two departed to the sea, and before morning were darting over the waves towards the Castle of the North-West Wind.Sigurd’s secret was safely kept. Ulf, to the day of his death, knew nothing of his brother’s journey to Niflheim; nor could he tell the reason why the loyalty of his soldiers revived from that time forward. He died in battle not long after, yet he lived long enough to repent of his harshness towards his brother, and to desire to see him again. Messengers from him were on their way to the Tower of the North-West Wind at the time when he fell on the field of Brulform. Sigurd’s first act after becoming king was to erect a monument on the spot where Ulf fell, with this simple inscription, which may be read to this day, “To my Brother.”

On the rugged shore of the Northern Sea, where the summer sun never sets, there stood long ago a grim bleak fortress, called the Tower of the North-West Wind. Before it stretched the sea, which thundered ceaselessly at its base, like a wolf that gnaws at the root of some noble oak. On either side of it glittered the blue fiord, dotted with numberless islets, throwing its long arms far inland. Behind it frowned a dense forest of pines as far as eye could reach, in which the wind roared day and night, mingled often with the angry howls of the wolves.

The Tower of the North-West Wind stood there, the solitary work of man in all that wild landscape. Not a sign of life was to be seen besides. Not even a fisherman’s hut on the shores of the fiord, or a woodman’s shed among the trees. The stranger might easily have taken the rugged pile itself for a part of the black cliff on which it stood. No road seemed to lead up to it, no banner floated from its walls, no trumpet startled the sea-birds that lodged amongst its turrets.

Yet the old castle was not the deserted place it looked, for here dwelt Sigurd, the mightiest hero of all that land, brother to Ulf, the king.

Men hated Ulf as much as they loved his brother; for Sigurd, with all his prowess, was just and generous, and lied to no man.

“If Sigurd were but king,” said they one to the other, “our land would be the happiest the sun shines upon. As it is, Ulf makes us wretched. We had rather be his enemies than his friends.”

But though they said this one to another, Sigurd listened to none of it, and when they urged him to rebel, he sternly bade them hold their peace. And he went forth and fought the battles of the king, his brother, and they followed him, wishing only the battle-cry were “Sigurd!” and not “Ulf!”

For all this loyalty the king gave his brother little thanks. Indeed, as victory followed victory, and Sigurd’s fame rose higher and higher, Ulf’s heart swelled with jealousy, and jealousy presently grew to hate. For it was not in Ulf’s nature to endure that another should be held greater than himself. So, instead of rewarding his brother for his service, he accused him and degraded him, and made another general in his place.

“Now,” said the soldiers, “our chief will surely rebel, and we will follow his lead, and pluck down Ulf from the throne and set up our Sigurd.”

But Sigurd sternly silenced them, and bade them serve their king as they feared him. He meanwhile departed sadly from his brother’s court, and came and dwelt alone in his Tower of the North-West Wind.

For many weeks the time passed slowly, as Sigurd brooded over his wrongs and pined in idleness.

Yet this grieved him less than the secret visits of not a few of his old comrades, who had deserted Ulf, and now came begging him to lead them forth and rid the land of a tyrant. He sent them each sternly away, bidding them, on pain of his anger, return to their duty and serve the king; and they durst not disobey.

So passed many a weary month in the Tower of the North-West Wind, when one bright summer day a little fleet of English ships sailed gaily up the fiord under the castle walls.

Sigurd joyfully bade the voyagers welcome to his castle, for the chief of the little band was Raedwald, an English king, whom Sigurd himself only two years before had visited in his own land. There, too, he had met not Raedwald only, but Raedwald’s beautiful daughter, who now, with her gay train of attendants, accompanied her father on this visit to his friend and comrade.

And now the days passed gaily and only too swiftly for the happy Sigurd. In the company of Raedwald and amid the smiles of the ladies, Ulf was forgotten, and all the wrongs of the past vanished. The Tower of the North-west Wind was no longer a gloomy fortress, but a gay palace, and, like the summer day in the northern heavens, the sun of Sigurd’s content knew no setting.

Before the day of Raedwald’s departure arrived a wedding had taken place in the chapel of the good old Tower, and the English king, as he hauled his anchors and set his sails westward, knew not whether to mourn over the daughter he had given up or to rejoice over the son he had gained.

As for Sigurd, he could do nothing but rejoice, and some who saw him and heard him laugh said, smiling—

“The queen his wife is a fairer sweetheart than was the king his brother. Ulf and our country and all of us are forgotten in the smiles of this little English maiden.”

