Woman listens to bird.“THEN THE BIRD TOLD HER THE WHOLE PLOT.”
“THEN THE BIRD TOLD HER THE WHOLE PLOT.”
“I had no notion it was so late!” she exclaimed as she entered. “Now that my part is done, I may tell you two gentlemen that the longer you sit here burning our oil and occupying our best room, the more you will be charged for it. Now, tell me if you are satisfied with my performance, and then take my advice and go to bed for the sake of your pockets. There is a good room ready for you upstairs.”
The brothers congratulated her on the way she had played her part, and went off. Nothing could have suited them better, for they meant to slip out of the house and be gone long before dawn broke.
When the girl had showed them the way, she ran downstairs to the magpie’s cage.
“Quick, quick!” she cried, “tell me everything those knaves said to each other while I was taking the stranger to the guest-chamber.”
“Oh, mistress,” exclaimed he, “we have indeed dined in evil company!”
“You have not dined at all,” she said, “and never shall if I hear not every word of their talk.”
Then the bird told her the whole plot, for the brothers had discussed it openly in her absence. “Besides all this,” he concluded, “they mean to run away in the night and leave the young man to pay the reckoning.”
At this the girl ran straight upstairs and locked the two brothers in; she took off her shoes and turned the key so softly that they heard nothing. Afterwards she slipped out into the yard, and, taking a harrow which lay in the outhouse, drew it under their window and turned it with the spikes uppermost, to deter them from jumping out. She then knocked at the door of the guest-chamber.
“Come out!” she cried through the keyhole; “there is knavery afoot!”
When the youngest brother opened the door she told him all, and when he had hurried on a few clothes he came down to the dining-room to hear what the magpie had discovered.
“I shall be out of this as quick as I can,” he remarked when the bird had finished. “My only grief is that I shall never see you again. I am really very glad you are not my brother’s wife, for I had much rather you were mine.”
“So had I,” said the girl.
So they determined to depart together.
“You are never going to leave me behind!” exclaimed the magpie.
“Well, then, come along,” said the young man, opening the cage door. “When you are tired of flying you can have a lift on my shoulder; I am not going to let my wife trouble herself with your cage.”
“I am not your wife yet,” said the girl, tossing her head.
“That’s easily mended,” replied the youngest brother.
So they crept softly out of the inn and took the road long before the sky showed signs of morning. But at last the east grew grey in the darkness and bars of rose-colour hung over the sea of primrose and gold from which the sun was about to rise. They sat down beside a stream to rest, for they had come a good long distance.
“Fly into the nearest tree,” said the youngest brother to the magpie, “and wait till the risen sun shows you the nearest steeple. Where there is a church there will be a priest, so, when you have directed us to it, you can go there yourself and rouse him. We will follow and wait in the church porch till you bring him to marry us.”
As soon as it was fully light the bird obeyed, and having lit on a church steeple, he called to a man in the road below to direct him to the priest’s house.
The priest was just getting out of bed, but he ordered the magpie to be admitted. When he had heard his request he promised to set out with his prayer-book as soon as he had eaten his breakfast, and the bird, after thanking him courteously, flew off again to the church. “I forgot to ask who you are,” called the priest after him, with his mouth full.
“I am a near relation of the bride’s,” said the magpie as he sailed away.
By the time the engaged couple reached the porch they found the holy man awaiting them, and were immediately married. The magpie gave the bride away and offered some advice upon the married state, for he was a widower and knew what he was talking about. “Now go,” he said, “and I will return to the steeple, where I shall find snug enough quarters. Three is an ill number for a honeymoon.”
So the husband and wife went to the village and found a suitable lodging; they meant to stay there for the next few days, till they should decide where they should live.
As the sun set that evening the magpie sat on the steeple meditating on life. The bright glow struck through the ivy-leaves, and he was much astonished at seeing something glittering so brightly in the light that he was almost dazzled. The shine came from behind a great tangle of foliage which clothed the tower. He hopped down and thrust his beak in among the ivy. There, in a hole scooped carefully among the stones, was a heap of jewels such as he had never seen in all his days. There were ropes of pearls, chains of diamonds and rubies, and emeralds in heaps. It was with difficulty that he could resist screaming aloud, so great was his astonishment, and he was all the more shocked when he reflected that this cunningly-made storehouse of wealth must be the handiwork of robbers.
