“ ‘Wind, wind, in the forest tall,Do you stir the broom where my lass is waiting?Pale lass, in the witch’s thrall—For the witch is by, and she may not call.(O the long, long days that my lass is waiting!)Gold broom, with your flowers in bloom,Wave,’ says the lad: ‘it is time for mating.’“ ‘Lad, lad, in the witch’s wood,There is no more hope when the spell is spoken;Lost lad, is the sight so goodOf the empty place where your love has stood?(O the long, long days that her heart has broken!)Dead broom, be your bare pod’s doomBlack,’ says the witch, ‘for a sign and token.’“ ‘Bold broom, by the witch’s door,Will you hide my lad as his step steals nigher?Sleep, witch, on the forest floor;You are drugged by the broom-flowers’ scented core.(O the smouldering fumes of its golden fire!)Burn, broom, in the forest’s gloom,Glow,’ says the lass, ‘like the heart’s desire.’“ ‘Wind, wind, round the witch’s lairThere’s a lad and lass that no spell can sever;Sing, wind, in the broom-flowers there,For you sing good-bye to an old despair.(O the long, long days, that are done for ever!)Gold broom, with the silken plume,Laugh,’ says the wind, ‘because love dies never.’ ”
“ ‘Wind, wind, in the forest tall,Do you stir the broom where my lass is waiting?Pale lass, in the witch’s thrall—For the witch is by, and she may not call.(O the long, long days that my lass is waiting!)Gold broom, with your flowers in bloom,Wave,’ says the lad: ‘it is time for mating.’“ ‘Lad, lad, in the witch’s wood,There is no more hope when the spell is spoken;Lost lad, is the sight so goodOf the empty place where your love has stood?(O the long, long days that her heart has broken!)Dead broom, be your bare pod’s doomBlack,’ says the witch, ‘for a sign and token.’“ ‘Bold broom, by the witch’s door,Will you hide my lad as his step steals nigher?Sleep, witch, on the forest floor;You are drugged by the broom-flowers’ scented core.(O the smouldering fumes of its golden fire!)Burn, broom, in the forest’s gloom,Glow,’ says the lass, ‘like the heart’s desire.’“ ‘Wind, wind, round the witch’s lairThere’s a lad and lass that no spell can sever;Sing, wind, in the broom-flowers there,For you sing good-bye to an old despair.(O the long, long days, that are done for ever!)Gold broom, with the silken plume,Laugh,’ says the wind, ‘because love dies never.’ ”
“ ‘Wind, wind, in the forest tall,Do you stir the broom where my lass is waiting?Pale lass, in the witch’s thrall—For the witch is by, and she may not call.(O the long, long days that my lass is waiting!)Gold broom, with your flowers in bloom,Wave,’ says the lad: ‘it is time for mating.’
“ ‘Wind, wind, in the forest tall,
Do you stir the broom where my lass is waiting?
Pale lass, in the witch’s thrall—
For the witch is by, and she may not call.
(O the long, long days that my lass is waiting!)
Gold broom, with your flowers in bloom,
Wave,’ says the lad: ‘it is time for mating.’
“ ‘Lad, lad, in the witch’s wood,There is no more hope when the spell is spoken;Lost lad, is the sight so goodOf the empty place where your love has stood?(O the long, long days that her heart has broken!)Dead broom, be your bare pod’s doomBlack,’ says the witch, ‘for a sign and token.’
“ ‘Lad, lad, in the witch’s wood,
There is no more hope when the spell is spoken;
Lost lad, is the sight so good
Of the empty place where your love has stood?
(O the long, long days that her heart has broken!)
Dead broom, be your bare pod’s doom
Black,’ says the witch, ‘for a sign and token.’
“ ‘Bold broom, by the witch’s door,Will you hide my lad as his step steals nigher?Sleep, witch, on the forest floor;You are drugged by the broom-flowers’ scented core.(O the smouldering fumes of its golden fire!)Burn, broom, in the forest’s gloom,Glow,’ says the lass, ‘like the heart’s desire.’
“ ‘Bold broom, by the witch’s door,
Will you hide my lad as his step steals nigher?
Sleep, witch, on the forest floor;
You are drugged by the broom-flowers’ scented core.
(O the smouldering fumes of its golden fire!)
Burn, broom, in the forest’s gloom,
Glow,’ says the lass, ‘like the heart’s desire.’
“ ‘Wind, wind, round the witch’s lairThere’s a lad and lass that no spell can sever;Sing, wind, in the broom-flowers there,For you sing good-bye to an old despair.(O the long, long days, that are done for ever!)Gold broom, with the silken plume,Laugh,’ says the wind, ‘because love dies never.’ ”
“ ‘Wind, wind, round the witch’s lair
There’s a lad and lass that no spell can sever;
Sing, wind, in the broom-flowers there,
For you sing good-bye to an old despair.
(O the long, long days, that are done for ever!)
Gold broom, with the silken plume,
Laugh,’ says the wind, ‘because love dies never.’ ”
Maggie was so much absorbed in the song that she came forward a little from behind the root. Though Dan had not turned his head she saw that his watchful eyes were on her, and she prepared to move away. The girl turned round; her face was so sweet that Maggie spoke up.
“I was only listening to the song,” she said.
“Come and sit beside me,” said the singer. “My name is Rhoda. Who are you?”
“That’s the girl from our camp,” said Dan.
Long after he had gone back to feed the horses Maggie sat talking to her new friend. She told her all about Alfonso and the Cochin-Chinaman, and how they had all run away from the farm. Though Rhoda was grown up and could not understand fowls when they spoke, she listened with great interest, and Maggie promised to bring the two cocks to visit her. When she got home Dan was putting a rug on the chestnut horse, for the nights were growing colder. He seemed to look at her with a new interest.
“Do you like Rhoda’s songs?” he asked suddenly.
“Oh yes.”
“She makes them for me,” said Dan.
“I am going to take Alfonso and the other cock to see her,” continued Maggie. “Perhaps I shall go to-morrow.”
“Then I had better come with you. There are wild-cats in the wood,” observed Dan shortly. And he went into the green van and said no more.
After that Maggie managed to slip away nearly every day to see her friend in the other camp. Sometimes she took the birds with her, and sometimes she left them at home. Dan and his brother had gone off to a fair in the neighbourhood, which was to last several days.