But three days after Raedwald had sailed a storm broke over the Tower of the North-West Wind. The summer sea lashed furiously against the rocks, and far up the fiord the angry breakers rushed in, so that no boat could live upon their surface for an hour.

That night as Sigurd sat heedless of the hurricane without and feasted with his lords and ladies, they came and told him that a raft had been driven ashore at the foot of the castle, with a man upon it half dead. Sigurd bade them instantly bring him to the castle, and give him fire and clothing and food, to revive him in his unhappy plight.

This they did, and presently came to the hero with the hews that the man lived and desired to speak with his deliverer. So Sigurd ordered him to be brought up. And as the tempest raged without, his heart rejoiced to know that one man at least had been saved from its ravages.

The man was of the common order, and though clothed in a rough woodman’s suit it was plain to see he was a soldier.

He fell at the feet of the prince and poured forth his thanks for the shelter given him that night.

“And who art thou?” asked Sigurd, to whom such thanks were never welcome.

“I am a servant of King Ulf thy brother.”

At the mention of the king’s name the faces of those present fell, and Sigurd asked, sternly—

“And what is thy errand here?”

“I was sent,” said the man, “with two others, to spy into your state here. The king has heard of your merrymakings and of your alliance with the English king. He bade us see how you were armed and how prepared for a sudden assault, and then return secretly and report it to him.”

“And is it thus you perform your errand?” cried Sigurd. “Where are thy companions?”

“Drowned, my liege, in the fiord, as I had been but for your gracious help.”

“And when is the king coming to assault this tower?” demanded an English noble who sat near.

“Never,” said the man, shortly.

“And why?” asked Sigurd.

“Oh, my liege,” said the man, dropping once more on his knees, “please Heaven, in a week’s time there will be no king in all this land but Sigurd.”

The hero started from his seat and seized the man roughly.

“What is it you say?” he cried. “Speak out, and that plainly, or it will be worse for you!”

“On this day week,” said the trembling serf, “Ulf is to visit his castle of Niflheim. He goes there alone, as you, my liege, came hither, to receive his bride. But he will never return the way he came, for Bur and Harald, your friends, my prince, have vowed to slay him there, and at one blow rid the land of a tyrant and give it a just and good king.”

When Sigurd heard this he turned white and red with wrath and fear. Fiercely he summoned his guards, and bade them seize the spy and cast him into the dungeon.

Then, as soon as words came, he turned to the company and said—

“You hear what this knave says?”

“Yes, we hear,” cried some, “and we rejoice that Sigurd’s day has come at last. Long live King Sigurd!”

Then Sigurd struck the table with his fist as he started to his feet and glared at the rash companions.

“Villains!” he shouted, with a voice that made the room itself tremble. “Yes, Sigurd’s day has come—the day for teaching cowards like you the duty of a knight and a brother. Ulf, at his bridal, unarmed, slain by traitors’ hands. Is that the chivalry ye praise? If so, begone from my sight and reach of this arm! But ’tis no time for talk. Without there, my arms! and saddle my horse!”

“What means this!” cried all. “Where go you, Sigurd?”

“I go to my brother,” he said.

“Your brother! Ulf is eight days’ sail from here!”

“’Tis but five days across the forest,” said the hero.

At this the ladies shrieked, and all looked on Sigurd as a man that is mad.

“The forest, said you?” cried one. “It swarms with wolves, Sigurd, and where the wolves are not, the robbers lurk.”

Sigurd smiled scornfully. “It is wolves and robbers I go to seek,” he said.

“If thou wilt go,” they said then, “we will go with thee.”

“No!” cried Sigurd. “I go alone. Let him who loves me remain here and guard my lady. I can trust you to be true to a lady—but ye have yet to learn to be loyal to a prince.”

At this many hung their heads and were silent.

Sigurd meanwhile put on his armour, and turned hurriedly to bid farewell to his wife. The hero’s voice trembled as he prayed Heaven to guard over her.

They all accompanied him to the courtyard, where, quickly mounting, he departed, and rode slowly forward into the forest.

Sigurd rode slowly forward into the forest, and as he entered it he turned for one last look at the brave old castle which held within its walls the joy of his life—and a soft voice at his ear whispered “Return!”

Yet he halted not, nor did his courage waver, for another voice, louder than the other, cried “Onward!” It seemed like his brother’s voice, as he had known it years ago, before troubles came, and when as merry boys the two lived with but one heart between them. And at the sound he put spurs to his horse and plunged into the wood.