“I fear that the world is a terribly wicked place,” he observed; “I must look into this. I will remain here till night and see what roguery is going on.”
So when night was come he concealed himself with great caution in a niche. When midnight had struck and the moon—now at her full—blackened the shadows, he heard a rustling below and saw the head of a man appearing above the belfry stair. He was a wicked-looking ruffian and was followed by another who held something hidden under his cloak. The magpie poked his head round the corner of his niche. The two thieves went straight to the hole behind the ivy, and, having looked in at their stolen wealth, sat down on the church roof.
“And now,” said the one who had come up first, “what is this great treasure that you have taken?”
“You may well ask,” replied the other, “for it is no less than the King of Growgland’s crown. Here—you may try it on if you like.”
And he pulled out a bundle wrapped in cloth. His companion snatched it, and, when he had untied the knots, there came out such a blaze in the moonlight that the magpie was almost blinded.
The crown glowed and shone. It had spikes of gold with knobs of rubies on the top, and pearls as big as marrowfat peas were studded round the circlet. In front was a fan-shaped ornament half a foot high and one mass of emeralds and diamonds. The thief set it on his own knavish head and turned round and round that his friend might admire his appearance.
“There now, stop that,” said the other at last; “I have had enough of your masquerading. Not even a crown can make you like a gentleman.” And he whipped it off and thrust it into the hole. Then he drew the ivy across it, and, after a few more rough words, the robbers disappeared as they had come.
When morning dawned the magpie flew to the house where the youngest brother was lodging with his bride. He pecked the window with his beak and cried to the young man, “Here is great news! Follow my advice, and you will find your fortune made. Now tell your wife to go to the town and buy a piece of fine silk to make a bag. While she is doing this you must procure a hammer, a piece of pointed iron and a yard of string; you can get a pickaxe and shovel from the shed where the sexton keeps his tools. All these you must hide in a bush which I shall show you in the churchyard. Ask no questions; and, when evening falls, meet me with the bag and all these things behind the church.”
So saying, he flew away.
Now, the girl knew very well that the magpie was no ordinary bird, and she obeyed him carefully; she rose and went into the town and bought a piece of red silk. Having made the bag, she gave it to her husband, and, at the time appointed, he met the magpie behind the church with all the implements he had got together.
The bird directed him to leave the pickaxe and shovel in the porch, and they went up to the roof by the belfry stair. When the youngest brother saw the treasure he was speechless, but the magpie gave him no time to examine the jewels.
“Listen to me,” he said, “and we are rich for ever. (I say ‘we’ because I feel you will not forget my poor services.) Do you see an iron bar that sticks out into space on the side of that flying buttress? It is placed there to hold a swinging lamp, and there are five steps by which the sexton approaches it to hang up the light. As you see, they also stand out into space. Tie this piece of string round my leg, and, when I have flown up and alighted on the iron bar, twist the other end round it, so that I may seem to be fastened to it as to a perch; but do not knot it, or make it really secure. To do this you must reach the bar by these steps.”
When the young man heard this, his flesh crept, for he was not accustomed to high places and, the steps being on the outer wall, the least giddiness might plunge him headlong into the churchyard, fifty feet below; but, being a manful fellow, he climbed up and twisted the string so neatly round the bar that no one could have supposed the magpie to be anything but a prisoner.
“Now,” said the bird, “take your hammer and the piece of iron and loosen the three top steps till they will not bear more than a child’s weight.”
When the youngest brother had done this, the magpie told him to hide himself in a ditch in the churchyard, and not to come out till he was called by name.
After midnight the robbers came to look at their treasures, and did not notice the magpie sitting on the bar. Indeed, had they done so, they would have paid little heed, supposing him to be some ignorant bird who had no interests beyond his own food. They sat down on the roof as they had done before, and, taking out the jewels, began to count them. They made a large heap and placed the crown on the top. All at once the magpie flew up in the air as far as the string would permit, and cried in a loud and dreadful voice, “Help! help! The King of Growgland’s crown is stolen!”