One afternoon as she sat with Rhoda under the trees, a man came towards them from the tents. He had a long pointed nose, and was very grandly dressed for a gipsy, for he wore a bright-coloured scarf and waistcoat and his fingers were covered with silver rings. Maggie thought him very nice, for he joined them and seemed to admire Alfonso very much. The little cock strutted about, ruffling himself out as the man watched him. He loved notice. The gipsy threw him a handful of corn from his pocket, and when he went off again to the tents, he kept looking back with a smile. Rhoda took up her guitar once more for she had laid it down at his approach, though she was in the middle of a song.
“I never sing tohim,” she said.
It was a pleasant time they spent in the fir-woods, and Maggie began to think there could be nothing better than life in the caravan. She loved the open air and the blue mists, the silver spider webs and the winking eyes of the little fires that were lit among the trees at night. She loved the whispering branches and the red toadstools and the sceptres of tall ragwort, that were beginning to fade as the days went by. She did not want to leave the place, and, besides that, she did not want to leave Rhoda.
But early one morning, as she was gathering wood a little way from the van, she glanced up to find Rhoda standing before her. Her guitar was under her arm and a little bundle in her hand.
“I have come to say good-bye,” said she. “Yes, I am going, and you must not tell anybody. I can’t stay any more in our camp. I shall take my guitar and go and make my living by singing at fairs, as I have done before. So I’ve come to say good-bye to you first.”
Maggie was too much surprised to answer.
“It is because of the man you saw,” continued Rhoda, “the man I will not sing for. He is the richest gipsy in the country, and I hate him; but he loves me. My mother says I must marry him. He has given her presents of money and necklaces and fine clothes, and she has promised me to him. They don’t know I have gone, but by to-night I shall be miles away, and I will never come back. He is the most hateful man in the world.”
“And now I shall never see you any more!” cried Maggie.
“Oh, but I hope you will,” replied Rhoda. “I like you, and you like me, and when you are at a fair some day, you’ll hear my guitar, and come and speak to me and be glad to see me. You will, won’t you?”
And she turned away towards the edge of the wood, and Maggie went a little distance with her.
“May I tell Dan?” she asked, as they parted.
“Oh, Dan knows,” said Rhoda.
Then she went away through the tree-stems into the open country, and Maggie stood at the outskirts of the wood watching her until she disappeared among the shorn fields, looking back and waving her hand.
She was sad for a long time after that. Dan said nothing of what he knew, and when she tried to speak to him, he got out of her way. She did not even tell Alfonso or the Cochin-Chinaman what had happened; though, to be sure, it would have been safe enough, for, even if they had spoken of it, no one but herself could have understood them. Once she saw the rich gipsy with the evil face and silver rings prowling about the vans, which made her so frightened that she got into one of them and locked herself in. No one else had seen Rhoda when she came to say good-bye, and there was nothing to do but to keep her own counsel and hope that in time she might meet her friend again.
The Cochin-China cock was as happy as possible. He did not care for high company, and the few fowls that ran about the van wheels and travelled together in a basket on the roof when the family was moving were good enough for him. He forgot that he had ever had a wife and family, though he had wept so loudly when he left them to follow Maggie; and now he had chosen for a partner a young speckled hen, who was bewitched by his yellow trousers and deep voice.
Alfonso, on the contrary, had grown prouder than ever; and when he discovered that the man with the gold earrings meant to make a deal of money by backing him to fight other cocks in public, he was extremely happy. He longed for spring to come, for then the vans were to make a tour through many villages and towns, and he would have the chance of meeting all sorts of champions in single combat. He had found this out through the Cochin-Chinaman, who was a gossip, and whose new wife told him everything that went on. But Maggie knew nothing about it, for Alfonso would not tell her, and promised to thrash his friend if he did so. Alfonso knew that if anything were to happen to himself it would break her heart. Sometimes his conscience blamed him for deceiving her, but he did not listen to it; it seemed to him that he heard the crowing of whole crowds of upstart birds, and his spurs itched.
It had grown quite cold when the time came for them to leave the woods. Dan and Maggie were to go off in the green van at sunrise, and the woman with her husband and baby were to follow after midday. Dan knew the place for their next camp, and he and his companion were to get everything ready, and have fires lit and water carried by the time the family arrived with its belongings and the cocks and hens.
It was a pleasant journey; the roads were good and the sun shone. They sat with their feet on the shafts, and Dan talked more than he had ever talked before. He told Maggie of his youth and the tents among which he was born; of his half-Spanish mother, who had died in the cold of a snowy winter; and of his father, who had beaten him with a strap till he had learnt to ride better than any of the other boys. She heard how he and his brother got enough money to buy the van and the horses, and how he had met Rhoda at a great gipsy gathering; how she had sung ‘The Wind in the Broom’ for him by a camp-fire when all their companions had gone to sleep; how they had sat till the morning came and the stars went out like so many street-lamps in the daylight. Then he said very little more, and sat with his cap pulled over his eyes, whistling the tune of ‘The Wind in the Broom’ till the journey was done.
They had come to an old quarry cut into the hollow of a hill-side. Dan unharnessed the horse, and they began their work. It was getting dark when they heard approaching wheels and saw their friends coming up the winding road. Maggie could hear the Cochin-Chinaman’s hoarse voice proclaiming his arrival and distinguish in the dusk the smaller basket tied on the top step of the van, in which Alfonso, according to custom, travelled alone. The Cochin-Chinaman’s wife, who was greedy, was already making a disturbance and demanding to know how soon they might expect their evening meal.
It was late by the time Maggie was able to prepare it. She turned it out in a heap and let the birds loose. They rushed at it, pushing and struggling to get the best bits, the speckled hen screaming to her husband to protect her from the other hens, and to see that she was not robbed of her share. Then Maggie took Alfonso’s little plate, and, putting a few nice spoonfuls in it, went up the van steps.
But she opened the basket and looked in, to find that Alfonso was gone.
* * * * *
Then indeed there was consternation in the camp. Maggie’s tears fell fast and heavy down her cheeks as she sat looking into the empty basket. The whole family came out at her call and stood bewailing itself in different ways. The man with the gold earrings swore, the wife fixed her dark gaze on her weeping servant, and Dan hung about trying to comfort Maggie. But she cared for none of them, and only when the Cochin-Chinaman hurried from his food to her side did she dry her eyes.
“He’s gone! he’s gone!” she wailed, “and we shall never see him again. O Alfonso! Alfonso! how I loved you!”
“The basket was fastened down when you saw it first, and that shows that someone has taken him. If he had fallen out it would have been open,” said Dan.
“I took fine care not to let anyone see him,” observed his brother; “he was too good a bird to run risks with.”
At this Maggie started up.