Gloomy indeed was this forest of lonely pines, which rocked and groaned in the wind, and in which a dim twilight deepening often into black darkness reigned on every hand. And gloomier still were those distant cries which rose ever and again above the tempest, and caused even the brave horse to shiver as he heard them.

But Sigurd shivered not, but rode forward, trusting in his God and listening only to that old-remembered voice ahead.

For a league the road was easy and the perils few. For thus far the woodman’s axe had often fallen amidst the thick underwood, clearing a path among the trees and driving before it the sullen wolves into the deeper recesses of the forest.

But as Sigurd rode on, and the boughs overhead closed in between him and the light of day, these few traces of man’s hand vanished.

His good horse stumbled painfully over the tangled ground, often hardly finding himself a path among the dense trunks. And all around, those wild yells which had mingled with the tempest seemed to draw closer, as though eagerly awaiting the horse and its rider somewhere not far off.

Sigurd heeded them not, but cheered himself as he rode on by calling to mind some of the beautiful stories of the old religion of his land. He thought of the elves and fairies who were said to dwell in these very forests, and at midnight to creep up from their hiding-places and gambol and play tricks among the flowers and dewdrops with the wild bees and the summer insects, or dance in magic circles on the greensward. And it did his heart good to feel he was not alone, but that these merry little companions were with him, lightening his way and guiding his course all the night through. And he thought too of luckless dwarfs whom Odin had condemned to dig and delve all day deep in the ground, and throw fuel on the great central fire of the earth, but who at night, like the fairies, might come above and revisit then old haunts. And even these mischievous little companions helped to cheer the heart of the wayfarer and beguile his journey.

And so he plodded on all through the night, resolutely plunging deeper and deeper into the forest, and leaving the Tower of the Norths Waistcoat Wind league after league farther behind.

The day passed as the night had passed. Save for an occasional halt to rest his horse and refresh his body with food, nothing broke the dullness of the journey. The wolves alone were silent, waiting for the night. As the afternoon wore on Sigurd could see their gaunt forms skulking among the trees, casting many a hungry sidelong glance that way, and licking their cruel jaws as foretaste of the wished-for meal.

And now Sigurd needed to stop his ears closer than ever against the voice which cried “Return!” and set his face still more steadfastly towards Niflheim. For though his heart never faltered, his spirits drooped as another night closed in, and weary and oppressed he pushed onward.

The fairies no longer cheered him, nor could he smile again at the antics of the dwarfs. The soft voice of one behind was all he heard, and the music of its tones was sad. The voice before still cried “Onward,” but it mingled dismally with the storm overhead and the wild and ever-increasing howling of the wolves. The horse, too, seemed to share his master’s trouble, for he stumbled forward spiritlessly, hanging his head and trembling at each approaching howl.

Nearer and nearer those cruel voices closed in around him, not one but half a score. Stealthily at first they dogged their prey. Then, gaining boldness, advanced, and pressed more closely on the heels of the horse. Sigurd, as he glanced quickly round, saw a score of cruel eyes flash out in the darkness, and almost felt the hot breath in his face.

One bolder than the rest made an angry snap at the horse’s heel. The unhappy animal, who long ere this had lost his wonted nerve, made a sudden bound forward, which almost unhorsed his rider. The sudden movement was the signal for the pack to leap forward with wild yells, and next moment Sigurd and his gallant horse were fighting for dear life.

Desperately fought Sigurd, swinging his trusty axe right and left, and carrying at each stroke death among his savage assailants.

At length the horse, beset on all sides, exhausted, wounded, dropped to the ground, unable longer to hold out. With a cry of savage triumph the wolves leapt upon him in a hideous, howling, struggling mass. Sigurd, scarcely gaining his feet after the fall, started forward alone. For the horse that was dead was more to the wolves than the hero who yet lived. And over the carcass they jostled and fought, and screamed ravenously, till nought remained to fight for.

Sigurd knew well, as he hastened forward, axe in hand and sword in belt—his spear had broken off short—that the respite was but short. A few minutes and the pack would be once more on the trail, and then it would be his turn. Yet he prayed his God to send him help and bring him through the peril.

He hurried on, yet slowly, by reason of the tangled paths and dense underwood of the forest, listening to the angry tumult behind and wondering how long before the hue and cry began once more.