At this the thieves were so much horrified that they dropped their booty, and ran wildly to and fro on the roof searching for some hidden person, and, when they came close to the place where the iron bar was, the magpie flew up again, crying the same words more terribly than before.
“We’ll soon choke his noise,” exclaimed the robbers; and with one accord they began to climb the steps. But the youngest brother had done his work well: the stones were loose, and in another moment they had fallen headlong through the air, and were lying with their necks broken in the churchyard.
The magpie then called his friend, who brought the pickaxe and shovel, and when they had buried the two robbers they went up again to the roof, and put the King of Growgland’s crown into the red silk bag.
“We know who this belongs to, and we will certainly restore it,” said the magpie; “the rest we will keep as some slight remuneration for our trouble.”
There were enough jewels to make fifty people rich for life. Itwasa haul! The youngest brother praised the magpie, and, taking off his shirt, knotted the tails together and filled it up to the neck with precious stones. It was almost light before he got back to his wife and showed her what the magpie’s good sense had accomplished.
In a few days the magpie set out for the kingdom of Growgland, scarcely more than a hundred miles away, and demanded to see the King. He found the whole city in a ferment and everyone distracted. The King had grown quite thin, and the head of the police had been sent to prison for being unable to find the thieves.
“If your Majesty will start the day after to-morrow,” said the magpie, “and go a day’s journey from the city, you will meet a young man and a girl on horseback carrying a red silk bag. Your Majesty may wring my neck if it does not contain the crown of Growgland.”
At this everyone was electrified, and the King, with a great retinue, started and encamped a day’s march off, that the crown of Growgland might be received with all due ceremony. As evening came on the magpie grew a little nervous, for the King had placed a guard over him to do him honour (at least, that was what he said); but the bird knew very well that it was done so that he should not escape if the crown failed to appear. But at last he saw his friends approaching. Being now rich, they rode fine horses and were dressed as befitted great personages. The King sat on the royal throne (which was a folding one, and so had been brought with him), and the youngest brother, having related his story, gave the red silk bag into his hands. Before parting with him His Majesty presented him with a sum of money that, even had he not been rolling in wealth already, would have made him independent for life.
After this, the magpie and his friends set out for the town in which they had left the two elder brothers and a few days later dismounted before the inn. The harrow was still in its place, prongs uppermost, and at the window, far above it, two forlorn-looking faces were to be seen.
The landlord came out, transported with surprise at the fine appearance of his daughter and the youngest brother.
“There,” he said, pointing to the upper window, “are the two knaves who have deceived me, and whom I have kept locked up ever since you left.”
At this the imprisoned pair perceived who it was that had arrived.
“Here,” they shouted, “here is the great lord come to pay our debts! Did we not assure you that he would come?”
And they rained abuse upon the landlord.
“Let them out and I will make it good to you,” said the youngest brother.
So the two miscreants were freed, and a sorry sight they were; for, as the price of each day of their detainment the landlord had demanded a garment, and their clothes were almost at an end. One had only a shirt left; and the other one garter and a piece of an old tablecloth in which he had wrapped himself for decency. The inn servants shouted with laughter as they came running out. The youngest brother and his wife laughed too; and as for the magpie, he was so delighted that he nearly choked, and had to be restored with strong waters.
“I still prefer my experience to your money,” remarked the youngest brother to his relations.
THE STORY OF MASTER BOGEY
“This time it will have to be a tale I remember hearing grandmother tell,” said the miller one evening, “for I’ve left my book in the town. The cover was so battered that it had to be mended.”
They were sitting on the steps of the mill. Every week now, and sometimes twice between Sunday and Sunday, they spent a delightful time with their friend. Little Peter thought he was the finest man in the world; and Janet, though she said little, was quite sure there was no one like him. And, indeed, they were not far wrong, for he was the most splendid miller that anybody ever saw; he was like a big boy at heart, though he was a grown-up man with a mill of his own and a horse and cart in the stable.