“It is the man with the silver rings!” she exclaimed—“the rich gipsy in the wood! Oh, it is all my fault! If it had not been for me he would never have seen Alfonso.”
And that was the most cruel idea of all.
That night, when everyone was asleep, she got up and packed her bundle. She was afraid to say good-bye to her friends for fear she should be prevented from going to seek her lost comrade, and she had made up her mind to leave everything and travel this difficult world till she should meet him again. She was certain the wicked-looking gipsy in the wood had stolen him before the blue van left its last camping-ground, and she resolved to go back to the place where they had all been so happy, to see whether, by some contrivance, she might steal him from the tents. Perhaps he was miserable himself, poor Alfonso! She was broken-hearted as she crept out of the van. She could make out the heavy figure of the Cochin-Chinaman roosting with his wife upon a shaft. He got down and came running to her, striding and sprawling with his great awkward legs.
“Don’t say a word—I am going to find Alfonso,” began Maggie. “If anyone hears me I may be stopped, and then I shall die of despair. Hush! hush! Don’t open your beak to screech like that, or they’ll all come out.”
“You care more for Alfonso than for me,” wailed the cock, as loudly as he dared. “You think nothing of bidding good-bye to me!”
She could not answer, for she knew it was true. She loved Alfonso best.
“But we shall both come back together, Alfonso and I,” she replied. “I can leave you because I know you are quite happy.”
“I’m glad you think so,” replied he. “Never you marry if you want peace. What that speckled baggage has made me endure is beyond all telling!”
“And I thought you were so comfortably married!” exclaimed Maggie.
“Oh, what I have gone through!” he went on—“what I have endured! She is so greedy that I never get a bite. She is so violent that I have had to call in help or not keep a feather on my body. And she has told all the others that I left the farm we came from because I was afraid of the bantam cock. She has no heart and no manners—only claws and a tongue!”
“Then come with me,” said Maggie. “We shall be very poor, and perhaps starve, but we shan’t be lonely.”
“Family life is dreadful,” said the Cochin-Chinaman. “I’ll come.”
It took many hours to get back to the woods, and they were both tired and hungry by the time they saw the long line of dark trees stretching away before them. Maggie had brought some food with her, which she shared with her friend; but they did not dare to eat much, as they had to make it last as long as possible. They tried not to think of their bad prospects as they trudged along. They did not enter the woods till dusk, for they knew that if the rich gipsy saw Maggie, he would guess what had brought her back, and hide Alfonso more carefully than ever. They found the spot where their camp had been, and rested there a little before going into the heart of the wood. Maggie knew every step of the way, every clump of yellowing ferns, every trail of bramble, and the Cochin-Chinaman, who was not observant, was glad to follow her blindly. When once they caught sight of the tents, he was to run on and prowl about in the undergrowth, calling to Alfonso in his own language. As nobody but the gamecock would understand what he said, he was to shout, telling him Maggie was there, and the two birds were to settle a way of escape. These were fine schemes, and would, no doubt, have succeeded beautifully; but alas! and alas! when they came to the root beside which Rhoda had sung her songs to Dan, they saw that the place was empty and the tents gone. The only traces remaining of the camp were the little black circles of ashes on the ground, which showed where the fires had been.
It was chilly comfort to think that, if Alfonso had been stolen only a day ago, the gipsy could not have gone far. He had horses and carts, and there was not much chance of overtaking him for the two poor footsore friends, even if they knew which way he went. It was too dark now to see the traces of his wheels on the soft moss, and they could go no farther that night. Nevertheless, Maggie would not give up her quest, and the Cochin-Chinaman, great yellow booby of a fellow as he was, vowed that he would never leave her. He blubbered as he said it, but he meant it, all the same.
When morning broke their hearts were very sad. Where were they to go? Winter was coming on, and they had no money and hardly any food, and unless they begged as they went, there was nothing they could do for a living. But they made up their minds either to die or to rescue their friend, and started at daybreak to follow the track of footprints and wheel-marks which took them to the dusty highroad. The cock picked up all sorts of odds and ends by the way, and a friendly blacksmith who was eating bread and cheese at the door of his smithy gave Maggie a share of it. They slept in an empty barn that night, and the next day found them on the outskirts of a little country town.
They were eager to get to it, hoping to hear news of the gipsy, or to find his tents pitched in the neighbourhood. The cock had cut his foot on a piece of broken glass by the roadside, and was so lame that he could scarcely walk. He sat on Maggie’s shoulder, but he was so heavy that he prevented her from getting on fast. Sometimes she put him down, and he limped a little way, but she always had to take him up again. When they reached the first houses, the people ran out to look at the amusing sight, and when they heard how the strange pair of comrades were talking together, they held up their hands. “Was ever anything like that seen before?” they cried.
Soon there was quite a crowd. The whole street turned out to listen, though, of course, no one could understand a word. Maggie took the opportunity of explaining that they were very poor, and asked for some food. A woman offered them a hunk of bread and a plate of broken meat, which they took gratefully.
“It’s worth while paying for such a show!” she exclaimed. And everybody agreed with her, though only a few were willing to put their hands in their pockets.
All at once a great clatter was heard, and a running footman came racing along the road, shouting as he went and pushing people out of the way with his staff.
“Room! room!” he cried. “Make way for the Lord Bishop’s carriage!”
A splendid open coach came in sight, drawn by four white horses with purple plumes on their heads and driven by a gold-laced coachman. A fine fat Bishop sat in it, dressed in purple. Gold tassels hung from his hat, and opposite to him sat a servant armed with a silk pocket-handkerchief with which to flick the dust of the road from the episcopal person. Everybody bowed to the earth.
“What is all this crowd for?” demanded the Bishop, stopping his coach.
When he heard that a girl was to be heard talking to a Cochin-China cock in his native tongue, he was immensely surprised, and ordered Maggie and her companion to come before him. The woman who had given them meat and bread pushed her forward.
“Your Reverend Holiness will die o’ laughing to hear them,” she exclaimed.
“Speak, girl,” said the Bishop. “Address the bird, and tell him to reply.”
When he had heard the conversation that followed, he could hardly believe his senses. The servant with the silk handkerchief grinned from ear to ear, the coachman on his box turned round to listen, and the footmen who stood on a board behind the carriage gaped.
“You are evidently a highly intelligent little girl,” said the Bishop, “and it is a scandal that you should be tramping the roads. I have a large aviary at my palace and you shall come to look after it. I really never thought to find a person who could speak to birds. Some of mine are very tiresome, and you will be able to make them hear reason. I will see that you are properly clothed and educated.”
But Maggie refused, and explained that she was going to seek Alfonso.