It was not long. Scarcely had he forced his way a half-mile when he could hear the pack following. Onward they came at a rush with hideous tumult, and Sigurd knew that the foremost would be upon him in a moment. He strode on, casting a glance back at every step, and gripping fast his trusty axe. Presently, just as he reached a small clearing among the trees, the brushwood behind him crackled, and a pair of eyes gleamed close at hand.

Then Sigurd turned, and putting his back against a broad tree, waited.

On they came, half sated, doubly savage with the taste of blood on their jaws.

Desperately once more fought Sigurd, swinging his axe right and left and dealing death at every blow, till he stood surrounded by a half-circle of dead or dying wolves.

Sigurd fought till he could scarce stand or wield his axe. Many a cruel wound weakened him, his eyes grew dim, his hand unsteady, his blows uncertain. He could do no more. The axe fell from his grasp, and he reeled back.

As he did so there rose, loud above the wind and above the howling of the wolves, a cry which caused Sigurd to start once more to his feet, and the wild beasts to pause midway in their mortal onslaught.

It was the deep-mouthed voice of a dog, and next moment a huge mastiff dashed from out of the thicket and fastened on the throat of the foremost wolf.

It was Sigurd’s own watch-dog Thor, whom some dear hand had loosed from his chain and sent forth into the forest to guard and maybe save his master.

At the sight of the great champion, and at sound of his bark, the cowardly wolves one by one slunk sullenly back into the woods, and Sigurd felt that he was saved.

A joyous meeting was that between gallant master and gallant hound.

“Thor, my brave dog,” cried Sigurd, “is it to thee, then, I owe my life—my brother’s life? Yet not to thee so much as to the fair lady who sent thee, a messenger of love and life to me. Thanks, Thor, thanks lady, thank most to God. Now shall I reach Niflheim even yet.”

Thor wagged his great tail and barked joyfully in answer.

All that night Sigurd lay secure, watched over by the sleepless Thor, whose honest bark was the sweetest music that ever lulled a hero to repose.

For two days Sigurd trudged safely onward through that dense forest, with Thor, the dog, beside him. The way was hard and painful, and the hero’s limbs, now his only support, crashed wearily through the thickets. But, faint and weary though he was, his bold heart and the thought of his brother carried him through.

Four days had come and gone since he quitted the Tower of the North-West Wind, and in three more Ulf would either be saved or slain. Sigurd, as he thought of it, strode sternly forward and shut his ears to all the backward voices.

And, with Thor at his side, all danger from the wolves seemed at an end. As the two pressed on many a distant how! fell on their ears, many a gaunt form stole out from among the trees to gaze at them, and then steal back. Thor’s honest bark carried panic among those cruel hordes, while it comforted the heart of Sigurd.

For two days, without sleep, without rest, without proper food, the hero walked on, till, on the fifth morning after quitting his castle, the light broke in among the trees, the woodman’s cheerful axe resounded through the glades, the angry howling sounded far behind, and Sigurd knew he was on the other side of the forest.

In one day he would reach Jockjen, and scarce two hours’ march beyond Jockjen lay Niflheim.

Thor seemed to guess his master’s mind, and with a hopeful bark bounded forward. But Sigurd regarded his companion sadly and doubtfully. He called him to him, caressed him lovingly, and said—

“Good Thor, thou hast been like a messenger from God to bring me through this wood. Alas! that we must part.”

Thor stopped short as he heard these last words, and moaned piteously.

“Yes, good Thor,” said the hero, sadly, “for I cannot live another day without sending a message to my lady that I am safe, thanks to her and thee.”

The dog, who seemed to understand it all, looked up in his master’s face beseechingly, as if to persuade him against his resolve.

“The danger now is past,” said Sigurd. “No wolves haunt the forest betwixt here and Jockjen, and in the town thy presence may discover me. So haste back, good Thor, to my lady with this my message.”

So saying he took from the ground a smooth strip of bark, on which, with the point of his sword, he wrote something. Then, turning to Thor, “Carry this,” he said, “to her.”

And as Thor turned and hastened off on his errand, Sigurd looked after him and sighed, and wished he too were going that way.

But time forbade that he should linger long thus, and once more he turned his face resolutely towards Jockjen and went on alone.

Although the forest stretched some leagues farther, the trees were no longer dense or the path difficult. In parts large clearings had been made, and felled timber here and there betokened the busy hand of the woodman. Sigurd met more than one of these, who accosted him. He would not, however, tarry with any of them, but pressed eagerly forward, so that they would turn and look after this noble knight and wonder who he was, and whither he hasted.