There was once a square house (he began) that stood in a garden. Outside the garden were great trees which had been there for more than a hundred years, and when the wind blew high and the gales raged in the autumn, they swayed about and creaked so that anyone might think they must fall and crush everything near them; but they never did. Up in the top story of the house was a row of windows belonging to the rooms where the children lived, and, as the blinds were often left up, you might see the lights inside and the shadows of the nurse and the little girls moving about.
Now, high up in the highest tree visible from the nursery lived a family of Bogeys. They were very nice people. There was Father Bogey and Madam Bogey and young Master Bogey, their son.
The children had no idea that they lived there, for they never showed themselves, but lurked hidden in the dark shadows of the boughs. When the wind blew they swayed hither and thither with the branches, and when the nursery blinds were up and the firelight shone behind them, Master Bogey, who was inquisitive, would sit staring and trying to make out what was going on in the room.
“How I should love to get in and see what it is like!” he would say to his parents.
And Madam Bogey would answer: “Nonsense! Your father and I have lived here for ages, and have never tried to get in. We know very well what is our business and what is not. You can see the little girls every morning as they come down the avenue with their nurse, and you know that their names are Josephine, Julia and Jane. What more can you want?”
And Master Bogey would say no more. But that did not prevent him from being as inquisitive as ever.
Every day as the little girls came out for their walk he would peer down on them, unseen. Each had her doll in her arms, and the two elder ones would talk to theirs and carry them as carefully as though they were babies. But Jane was always scolding hers; once, even, she threw the poor thing roughly on the ground. She did not suspect for a moment that Master Bogey was looking down at her, horrified.
At last, one night in winter, his curiosity grew more than he could bear; for he had not heard the front door bolted nor the key turned, and he knew that he might never have such a chance of getting into the house again. The snow lay deep, and his parents were snoring in the fork of the branches in which the family spent the winter months. Overhead, the stars were clear and trembling in the frost and the nursery firelight shone red through the curtains. He slid down, ran across the white ground and up the front-door steps. Yes, the handle went round in his grasp, and in another moment he was standing in the hall.
It was easy to see that the servants had been careless that night; not only was the door unlocked, but the lamps were left burning too. As Master Bogey paused at the foot of the wooden staircase, it was all he could do not to turn and run, for the wall beside it was hung with family portraits of fierce gentlemen and bedizened ladies who stared at him dreadfully. But he was a sensible fellow, and, as most of them were half-length pictures, he decided that people who had no legs couldn’t run after him. He ventured to touch one, and, finding it wasn’t a living thing at all, he grew as bold as brass and began to look about him. Christmas was not long over; the yew and the holly were still wreathed above the frames, making him wonder how these little pieces of trees could have got inside the house. There were swords and spears and old fire-arms too, whose use he could not understand. Up he went softly, nearly jumping out of his skin when a step creaked under his foot, and he found himself at last on the nursery threshold. The door was ajar and the firelight bright in the empty room, so in he went.
But suddenly he gave a most terrible start, for the room was not empty at all; three dolls were sitting on three chairs, watching him intently, and two of them were looking very severe.
“May I ask, sir, who you are?” demanded the one nearest to the hearth.
Master Bogey was speechless. He turned to run away.
“Stop, sir!” cried the doll again, “and be good enough to answer me, or I will alarm the house. Who are you? I insist upon knowing.”
“I am Master Bogey,” he stammered.
“La! what a name!” exclaimed the doll upon the next chair. And she held up her fine satin muff and giggled behind it.
“Yes, and what a shock of hair!” said the other. She held up her muff and giggled too.
Poor Master Bogey was ready to cry.
The two dolls who had spoken were almost exactly alike: they had round pink faces and round blue eyes; on either side of their cheeks hung beautiful golden curls—no wonder they laughed at the black mop on his dusky head. They really were the most elegant ladies. They wore frilled silk pelisses, with handsome ruffles at the neck; large silk hats, tied under their chins with bows, and enormous sashes. On their feet were openwork socks and bronze shoes with rosettes; their muffs we know all about. The only difference between them was that one was dressed in blue and the other in pink. Their mouths were like rosy buttons; to look at them, who could guess that such rude words had ever come out of them? (My grandmother always used to make that remark, for she had a good bringing-up and knew manners.)