“Tut, tut, tut!” said the Bishop. “If the cock is as valuable as you say, he will be well cared for. You will have a good education at my palace, and be clean and tidy.”
“But I don’t want to be clean and tidy, and I shouldn’t like to live in a palace,” cried Maggie.
All the servants tittered.
“Nonsense!” said the Bishop. “Everyone wants to be clean and tidy, and everyone would like to live in a palace.”
“But I can’t!” exclaimed Maggie—“indeed I can’t!”
“There is no such word as ‘can’t’ in the English language,” said the Bishop.
“Come! come!” said Maggie to the Cochin-Chinaman, “we must get away as quick as we can!”
The Bishop could not understand what she said, but he saw she was preparing to run.
“I fear you are one of the many people who do not know what is good for them,” said he. “Get into the carriage immediately. The footmen will help you in, and you may sit opposite to me.”
And before you could count ten they had sprung from their places, opened the door, and lifted her in. With a hoarse agonized screech the Cochin-Chinaman leaped up and flew heavily into the coach. He came through the air like a cannon-ball.
“Really, this is too much!” exclaimed the Bishop. “I cannot be made ridiculous by having this creature sitting in front of me as we go through the streets.”
“He is the only friend I have got left,” sobbed poor Maggie, bursting into tears as the footmen tried to seize the cock’s legs.
The Bishop was far from being an unkind man; indeed, he had a great reputation for charity, both public and private.
“Tut, tut!” he said; “let him come. But he can’t sit there opposite to me. Put him under the seat.”
And so Maggie, thankful to keep him at any price, stuffed him underneath, and pressed her feet against him, to comfort him. The footmen were inexpressibly shocked. Then they all drove off to the palace.
The palace was a truly imposing place, with cupolas and courts, porches and statues; and, being outside the town, it was approached by an avenue a mile long. A wide stream flowed round one side of it, and the great entrance gates were covered with crests and glorious devices. Behind it was an aviary full of bright-coloured birds, who screamed and fought and made such a terrible din that, when the carriage drew up, the Cochin-Chinaman was taken from under the seat trembling. Maggie was shown a hut which she was to inhabit, built in a little remote yard, and an old chicken-coop was brought and filled with straw to make a bed for the cock. The Bishop ordered that food should be given them, and told Maggie she was to begin her duties on the morrow.
She did not like her place at all. The birds in the aviary were nearly all foreign, so she did not know their language; and those she could understand were rude and turbulent, and made the most heartless jokes about the poor Cochin-Chinaman’s yellow trousers. But there was no use in grumbling. The Bishop was determined that she should stay and look after the aviary; he disapproved of vagrants and gipsies, and had settled that she was to be brought up respectably. She could not get away, because she was never allowed to leave the place alone; so she consoled herself by thinking that, as winter was at hand, she would be likely to starve were she still tramping the road; and then she would certainly never see Alfonso again.
And so time went by and she lived at the palace, feeding and tending the foreign birds, and cheered by the company of her faithful comrade, who grew fat on the crumbs from the Bishop’s kitchen and took care not to display his yellow trousers within sight of the aviary.
Soon it grew bitterly cold. The snow fell, and Christmas came and went; and then, at last, the young New Year grew strong, and birds began to sing and trees to bud. The little yard in which the hut stood was surrounded by an ivy-covered wall with a small iron gate in it, and through the latter she could see the ground slope down to the still, wide stream that passed the palace like a crawling silver snake.
The bars of the gate were firm in their places, for she had tried them all and they would not move; they were so closely set that she could not squeeze herself out between them. She would press her face against them, looking out enviously at every passing insect that was free. In the wood over the water squirrels jumped about, or sat up like little begging dogs, with their tails over their heads. The Cochin-Chinaman could fly out of the yard, but what was the use of that when he could not take her with him? She would sit by the gate while he stood on the top of the wall describing to her all the things he could see.
One spring afternoon, as they passed their time thus, a sound of music came floating from some distance. It was very faint, but as it drew nearer Maggie sprang up, crying to the cock to fly out and see what it could mean.
For the tune was the tune of “The Wind in the Broom.”
Nearer and nearer it came. She could faintly hear the words. “Gold broom, with your flowers in bloom,” sang the voice.
The cock leaped down, and, running and flying, he rushed along the green banks of the stream as hard as he could. The town was behind him at the far side of the palace, so he was molested by no one; and there, sure enough, coming to meet him at the water-side, was Rhoda with her guitar slung on her shoulder. Oh, how he longed to speak! but, as she could not understand his talk, there was no use in saying anything. But he took her by the skirts and began dragging her along.
“You are Maggie’s Cochin-Chinaman!” she cried.
He hurried on before her, and she followed as fast as she could run.
How delighted the two friends were at meeting again! Rhoda stood outside the gate, and Maggie held her hand through the bars, and they told each other all that had happened since they parted.
“I will get you away from here, see if I don’t!” said Rhoda. “Then we will start off together to find Alfonso, for I can make enough to keep us all by singing. I am quite rich already.” She pulled a little bag out of her bosom.
“Feel how heavy it is,” she said.
At last Rhoda went away. She said that she would not return till she had thought of a good plan for Maggie’s escape, and she commanded the cock to roost every night on the yard wall; for she would come back under cover of night, and wake him by throwing up a stone at him when her plan was ready.
Rhoda was very clever—the making of songs and music was not the only thing she understood. When she found that the iron gate was fastened by a bolt, and that the bolt was held in its place by a padlock, she went off to the town and bought a file, and next night she returned and began to saw away. She did it from the outside, so that no one who might chance to come into the yard could see any mark on the bolt. When morning came it was cut through all but a little piece. Up the stream, a short way above the palace, was a house whose walls stood almost in the water, and near it a little boat was moored to a stake in the bank. This boat she determined should carry them all out of the Bishop’s reach.
On the second night, therefore, when it was dark, and she guessed the palace people were in bed, she came stealing along to the gate. There was the cock at his post, fast asleep. When she had filed through the last bit of the bolt, she woke him with a stone, and signed to him to go and fetch Maggie. Then she ran to the boat, cut its rope with her knife, and, jumping into it, rowed quickly down to where her friends were waiting.
How smoothly and how fast the water carried them along, as they ran into the current and the tall mass of the palace dropped behind them! Rhoda had the oars, and the cock sat in the bottom of the boat beside the guitar. Maggie was so much delighted to be free that she did not speak a word. The fields and the alder-trees slipped by, and when the spring day broke, she saw the tufts on the willows and the yellow stars of the celandines shining among the roots. She felt quite sure now that everything would go right.