One of these simple folk with whom he waited a few minutes to partake of a hasty meal said, at parting—

“Beware, my lord, of the robbers who haunt the skirts of the forest. They come suddenly upon the unwary traveller, and have no pity.”

Sigurd smiled.

“I have passed the four-footed wolves,” he said; “I fear not the two-footed.”

“Nay, but,” said the peasant, “they are not to be despised. Ever since Sigurd was banished many of his soldiers have deserted the king, and now live the robber’s life in these woods. Stay here, my lord, till a band of us will be going to Jockjen together.”

But Sigurd smiled scornfully, and, thanking the man, started forward, fearing nothing save arriving too late at Niflheim.

Yet the woodman’s warning was not lost upon him, for he walked with his drawn sword in his hand, keeping both his eyes and ears open as he went.

All that day he pressed onward, and towards evening came to a lonely part of the wood, where the trees for a short space all round closed thickly overhead and shut out the light. He had passed through this spot, and was once more emerging into the open, when three men suddenly sprang out of the thicket and faced him.

Two of them were in the garb of common peasants, and carried, the one a club, the other a knife. Sigurd guessed them at once to be two of the robbers of whom the woodman had warned him. Their companion was a powerful man in the dress of a soldier, and carried a sword. In him, though he knew not the man, Sigurd recognised a soldier of the army of the king, who, as he might guess, had deserted his lawful calling for the life of a bandit.

The party was plainly unprepared to meet a knight fully armed. They had expected rather to find some defenceless merchant, or even woodman, whom they might easily overcome and as easily rob.

They fell back an instant before the noble form of Sigurd, but the next, true to their calling, rushed upon him, shouting to him to surrender and yield up whatever of value he might possess on his person.

Sigurd wasted not a word in replying to this insolent challenge, but defended himself against the sudden assault. At the first onslaught the two bandits were foremost, who thought to bear him down by sheer weight. But Sigurd, stepping back a pace, caught the knife of the one on his shield, while with his own sword he ran his comrade through the body. So quickly was it done, that the soldier, advancing wildly to the attack, stumbled and fell over the body of the prostrate man; and before he could rise again to his feet, a second thrust from Sigurd’s sword had laid low the other bandit beside his comrade.

The soldier, therefore, was the only adversary that remained, and of him Sigurd thought to make short work; but in this he judged wrongly, for this robber proved to be a man of extraordinary strength and agility, while Sigurd himself was faint and jaded with his long and painful march.

For an hour that afternoon the woods resounded with the clash of swords. The two men spoke not a word, but fought with teeth set and lips closed. Once and again, by common consent, they halted, leaning on their swords for breath, but as often closed again more furiously than ever. It surprised Sigurd to find an adversary so resolute and dextrous. At another time it might have pleased him, for he loved courage even in an adversary; but now, when every hour lost meant peril to Ulf, his bosom swelled with wrath and disappointment. By force of superior weight he drove his adversary back inch by inch, till at the end of an hour the two stood some yards distant from the spot where the fight began.

Yet, though falling back, the soldier kept a bold guard, and while not inflicting any wound on his enemy, was able to ward off all blows aimed at himself.

At length, when for a moment Sigurd seemed to flag in the combat, the man gathered himself together for one mighty stroke at the hero’s head. It fell like a thunderbolt but Sigurd saw it in time and caught it on his uplifted sword, and with such force that the soldier’s weapon broke in two, and he himself, overbalanced by the shock, fell backwards to the ground.

Then Sigurd, with a glance of triumph, planted his foot on the body of his prostrate foe, and prepared to avenge the delay of that hour’s combat.

The man neither struggled nor called for mercy, but looked boldly up in his victor’s face and awaited death with a smile.

The sword of Sigurd did not descend. Some passing memory, perchance, or some soft voice breathing mercy, held it back. He drew back his foot, and sheathing his weapon, said—

“Keep thy life, and return and serve the king thy master.”

The man lay for a moment as one bewildered, then springing to his feet, and casting from him his broken sword, he knelt and cried—

“Oh, merciful knight, to thee I owe my life, and it is thee I will serve to the world’s end!”

“Peace!” said Sigurd, sternly; “this is no time for parley. I must be in Jockjen this night. Follow me if thou wilt thus far.”

And with that he began to stride once more forward with rapid steps, followed closely by his late adversary.