The third doll was not nearly so fine as her companions. To begin with, she had no muff, and her sash was tied round her waist, and not halfway down her skirt, which showed at once she was out of the fashions in the doll world. Her frock was plain and torn and she had lost one shoe; all the same, she had a dear little face. When she saw poor Master Bogey’s downcast looks, she got off her chair and went to him.
“Don’t mind what they say,” she said. “They have just got new dresses and it makes them proud. They mean no harm. Your hair is very nice, and it is a great blessing to have so much.”
You may fancy how grateful Master Bogey was!
She held out her hand, and he took it.
“Come,” she said, “let us go and sit at the other end of the room. You are a stranger, and I have heard nurse say that one should always be polite to strangers.”
Little girl clasps boy's hand“SHE HELD OUT HER HAND, AND HE TOOK IT.”
“SHE HELD OUT HER HAND, AND HE TOOK IT.”
So they went, and the ladies in blue and pink cried out “Pooh!” very loud and both at the same time.
“Take no notice,” whispered the doll.
It was not long before she persuaded Master Bogey to confess his curiosity about the house and the people in it, and he began to enjoy himself immensely. He heard all about the pictures that had astonished him so much, and how the holly and yew branches had managed to get on to the frames, and about the Christmas party which was just over. He saw the rocking-horse, and even had a ride on it; the cupboard where nurse kept the jams for tea, and the door which led to the attics overhead. But the most delightful part of all was when he led his companion to the window and showed her the tree in which he lived standing black in the whiteness and the starlight.
“You can’t see my parents, for they are asleep,” he remarked; “but Ithinkthat round sort of bump where the branches fork is the back of my mother’s head. I wish you could see all of it.”
“Does she know where you are?” asked the doll.
“Well, no,” replied he, “she doesn’t; she had gone to bed when I left, and I really couldn’t wake her. But I’ll tell her everything in the morning, and all about you, and how charming you are.”
“I’m afraid she’ll punish you,” said the doll, sighing. “I only hope she won’t throw you out of the tree.”
“Gracious!” cried Master Bogey, “what an idea! Why, my mother is the best mother in the world! I know what put that into your head, all the same. I saw one of the little girls throw her doll on the ground once, when I was looking down from the branches. It wasn’t you, I trust?”
“Indeed it was,” said she; “that was Miss Jane, and I am her doll. I am very unhappy, for she is dreadfully cruel to me. Sometimes she bangs me on the floor and puts me in the corner for hours. And look at my clothes! The others are lucky—they belong to Josephine and Julia. They have each got a new dress, but this ragged one is all I have, and only one shoe.”
The tears ran down her face, poor little thing!
“Show me Miss Jane, and I will go and kill her!” cried Master Bogey, in a rage.
“Oh no, no!” begged the doll. “If you did that, I might be thrown away. No one would care to keep a shabby thing like me. I might be flung into the ashpit.”
“I would soon go and fetch you if you were,” said Master Bogey gallantly. “But show me Jane; if I could even shake my fist at her I should be happier.”
“Will you promise not to do any harm if I take you to the night-nursery?” said she.
He promised, and they went, hand in hand, down the long passage to the room where Josephine, Julia and Jane slept.
They went in on tiptoe. The sisters were sleeping in a row in their little white beds with frilled curtains; they really looked very pretty with their hair lying spread upon the pillows.
“That is Josephine,” said the doll, pointing to the eldest, “and the next is Julia, and the one nearest the door is Jane, my mistress.”
Josephine and Julia were smiling in their sleep, but as they looked, Jane turned over and tossed, grinding her teeth.
“I am afraid she is having a bad dream,” explained the doll.
“Serve her right! I wish she could have two at once!” said Master Bogey.
At last he thought it was time for him to be getting home, and the doll said she would go down with him to the hall. He was very sad, for he did not know when he should see her again; and she was sad, too.
“The very first time they leave the door open I will come back,” said he.
“Oh, I hope it will be soon!” she said. “Whenever Jane is bad to me I will think about you, and every night I will look out and try to see you.”