The whole day they rowed on, and when they thought themselves far enough from the Bishop to be safe, they jumped on shore and let the boat drift out of sight. Then they started off to seek their fortunes once more.
It was a hard life they led as they roamed the country, but they were contented with it. They got enough money to keep themselves from want by Rhoda’s singing, and the cock contrived to pick up many scraps by the way. They went to every village they saw, and every town; at every fair or market they were to be seen, Rhoda with her guitar and Maggie searching up and down for news of the rich gipsy and his tents. As the months went by she began to despair, but she never faltered or forgot Alfonso.
One day they were approaching a little hamlet, and, as they were within sight of its roofs, groups of people passed them. Men wore their best coats and women their best gowns; little children ran along with holiday faces, and horses and cattle went by in droves. The horses had their tails plaited up with coloured ribbons, and some had roses stuck in their brow-bands, for it was the day of a great fair and all sorts of shows and amusements were going on.
The road was full of people. Just in front of Rhoda and Maggie some men were plodding along, laughing and joking, and one of them turned round, calling to another, who lagged behind the party.
“Come on! come on!” he shouted. “You’ll have to step out if you want to see the cock-fight.”
Maggie followed at their heels like a dog. They thought she meant to beg and told her roughly to go away. But she took no notice, and ran after them, listening breathlessly to their talk, for they were speaking of the wonderful game-bird belonging to a gipsy who had beaten every cock in the countryside. To-day he was to fight the greatest champion of all, a bird which had been brought fifty miles to meet him. One of the men pulled out a large silver watch the size of an apple. It came up from his pocket like a bucket out of a well.
“We’re too late!” he exclaimed.
And they all began to run.
Maggie and Rhoda ran too. And the Cochin-Chinaman straddled and flapped after them, raising a trail of dust and volleys of abuse from everyone he passed.
By the time they reached the village a great crowd were dispersing in all directions. It was chiefly made up of men, and, as our friends pushed through the throng, scraps of conversation came to their ears.
“He’llnever fight again,” said one.
“That’ll take down the pride of that gipsy fellow, with his money-bags and his rings,” said another.
Maggie ran faster and faster till she came to an open space that had been cleared in the middle of the village green. A man was walking off with a cock in his arms, while a string of people followed, clapping him on the back and shouting. They were all leaving the spot where the long-nosed gipsy stood staring at something that lay at his foot. It looked like a bundle of rags as he rolled it over with his boot. “He’s no more use to me,” said he, turning away with a shrug of his shoulders, “so he can die if he likes.”
Maggie threw herself down and took poor Alfonso in her arms. Blood was oozing from between his beautiful feathers, and his eyes were closed. Nobody noticed her as she carried him away, followed by Rhoda and the Cochin-Chinaman. Her tears were falling thick on him, blinding her, so that she could hardly see where she was going, and she almost ran into a dark young man who was coming towards them. It was Dan—Dan, with his gold earrings and rabbit-skin cap. Rhoda poured out the story of their search to him, and he took them to a pond, where he poured water down Alfonso’s throat and felt his breast to see if his heart was still beating.
“Run and meet my brother,” he said to Rhoda; “our vans are just coming into the village. Tell him from me to go and settle with that long-nosed thief. I’ll come and help him when I see whether Alfonso’s dead or not.”
So Rhoda ran.
And now we are coming to the end of the story. Alfonso was not dead, and he did not die; he was nursed back to life by Dan and Maggie; but he never fought again, for his back was dreadfully injured, and he was lame for the rest of his days. The three friends returned to their old life in the vans, for Maggie had been much missed, and was received back with joy. Neither was Rhoda left behind, because she soon became Dan’s wife and went to live with him in the green van.
The Cochin-Chinaman married again, but this time with better luck; for he chose a good dame of suitable age, who knew the world far too well to wish to quarrel with anyone in it.
And Alfonso, in spite of his crippled body, was not unhappy. He limped round the van wheels or sat in his basket on the step, looking out on the green woods and blue distances of their various places of sojourn. His fighting days were done, but he was well content; for those who have taken their share in life are those who can best bear to see it go by and accept their rest.
THE FIDDLING GOBLIN
One day they were in the miller’s garden. He had white rose-bushes on either side of his door and a box-tree by the gate.
“Here is the book!” cried little Peter, who had dashed into the house, and now came dancing out with the volume in his hand. “I’ve been peeping inside, and there is such a fine bit about a man beating a big drum.”
“You rascal!” said the miller. “Who told you you might touch my book? I shall put you into the mill-pond for that!”
And he began to chase the little boy about, shouting and jumping over the flower-beds. It was really splendid.
Janet stood by laughing.
“Be quiet, Peter, or you’ll drop the book!” she exclaimed.
“If he promises to read about the drum-man I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,” shrieked Peter.
“I promise, I promise,” said the miller, stopping beside a row of cabbages.
So when Peter gave him the book and had settled down to listen, he began.
There was once upon a time a widowed Baron who had a lovely daughter. She was so beautiful that she seldom went out of the castle gates, because people stared at her so much that it made her quite uncomfortable. Her name was Laurine, and she could dance so wonderfully that she looked more like an autumn leaf sailing in the wind than a human being. Her chestnut hair floated all round her, and her grey eyes shone like stars through a mist.
Now, in spite of all this, the Baron, who was only her stepfather, was most anxious to get rid of her by marriage, for he was a lazy old man, and did not like the trouble of looking after her; he liked to have his own house to himself. He let this be known far and wide, and the very greatest Princes and gentlemen came courting Laurine, which gave him more trouble than ever, for she persisted in refusing every one, and the expenses of their entertainment went, consequently, for nothing.
At last he could stand it no longer, and one morning, after a whole batch of suitors had been turned away, he sent for her to his room. He was sitting up in bed looking frightfully angry, and when she came in he roared and beat his cane on the bed-clothes. He always took it to bed with him, so that he might bang the servants if they made too much noise when they called him in the morning.
“What is the matter, sir?” asked Laurine, making a very pretty curtsey.
“Matter!” shouted the Baron; “the matter is that I’m tired of you and your airs, and I have made up my mind to stand them no longer. Married you shall be. I am going to give out a notice to be posted up everywhere that, in ten days from now, the first twelve gentlemen who send in their names to me are to come here, bringing a musical instrument each; and the one who plays best shall have your hand in marriage. Now, it’s no good crying. I have made up my mind, and the messenger carrying the news shall go out to-day. You have had the choice of all the grandest persons in the country, and now you must just take what you can get. So get out of my sight!”