Sigurd uttered not a word, but walked with sword drawn as before, fearing nothing save to arrive too late at Niflheim.

Once, as they neared Jockjen, two other robbers rushed out from the woods as if to attack him, but when they perceived the stalwart champion who followed hasten forward and place himself beside the traveller, they refrained, and departed suddenly the way they came.

And now they were come at last to Jockjen. But when Sigurd made as though he would enter the town, his follower hastened to overtake him, and said—

“My knight, avoid this town, for Ulf, the king, is here, and has commanded that no stranger enter it.”

“Is Ulf here?” inquired Sigurd. “They told me he was at Niflheim.”

The man looked strangely at him.

“My lord,” said he, “you know what only a few know. Ulf is to be at Niflheim.”

“When?” demanded Sigurd.

“This night,” said the man.

Sigurd answered nothing, but walked on quickly. The man, seeing that he was determined to enter the town, followed cautiously and at a distance, waiting to see what might happen.

It was evening as Sigurd entered Jockjen. The little town, overshadowed by its grim fortress, was astir with unwonted bustle. For the king’s marriage on the morrow had brought together many of the country people, who, though they loved not Ulf, loved a pageant, and a holiday to see it in. And besides them many soldiers were there who talked mysteriously at street corners, and seemed to have other business than merry-making on hand.

Sigurd passed unheeded through the streets, keeping his face hid in his cloak, and avoiding all points where the crowd seemed large or curious.

He was hastening thus stealthily down a by-street which led towards Niflheim, when he suddenly became aware of a small group of men before him, under the shadow of a high wall, in eager talk.

He halted, for, by their eager gestures and cautious looks, he judged them to be desperate men, whom it would be well for him to avoid rather then meet. Withdrawing quickly into a deeper shade, he waited with impatience till their conference should be over.

As he waited he heard them speak.

“By this time,” said one, “he should have learned what is in store.”

“Doubtless,” said another. “Yet I am glad it was no earlier, for it will all be over before he can prevent it.”

“Ulf once dead,” said the first, “Sigurd cannot help being the king, however much he may dislike it.”

“Nay, he dislikes not being king, but he is so foolishly tender about his brother.”

The other laughed.

“There are others, I trust, will not be foolishly tender with his brother this night. At what hour is the deed to be done?”

“By midnight.”

At this Sigurd, who had heard it all, could not refrain from starting where he stood.

The men heard him in an instant, and finding themselves thus discovered, rushed with one accord on the hero.

Before Sigurd could draw his sword or offer any resistance he was overpowered and held fast by his assailants who, for fear he should cry aloud and alarm the town, threw a cloak over his head and led him off quickly to the castle.

Here, when the guards came out and inquired what it all meant, “This man,” they said, “we know to be an enemy of the king’s, who has come disguised to this town to do him some harm; keep him fast till the morning.”

The guard, without so much as uncovering Sigurd’s face, hurried him through the gate, and brought him to a dark dungeon, into which they thrust him, turning the key twice upon him.

Then Sigurd cast himself on the floor in despair.

To find himself thus confined, after all the fatigues he had suffered and all the perils he had escaped, was fearful indeed, the more so because he knew his brother was close at hand, and yet must die with no brotherly hand to help him. For himself he cared nought. The men who had cast him there called themselves his friends, and, as he knew, desired only to keep him fast, believing him to be a stranger who might disclose their plot. When all was over and Ulf dead, they would release him and perchance discover who he was.

Sigurd wished he might die before the morning.

But presently, as he lay, he heard a sound of feet on the pavement without approaching his dungeon.

The door slowly opened and a monk stood before him.

The hope that dawned in Sigurd’s breast as the door opened faded again as a gruff voice without said—

“Do thy work quickly, father. A short shrift is all the villain deserves.”

With that the door closed again, and Sigurd and the monk were left in darkness.

“I am to die, then?” asked the hero of the holy man.

“’Tis reported,” said the monk, “you seek the king’s life; therefore in the morning you are to die. But,” added he, speaking lower, “you shall not die, my lord.”

Sigurd started, not at the words, but at the voice that uttered them.

“Who art thou?” he whispered.

“One who owes thee his life, and would repay thee, my lord. I am he whom thou sparedst but lately in the wood.”

In the dark Sigurd could not see his face, but he knew he spoke the truth.

“Quick,” said the man, throwing off his gown and hood; “off with thy armour, my lord, and don these. There is no time to spare.”