“And I will look for you,” replied Master Bogey, as he slipped out of the front door.
Next morning he told Madam Bogey all that he had done, and, though she read him a long lecture on curiosity, she could not help being interested.
“A good whipping is what Jane wants,” she remarked, “and if I were her nurse she should get it.”
Every night the doll and Master Bogey looked across the snowy space to try and get a glimpse of each other, but, though he could see her against the firelight through the windows, she could not see him where he sat in the dim tangle of branches. Madam Bogey watched too, but she was short-sighted and soon gave it up, though her good heart ached to think of the poor little creature and all she had to endure. She and Master Bogey talked about it a great deal.
One night, as he looked from his tree towards the nursery, he saw Miss Jane, with one of her sisters, standing by the window-sill. He knew it was Jane, because she was the only one of the little girls who had a pigtail; he could see its outline as it hung behind her head, with a bow sticking out, like a fat insect, at the end of it.
Each had put her doll to stand on the window-sill, inside the pane. He couldn’t tell whether it was the blue or the pink lady who was there, but he saw the shadow of a smart hat. He hoped very much that his friend was looking out for him, and he waved his hand. All at once she slipped on the sill and fell out of sight! He saw Jane stoop down, her pigtail sticking out farther than ever as she did so, and drag her up by the arm, shaking her—oh, so cruelly! She began to slap her, first on this side, then on that; he almost fancied he could hear her crying. Again and again she struck her, and Master Bogey shouted and threw up his arms in despair. Oh, how hard it was that he could not reach her!
“Mother!” he cried. “Oh, mother! Look! look!”
Up came Madam Bogey, hurrying to see what was the matter with her son. When she saw how dreadfully the poor doll was being treated, she was almost as angry as he was; and after Jane and her sister had disappeared from the window with their dolls, she still sat talking to him. It was quite late when he went to bed at last, and she stayed beside him and held his hand. He cried himself to sleep with rage and pity.
Now, Father Bogey had been away for some time on business, and when he returned next day his wife and he had such a long consultation that Master Bogey thought it would never be done. They sent him to a different tree while it was going on. He sat there rather crossly, looking at them as they nodded and shook their heads and nodded again. He knew it was all about something very interesting. When they called him back he was quite pettish.
“Sit down, boy,” his father began, very solemnly, “and try to look more intelligent. When I was your age I was setting up house. As you are an only child I have tried not to spoil you, and I may say that, on the whole, you have been a good son; but now it is time you were settled. I hear from your mother that you have made the acquaintance of a young lady in the house opposite. From what you have told your mother of her manners, she must be of a good disposition and naturally refined. If you have any mind to marry her she shall have a hearty and fatherly welcome, and your mother and I will give up the whole of the top branches to you. You had better think it over.”
Master Bogey did not take long to do that. He clapped his hands with joy when he thought that he might see his dear doll again, and never part from her any more, for he knew that she would be thankful to escape from cruel Jane and the rude ladies in blue and pink. The only difficulty was, how was he to get at her?
Evidently the servants had been blamed for their carelessness. Since his adventure the front door had been locked and the windows bolted as soon as it grew dark. He ran round the house every night, looking eagerly for some chink or crack large enough for him to squeeze himself in through; but there was nothing big enough, for he was a well-grown lad, and as tall as his father.
At last a bold plan came into his mind. He decided to get in in broad daylight, hiding in some empty room till everyone had gone to bed and then making his way to the nursery. As soon as he could persuade his love to elope with him, they would steal downstairs, unlock the front door, and let themselves out. When he told Madam Bogey of this plan she was in a dreadful state, and said it was much too dangerous; but he was determined. It is terrible to think what love will do!
So one afternoon he began to make his way to the house by short stages. From tree to tree he dodged, and just before dusk he had reached a small yew growing in a shrubbery near the front-door steps without being seen by anyone. He heard the great bell clang which called servants and stablemen to tea; and when he thought they were all safe in the servants’ hall, he flew up the steps like a lamplighter, and in at the door. Opposite to it was a large drawing-room, which the doll had told him was never used in winter, and in he went. There was a sofa there, with a long chintz cover touching the floor; and he crawled under this, and lay down as still as a mouse. How his heart beat when a maid came to draw the curtains! How he longed to catch her by the ankle and make her scream! But he did nothing so silly; he only lay and longed for the night, when he might get upstairs.