And he laid about so furiously that Laurine burst into tears. This time she was at her wits’ end, and could not think what to do.
“Oh, my lady!” said her maid when she heard what had happened, “you must get advice from a Goblin I know. He is the cleverest person in the whole countryside, and he will be able to find some way out of it. Only say the word, and I will go at once to fetch him.”
“Go! go!” cried Laurine.
Now, in a wood not far off lived a Goblin who was well known to his neighbours as one of the finest musicians in the world. He was rich too, and it was said that he had a grander house than the King himself hidden in the heart of the wood. But, for all that, he generally chose to live in a little thatched hut near the edge of the trees, playing on his fiddle and coming occasionally into the village, where he was greatly honoured for his wisdom in spite of his strange appearance. He was only about four feet high and quite black; but he had thin legs and arms, a round, fat body and a head like a turnip. In spite of this he dressed in the very height of the fashion, with a pointed hat and feather, doublet and hose and a short cloak. He was called ‘The Fiddling Goblin.’
He entered Laurine’s presence with a low bow, though he was rather out of breath; for when he had received the message from the waiting-woman, he had made the large billy-goat which he rode gallop the whole way. It was a magnificent animal, with an action like a horse, and the men who took charge of it when he dismounted in the courtyard were lost in admiration of his handsome saddlery. It was easy to see he was a man of note.
“What you must do is this,” said the Goblin, when Laurine had finished her story: “As soon as you hear the names of the twelve suitors, write privately to each one. I will compose the letter for you, and this is what you must say:
‘Sir,‘Being extremely anxious for your success—, I am writing to give you a piece of important advice. My stepfather has offered my hand to the finest musician; but hisrealpurpose is to give it to the one who will play loudest and longest, and most effectually drown the efforts of the rest. Therefore, I beg you, if you love me, to play stoutly against all others, and, whatever anyone may say or do, neither stay nor stop till you have silenced them all.’
‘Sir,
‘Being extremely anxious for your success—, I am writing to give you a piece of important advice. My stepfather has offered my hand to the finest musician; but hisrealpurpose is to give it to the one who will play loudest and longest, and most effectually drown the efforts of the rest. Therefore, I beg you, if you love me, to play stoutly against all others, and, whatever anyone may say or do, neither stay nor stop till you have silenced them all.’
“Then,” continued the Goblin, “the noise will be so frightful that the illustrious Baron, who is irritable, will drive the whole party out of the house, and meanwhile you can escape in the turmoil. If you will come to my hut I will take you to a palace I have, deep in the wood, where you can hide till his wrath is over.”
Laurine was charmed with his wisdom, and having given him a lock of her hair as a keepsake, dismissed him with many words of gratitude, promising to do exactly as he had said.
Now, it happened that there lived at some little distance off a young man of good parentage who had fallen madly in love with Laurine. He was brave and handsome, but he was so poor that he had never come forward as a suitor, believing that the Baron would not so much as receive him. When he heard of the proclamation he tore his hair.
“What a chance I’ve missed!” he cried. “If I could play even a shepherd’s pipe I would go. But I cannot so much as do that.”
“You have got ten days to learn in,” said a friend of his, who was practical.
So he bought a pipe and began to take lessons from the man who kept the sheep, and one day when he was practising Laurine’s letter was brought to him. He was simply overjoyed.
“I may be a poor musician!” he exclaimed, “but I have the strongest arm for miles round, and now it will stand me in good stead!”
And with that he rushed off to the nearest town and bought a big drum, the biggest that could be got for money; and, going into a solitary field, he laid about it daily, for practice, with such effect that people for miles round were deafened.
When the great day came, Laurine sat in state beside her stepfather and all the musicians were ranged in a row a little way in front of them. There were fiddles and flutes, trumpets and harps, dulcimers and guitars and the big drum in the middle.
When the Baron had taken his seat, he made a sign to a man who had a large golden harp to begin. But no sooner was the first chord struck than the whole assembly burst into sound with a stupendous crash. The fiddlers sawed their fiddles as though they would cut them to pieces, the trumpeters blew and brayed, the flutes shrieked, the harps and dulcimers twanged, and the young man with the drum fell upon it as though it had been his enemy. The Baron leaped up and roared for silence, but his voice might have been the cooing of a distant dove for all the good it did. The noise grew more and more terrible, and at the first convenient opportunity Laurine put her hands over her ears and rushed from the hall.
Away she ran through the courtyard. It was empty, because everybody had gone to see what the awful disturbance could mean, and the castle gates were open. She flew out like an arrow, taking the shortest way to the wood and rushing along with her hair streaming behind her, and at last she came to the hut where the Goblin lived; she never stopped till she got safely into it.
“Did I not give you sound advice?” said he as she sat down, breathless.
“Oh, excellent,” she replied, panting. “By this time I am sure my stepfather has driven the whole lot out of doors.”
“And now I must hide you away,” said the Fiddling Goblin, stepping out of the door and searching the country up and down with his rolling eye.
As soon as she had recovered her breath they plunged into the wood. Dusk was beginning to fall, for the musical competition had taken place late in the evening. At last they came to a place where there was nothing but horse-chestnut trees in full bloom. The Goblin struck his heel upon the ground, and, to Laurine’s astonishment, the white flowers of the chestnuts on either side became suddenly lit up, looking like so many blazing candles on so many Christmas trees.
The avenue of light stretched away before them, narrowing to the distance, and when they had walked to the end of it, they found themselves in front of a magnificent mansion with a high steep roof covered with golden weathercocks. “This is my house,” observed the Goblin, “and here you will be a welcome guest for as long as you like. No one can find the path to it unless I light up the horse-chestnut candles to show the way, so you will be perfectly safe from your stepfather.”
When the door was opened Laurine found herself in a beautiful hall. There were golden staircases, woven curtains, groves of myrtle-trees in pots; and servants came from every corner of the place to wait upon her. The Fiddling Goblin told her to use everything as though it were her own, and then left her, promising to return upon the morrow.
We must now return to the Baron’s castle, and hear what happened after Laurine’s flight.
The noise went on without intermission: the more the Baron raved, the more furiously the musicians played. It seemed as though the howling deep and all the thunder of the firmament were let loose together. The air was alive with vibration and everyone rushed about in terror, as though he were crazy. As the pandemonium grew the young man with the big drum began to be depressed, for the sound of his drum was getting swallowed up in the shrill blare of the trumpets. But he set his teeth and went on harder and harder, and at last he struck it with such violence that it broke in two and the drumstick went right through at one end and came out at the other.