For a moment Sigurd paused, amazed at the man’s offer. Then the thought of Ulf decided him.

“Brave friend,” said he, “Heaven bless you for your aid. For four hours I accept thy deliverance and borrow my freedom. If before then I have not returned, call me a coward and a knave.”

“Speak not of borrowing, my lord,” said the man. “Heaven forbid I should require again the poor life thou thyself didst give me.”

“Peace!” said Sigurd, quickly casting off his armour and covering himself in the monk’s garb.

In a few moments the exchange was made. Then Sigurd, grasping the hand of his brave deliverer, pulled the hood low over his face, and stepped to the door and knocked. The guard without unlocked the door, and as he did so the robber, crouching in a distant corner of the dungeon; clanked his arms and sighed.

“Ha, ha! brave monk,” said the guard to Sigurd, laughingly. “This villain likes not your news, ’tis clear. You have done your task, the headsman shall soon do his.”

Sigurd said nothing, but, with head bent and hands clasped, walked slowly from the cell and on towards the gate.

Here no man stopped him, but some more devout than the rest rendered obeisance, and crossed themselves as he passed.

Once out of the castle Sigurd breathed freely, and with thankful heart quickened his pace through the fast emptying streets in the direction of Niflheim.

A double care now pressed on him. The first on account of his brother’s danger, the other lest he himself, in his efforts to save the king, should be detained, and so unable to keep faith with the brave man he had left in his place in the dungeon.

He therefore pressed on with all speed, unheeded by passers-by, to whom the sight of a monk hurrying on some mission of mercy was no strange thing.

In due time, in the dim twilight, the castle of Niflheim rose before him, and he felt that his journey was nearly done.

Late as it was, there was revelling going on in the palace. Knights and ladies crowded the halls, whilst without, in the outer rooms, persons of all degrees congregated to witness the festivities and share in the hospitalities of the royal bridegroom. For though Ulf was hated by all, some, either through fear or greediness, failed not to keep up a show of loyalty and even mirth in the royal presence.

Sigurd entered the palace unchallenged, and mingled with the outer throng of onlookers. No one noticed him, but he, looking round from under his hood, could see many faces that he knew, and amongst them the conspirators whom he had that evening overheard plotting in the streets of Jockjen. The sight of these men doubled his uneasiness, for the appointed hour was nearly come, and unless he fulfilled his errand forthwith he might yet be too late.

He therefore approached a knight whom he knew to be still faithful to the king, and drawing him aside, said—

“Sir, I would speak with the king. I have great news for him.”

“You cannot speak to-night, holy friar,” said the knight, “for the king is banqueting. Come in the morning.”

“It may be too late in the morning,” said Sigurd.

“Why, what news have you that is so urgent?” demanded the soldier.

“I bear news of Sigurd, the king’s brother, who is approaching, and may be here to-night.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the knight, eagerly; “Sigurd advancing! How many has he with him? and does he come in peace or war?”

“You know,” said Sigurd, “there is no peace between Ulf and Sigurd; but I pray you take me to the king, for I have more news that will not bear delay.”

At this the soldier went, and Sigurd waited anxiously.

The knight soon returned.

“The king,” said he, “will see you anon, after he shall have spoken to four worthy citizens of Jockjen who have craved a secret audience.”

So saying he left him and advanced to where the conspirators stood expecting to be summoned.

Then Sigurd could contain himself no longer. With hurried strides, pushing his way among the crowd, he followed and overtook the knight before he could deliver his summons. Seizing him fiercely by the arm, in a way which made the man of war start in amazement, he led him aside, and said eagerly—

“Sir, I must see the king before those men.” The knight, in anger at being thus handled, cast him off roughly. But Sigurd would not be daunted.

“Bring me to the king,” he said, “or I will go to him without thy leave.”

The knight, amazed at being thus spoken to, looked round, and made as though he would summon the guard; but Sigurd seeing it, and now grown desperate, caught him by the neck, and putting his mouth to his ear, whispered something, which done, he drew back, and for a moment lifted the hood from his face.

The knight started in amazement, but quickly recovering his presence of mind, stepped aside with Sigurd.

Then Sigurd, knowing the man to be loyal and trustworthy, hurriedly told him all, and charged him to be secret, and see to his brother’s safety.

The knight begged him to remain and see the king; but Sigurd, fearing all delay, and feeling that his task at the castle was done, would not stay, but departed forthwith.