It was so still that his own footsteps made him jump. It was quite dark, too, as the lamps were out, and he could only feel his way; but he got safely to the top of the nursery stair, and began tiptoeing up the passage. A chink of light under the day-nursery door showed him the fire was still in.
One thing is certain, and that is that luck favours brave people. Master Bogey went in, and the first thing he saw was his dear doll at the window, looking out, no doubt, for a glimpse of himself in the tree. The pink lady and the blue lady were asleep in their chairs by the hearth, their eyes shut, their muffs in their laps and their hats tied firmly under their chins.
The poor doll ran to him and put her arms round his neck. She looked very woebegone and her clothes were more tattered than ever. She had no shoes at all now.
“I’ve come to take you away,” said Master Bogey. “You must come back to my tree and we will be married at once, and then I can see you every day for the rest of my life.”
“Do youreallymean it?” asked the doll.
“Yes, yes!” cried he. “Come at once, this very moment, before anyone catches us. My father and mother are waiting for you, and we are to have the top branches to live in.”
The poor little thing could hardly believe her ears. She liked Master Bogey better than anyone she had ever seen, and now she was going away from cruel Jane, and the blue and pink ladies, who sneered at everything. She held his hand tight and they went stealing out. She was so happy she did not know what to do.
They felt their way along safely till they got almost to the hall, and then, alas! alas! Master Bogey missed his footing on the last flight of stairs and rolled from the top to the bottom. Bump, bump, he went, and landed in a heap on the mat. He had just time to pick himself up before a door opened and the mother of Josephine, Julia and Jane came out of her bedroom with a candle in her hand. She could not see into the hall, but she began to come downstairs.
Master Bogey and the doll went straight to a corner where rows of coats hung from pegs, and got behind the thickest fur cloak they could find. He took her up in his arms, so that her little white feet should not show underneath it; his own black ones he kept quite still. In the light of the candle they only seemed like dark shadows.
The lady held up her light and looked round. She was much prettier than any of her daughters, and though her hair was now in a pigtail like Jane’s, it really suited her. She peeped under tables and behind chests, and then she came to the row of cloaks and began prodding them to see if anyone was hidden behind them. It was an awful moment.
What saved them was the fact that Bogeys are seldom very tall; though young Master Bogey was such a fine-grown lad, he was scarcely three feet high. Jane’s mother prodded the cloak just above his head and passed on without feeling anything. Just then a man’s face looked over the banisters above.
“What are you doing there?” cried Josephine, Julia and Jane’s father.
“I thought I heard a noise,” said the lady, “so I came to look.”
“Nonsense!” he exclaimed, “you are always imagining burglars. Go back to bed, and don’t be such a goose.”
When she had gone, Master Bogey and his love came out of their hiding-place. It took but a moment to unlock the door and draw the bolts. They shut it softly after them and ran down the steps and out into the shadows, where Father Bogey and Madam were waiting to embrace their daughter-in-law.
Then they all went up into the tree, where, as I have heard, they lived happily together ever after.
THE TREE OF PRIDE
“To-day it’s the book’s turn,” said the miller to his friends as the light was fading one evening. “Last time we heard about Bogeys and people of that sort, but to-day we’ll have a Princess, and King’s Courts and fine company.”
“I like hearing about grand ladies,” observed Janet.
“Yes, I like them well enough, too,” replied he; “that is, if they’re as good and as beautiful as some lasses I have seen.”
He looked rather hard at Janet, and she blushed.
“Oh, never mind talking!” broke in little Peter, pulling the miller’s sleeve. “It’s the story I want. If you don’t begin quick the light will be gone; the rooks are coming home already, and soon we shall have to go in to supper.”
“You needn’t do that, for you shall come to supper with me in the mill,” said the miller. “How would you like that?”
“We daren’t,” said Janet.