There was no use in going on any more; he was vanquished, and all hope of winning the beautiful Laurine was gone. In despair he threw the remaining drumstick to the farther end of the hall and strode out of the castle to avoid his sad thoughts and the terrific noise that still raged. Once clear of the place, he sat down on a stone, and, burying his head in his hands, thought of all he had lost. He determined to leave the country and seek his fortune far away from the scene of his disappointment; so when he got up, he walked straight forward, without caring where he went, and soon found himself on the edge of a wood. It was growing dark, and he wandered on, meaning to take the first shelter that offered itself for the night.
A little way on was a thatched hut, and when he saw that the door was open and the place empty, he went in. He scarcely troubled to look about, he was so weary, and soon he threw himself down full-length on the hearth and fell asleep.
It was about midnight when he awoke with a start and saw the Fiddling Goblin sitting on a chair by the fire, preparing to tune his violin. He arose at once, and began to apologize to him for his presence.
“Don’t mention it,” said the Goblin, “and pray sit down again. I will play you a tune upon the fiddle.”
“Oh, anything but that!” cried the young man, leaping up in horror. “I have heard so much noise to-day that the very sight of any musical instrument is death to me!”
“Then you are one of the suitors who came to play before the Baron for the hand of the beautiful Laurine!” exclaimed the Goblin.
“I am indeed,” replied he, “and why I am not dead I don’t know.” And then he told him the whole story. They talked almost till daybreak.
Now, as the Goblin listened he began to like the young man, and as he saw how brave and handsome he looked, he had a mind to help him; for he thought the best thing that could happen to Laurine would be to get such a fine fellow for a husband.
“Don’t despair,” said he, at the end of the history. “I think I can do you a good turn, for I must tell you that Laurine is at my big house not far from here at this moment. Does she know you by sight?”
“I hardly think so,” replied the young man. “I have often watched her as she walks abroad, but I don’t think she has ever noticed me. There was such a crowd in the hall while the music went on, and such a turmoil, that, as I was behind the drum, it is likely she never saw me at all. And yet she wrote to me as if she had every wish I should succeed. I can’t understand it.”
The Goblin looked so sly that it was frightful to see him.
“Well,” he continued, “to-morrow I am going to my house, and she will be there. If you have a mind for it, I will take you with me, and you will then have the chance of making yourself agreeable.”
“You are too kind!” cried his companion; “but on what pretext can I intrude on her? She has probably repented of her letter.”
“As she does not know you by sight, I will say you are my nephew,” replied the Goblin; “so mind you call me ‘uncle.’ You can address me as Uncle Sackbut. We are a musical family, and all named after instruments. One of my brothers is called Shawm and the other Hautboy. What is your name?”
“Swayn,” said the young man.
“Very well, Nephew Swayn,” said the Goblin, “to-morrow we will set out.”
When they arrived at the Goblin’s house, Swayn was astonished at its magnificence; but he had no time to think of anything but Laurine, and to hope that, if she had ever seen him, she would not recognize him. He could not imagine why she had not so much as looked his way after writing such a condescending letter. But the Goblin bade him keep up heart, and in they went.
She was sitting among the myrtles when they approached, and the Goblin introduced his friend, being careful not to mention his name.
“This is my nephew,” said he, “my sister’s only son. He has come to pay me a visit, and as I have no room for him in my hut, I propose that we shall both keep you company here.”
Laurine received them in the most charming manner, and so much pleased was the Goblin that he spent all day in practising his fiddle, so that the young people should be left together. In this manner two whole weeks went by. They spent a delightful time, and Swayn grew more hopeful every day. They strolled in the gardens, they hunted in the woods, and it was evident that Laurine looked upon him with great favour.
One morning he and the Goblin were together on a terrace where there was a little green arbour.
“Swayn,” said the Goblin, “it is high time that you asked Laurine to marry you. I think so well of you that I mean to leave you this house when I die, though you are not my nephew at all; and while I live you can stay here with me, whether you have a wife or not.”
“Uncle Sackbut,” said Swayn, “I can hardly believe such good fortune! How little I thought when I threw away my drumstick and left the Baron’s castle what luck was in store for me!”
At this moment there was a movement in the arbour, and Laurine, who was in it and had heard every word they said, came rushing out.
“And so you are not the Goblin’s nephew at all?” she cried. “And you are one of those horrible musicians who came to play? I will go away at once!” she shrieked. “I will never see you again! I will not stay here another hour!”
Then she turned to the Goblin. “Good-bye,” she said. “Never, never will I forgive you for deceiving me!”
And, before they could stop her, she had rushed out of the garden into the wood.
They ran after her, they shouted, they called, they implored—nothing was of any use. She fled so swiftly that they could not even see which path she had taken. At last, after a long time, they gave up the search. They felt very much crestfallen.
“We shall never see her again, I fear,” said the Goblin; “she has gone back to the Baron’s castle, and the best thing we can do is to try and think of something else. We have made a terrible mess of it.”
“As for me,” said Swayn, “it is not so easy to think of something else as you fancy. I shall go off and try to better my fortunes elsewhere. What I am to do I don’t know. It is a sad thing that I am a gentleman, for I have learnt no trade, and now, though I have every will to work, there is nothing I can do.”
“I have a good mind to come with you,” remarked the Goblin. “I can always return here if I get tired of it, and we can pass for uncle and nephew still. I’ll take my fiddle, and we will make our living by it. You can play the drum.”
“They won’t go well together,” said Swayn moodily.
“What of that?” cried the Goblin. “Very few people have any ear for music. You’ll see—they’ll be delighted, and pay us well.”
So next day the two comrades set out together. The Goblin locked up his house, put his fiddle in a bag, and when Swayn had procured a new drum, they left the wood by its farther edge and made for the boundary of the kingdom, which was not far off.
At the first village they came to they determined to try their luck, so, having found the village green, the Fiddling Goblin mounted the steps of the market-cross, and struck up with his bow, while Swayn, at a little distance, kept time with the drum. Soon figures began to appear at every door, and women left their houses and men their work; children came capering up, and everybody’s feet could be seen tapping the ground. When the Goblin at the market-cross saw that, he stood on tiptoe, and looking round with a shout, burst into the fastest country dance he could think of. In one moment the whole crowd was stamping, chasséing, and pirouetting to the music, seizing one another round the waist, and swaying like corn in the wind. On and on they played, till the Goblin had lost his hat and Swayn’s arm ached, and the people were whirling round in fours and sixes together instead of in couples. It was as if the whole world had gone mad. When at last the Goblin stopped and signed to his friend to go round and ask for money, it poured in so handsomely that they were able to go to the nearest inn and take the best lodgings to be got.