Before he had well left the place the four conspirators were arrested, and lodged in the deepest dungeon of the fortress. The guards, especially such as stood near the person of the king, were enlarged, the guests were quietly dispersed, and that night Ulf slept secure at Niflheim, little dreaming of the peril he had escaped or of the brother who had saved him.

Sigurd, meanwhile, light at heart, sped on the wings of the wind back to Jockjen. People wondered at the wild haste of the monk as he passed. But he looked neither right nor left till he stood once more at the great gate of the castle.

The guard stood at the entrance as before.

“Thou art returned betimes, holy father,” said he, “for our prisoner is like to want thee for a last shrift presently.”

Great was Sigurd’s joy to learn that he was in time, and that the man he had left behind lived still.

“When is he to die?” he inquired.

“Before an hour is past,” said the guard.

“For what crime?”

The guard laughed. “You are a stranger in Ulf’s kingdom, monk, if you think a man needs to be a criminal in order to die. But, in truth, the king knows nothing of it.”

“What is the man’s name?” said Sigurd.

“I know not.”

“Did you see his face or hear his voice?”

“No; why should we? We could believe those who brought him here.”

“And were they the king’s officers?”

“The king’s that is now,” said the guard.

“Why?” exclaimed Sigurd; “what do you mean? Is not Ulf the king?”

“No,” said the man. “When you went out two hours ago he was, but now Sigurd is king.”

“False villain!” cried Sigurd, catching the fellow by the throat; “thou art a traitor like all the rest.”

The soldier, astonished to be thus assailed by a monk, stood for a moment speechless; and before he could find words Sigurd had cast back the hood from his own head.

The man, who knew him at once, turned pale as ashes, and, trembling from head to foot, fell on his knees.

But Sigurd scornfully bade him rise and summon the guard, which he did. Great was the amazement of the soldiers as they assembled, to see a monk bareheaded stand with his hand on the throat of their comrade. And greater still did it become when they recognised in those stern, noble features their own Prince Sigurd.

Before they could recover their presence of mind, Sigurd held up his hand to enjoin silence, and said—

“Let two men go at once to the dungeon and bring the prisoner out.”

While they were gone the group stood silent, as men half dazed, and wondered what would happen next.

In a few moments the two guards returned, bringing with them the prisoner, whom Sigurd greeted with every token of gratitude and joy.

“Brave friend,” he exclaimed, “but for thy generous devotion this night might have ended in murder and ruin, and these knaves and their friends might have done their king and me a grievous wrong. Accept Sigurd’s thanks.”

“What!” exclaimed the prisoner, falling on his knees, “art thou Sigurd? Do I owe my poor life to the bravest of all heroes?”

“I owe my life to thee, rather,” said Sigurd; “and not mine only, but my brother’s.” Then turning to the bewildered and shame-struck soldiers, he said—

“Men!—for I scorn to call you friends!—it remains for you to choose between your duty or the punishment reserved for traitors. You may thank Heaven your wicked plans for this night have been foiled, and that, traitors though you be, you do not stand here as murderers also. Let those who refuse to return to their allegiance stand forward.”

Not a man moved.

“Then,” said Sigurd, “I demand a pledge of your loyalty.”

“We will prove it with our lives!” cried the men, conscience-struck, and meaning what they said.

“All I ask,” said Sigurd, “is, that not a man here breathes a word of this night’s doing. Besides yourselves, one man only knows of my being at Niflheim, and he has vowed secrecy. Do you do the same?”

The soldiers eagerly gave the required pledge.

“I leave you now,” said Sigurd, “at the post of duty. Let him who would serve me, serve my king.”

“We will! we will!” cried the men.

Sigurd held up his hand.

“It is enough,” said he; “I am content. And you, friend,” said he to the late prisoner, “will you accompany me home?”

The man joyfully consented, and that same night those two departed to the sea, and before morning were darting over the waves towards the Castle of the North-West Wind.

Sigurd’s secret was safely kept. Ulf, to the day of his death, knew nothing of his brother’s journey to Niflheim; nor could he tell the reason why the loyalty of his soldiers revived from that time forward. He died in battle not long after, yet he lived long enough to repent of his harshness towards his brother, and to desire to see him again. Messengers from him were on their way to the Tower of the North-West Wind at the time when he fell on the field of Brulform. Sigurd’s first act after becoming king was to erect a monument on the spot where Ulf fell, with this simple inscription, which may be read to this day, “To my Brother.”

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