When they looked out next morning, there was a crowd under their windows.
“Come out! come out!” cried the people. “Come out and play!” Their feet were going already at the very recollection of the music.
So the friends set up again at the market-cross and played as they had done before; and from far and wide, people, hearing of their fame, came pouring into the village to dance. No work was done, and none of the children were sent to school, for their parents were too busy dancing to attend to the matter. Besides which, the schoolmaster had taken to his bed, having sprained his ankle in hopping and skipping.
“We must depart,” said the Goblin, “or everyone will go crazy.”
So they rose in the night and made off, while the world was snoring after its exertions. They went travelling on towards a great city, and at each village they made enough money to lodge well; but they were always obliged to leave secretly in the night, because the people would never consent to their departure.
When they got to the capital their fame had run before them, and even the very King and Queen were at the palace windows to see them arrive. By twelve o’clock next day the Lord Mayor and his family had made themselves so ridiculous by the way in which they had kicked their legs about that the King was displeased, and ordered the music and dancing to be stopped. He could not hear the music himself, because his business room was in the centre of the palace, and the walls were thick.
But when the decree went out, there rose such a howl of rage that the Court feared a rebellion. People were rushing about in bands, crying: “Down with the King! Down with the palace! Down with everybody! Hurray for the Fiddling Goblin! Three cheers for the Big Drum!”
The end of it was that the soldiers were called out, and Swayn and the Goblin were thrown into prison. The Lord Mayor, whose antics had done so much harm, took charge of the drum and the fiddle and locked them up in the town-hall, and peace reigned once more.
And now we must hear something of what happened to Laurine when she ran away from the Goblin’s house in such a hurry.
She found it very difficult to get free of the wood, but she did so at last, and, by good fortune, came out on the side nearest to her stepfather’s castle. But when she arrived there the first thing she saw was the Baron himself looking out of a high window. At the sight of her he began to shout with fury and to beat the window-sill with his cane, just as he had beaten the bed-clothes.
“Off!” he roared, “hussy that you are! I have done with you. I have found out all about you. Not content with being the plague of my life, you encouraged all these knaves to break my head with their detestable noise, and I have been at death’s door ever since. Off you go, or I will let loose the dogs! You will soon see what a mistake you have made in refusing all these husbands, for you will have to get your own living as best you can.”
And he drew in his head, banging the window till the iron bars rattled.
Laurine turned to go, trembling, for she could hear the dogs which were kept to chase away beggars howling inside the gates. She dared not even beg a piece of bread from the servants, and she knew she could never find her way back to the Goblin’s house.
She turned sadly away and wandered on till sundown, when a charitable peasant-woman in a village shared her supper with her, and allowed her to rest in a barn when night came on. But Laurine could not sleep for thinking how she was to save herself from starving and what she could do to earn enough to keep herself alive. If she were to offer to work as a servant, people would laugh at her white hands and delicate ways.
The next day, before she departed, she thanked the woman, and said: “Now I will do something to amuse you and your children, for it is all the payment I can make.”
And so saying, she began to dance.
Never had anybody seen anything like her dancing; the village people thought she must be a fairy and were almost afraid to go near her. She gathered up her hair in both hands, whirling it round and round her like a scarf; her feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground. It was wonderful. Everyone came to look on.
It so chanced that there passed by a fine chariot, in which sat a red-faced, crooked old lady, very grandly dressed; and when the dame beheld the crowd, she let down her window and shouted to her coachman to stop, that she might see the dancing. At the end of the performance she threw Laurine a purse.
“Here, girl!” she cried, “that is for you if you will come with me. I am going to give a great feast to-morrow night, and want some new entertainment for my guests. Get in quickly, if you have a mind to come, for I can’t waste any more time here. The whole of the nobility are coming to the party, and I have a great deal to arrange.”
Laurine picked up the purse, thankful for such luck, and they drove away to the nearest city.
As soon as they got there, Laurine, who was determined to do her best, took some gold pieces from the purse and went out to see the merchants’ wares. She bought the most beautiful dress that could be got for money, a girdle of jasmine, a long veil covered with spangles and a pair of golden shoes. Then she came back and practised all the steps she could think of, so as to be perfect in them by evening.
The feast was gorgeous. Several Kings came to it, and even one aged Emperor, who was so much startled by the thunder of applause that he was carried out for dead. The dancing was the talk of the city from end to end, and the only dreadful part of it was that the lady who had given the entertainment grew jealous because no one talked of her and her hospitality, while every tongue was wagging about the lovely dancer.
But Laurine cared very little; she knew that her fortune was made, and she determined to leave the place and travel about, dancing at the various towns through which she passed. When she had taken leave of the lady she set out.
Wherever she went, crowds came to see her dance and criers went before her to tell people what a treat was in store for them. Her stepfather, hearing news of her success, sent a messenger after her, commanding her to return, for he wished to share in her grandeur; but she only laughed, and pursued her way.
At last she drew near the capital city in which Swayn and the Goblin were imprisoned, and the whole place was in a shiver of excitement at her approach. When she got there a deputation waited on her, bringing all the town musicians with it, that she might chose the best among them to play for her dancing.
One after another, she refused them all. There was not one she considered good enough to be of any use; and she grew quite impatient, saying she would depart next day without dancing at all unless something very much better could be found.
“Madam,” said the Lord Mayor, “it is quite true we have nobody fit to accompany your ladyship, except a young man and a Goblin, who are, unfortunately, in prison; but if we could get the King to release them so that they could play for you, they could be put back into prison afterwards quite easily.”
So the heads of the city appealed to the King, and as the King was extremely anxious to see Laurine, he made no difficulty about the matter.
“Certainly, certainly,” said he; “you can release the Goblin and his nephew at once. We can always execute them if they are troublesome afterwards.”
And so Swayn and his pretended uncle were taken out of prison and set to play in the courtyard of the house where Laurine lodged, that she might judge of their talents.
“That will do beautifully,” said she. “I will dance at nine o’clock this evening.”
But she did not think of looking out of the window.
Nine o’clock came, and the crowd was assembled; and when she saw who the musicians were, she was almost too much annoyed and astonished to begin. But there sat the King with the Queen in her best robes, and all the lords of the kingdom, and she was not sure that they would not throw her into prison too were she to disappoint them. So she gave a sign to the Goblin to strike up, and, whirling her spangled veil, began to glide about like the shadows on a windy moonlit night.