“I’ll go and make it right with your grandmother myself,” he replied. “She’ll be glad enough, maybe, for there’ll be all the more left in the larder to-morrow. Sit still till I come back.”
And he jumped over the wall. They watched him pass the pool and disappear into the white cottage.
“Oh, how delightful!” shouted little Peter, turning head over heels.
In a few minutes the miller returned. The old woman had promised everything he wanted. It is a funny thing how often young men can manage witches. They all went into the mill.
“So now to business,” said he, as he sat down and took up his book.
In a kingdom far from this everyday earth a great city sat royally in its surrounding plain. It had domes and towers, temples and fortresses, and in it lived a Princess whose goodness and beauty were known for miles round. The plain was vast and fertile, but here and there patches of wilderness lay like islands among the crops; and a winding stream wandered, now through their richness, now through tangled briars and unfrequented tracks.
By one of these it made a loop, encircling a spot where the turf was cleared of undergrowth and a great tree thrust its gnarled roots through the grass. The few who passed this place looked upon it with no little awe, for the tree was inhabited, and even on a calm day its boughs might be seen rocking to and fro, as though moved by some unruly breeze. Its leaves were large and glossy, its limbs spreading like the limbs of an oak, and in spring it bore white, waxy flowers, heavily scented and shaped like open tulips; in the heart of each was a cluster of stiff golden stamens.
The upper branches were haunted by an old man whose long robe gave him the appearance of a wizard. Though he had lurked in the tree for generations, time had not robbed him of his activity, for he would swing himself to earth every morning to drink of the stream, and, in summer, to wash the dust from the leaves and blossoms, which he tended as carefully as a gardener might his plants. The dwellers in the city knew nothing of his existence; but the dwellers in the fields near the tree had sometimes seen him descend from it to the earth, and remembered having heard in their childhood that it was called the “Tree of Pride.”
One autumn day all the city was making holiday, for the Princess had been betrothed to a King from a far country and was starting with a great following to meet him ten leagues from its walls. Her father accompanied her, and she rode on a white horse shod with silver; she was so beautiful and charming that there was not a man in the whole retinue who did not envy the unknown King. Her brown hair, looped up behind her head, fell almost to the stirrup, and she wore a coif woven of burning gold. Her cloak was embroidered with rose and purple and patterns of stars, and its gold fringes swung as she rode. Her eyes were like the still, moon-haunted pools of a moorland.
It chanced that the procession had been delayed in leaving the city, so that by sunset the place where it was to encamp was yet many miles off. The Princess was tired, and a man-at-arms was sent out to look for some spot where the tents might be pitched and water found for the horses. He soon came back to say that within a mile was a stretch of grass surrounding a large tree and watered by a stream. In a short time they reached it, and encamped for the night.
Next morning, when they had risen betimes to continue their way, the Princess caught sight of the tree, which was a dream of beauty; for autumn was at its full, and the fruit was heavy where the flowers had been. As she stood to admire it, a rustling was heard in the branches, and an old man descended, swinging himself from bough to bough and holding a piece of fruit, round and ripe; he leaned down and offered it to her.
When she had accepted the gift, the Princess mounted, and the whole company returned to the beaten track and went forward on their road. The sun grew hot, and as noonday came on she ate the fruit, thinking that she had never tasted anything so delicious.
They rode by brook and meadow, by hill and wood, and soon everyone began to wonder at the change which had come over the Princess. Those whom she had looked upon as friends all her life were now commanded to rein back, that they might not offend her dignity by their presence. She would scarce answer her father when he spoke, and, whereas in the early part of her journey she had taken pleasure in the beauty of the landscape, she now blamed the road as unfit for her horse’s feet to tread.
“Not content with dragging me out to meet this sorry fellow,” she said, “you must needs bring me by ways only fit for peasants.”
Her father and his people looked aghast. Never before had they heard her speak in such a manner.
Woman rides horse next to horse-riding man.“SHE WOULD SCARCE ANSWER HER FATHER WHEN HE SPOKE.”
“SHE WOULD SCARCE ANSWER HER FATHER WHEN HE SPOKE.”
When the shadows were long they halted again, and soon they could distinguish a company of horsemen between them and the hills. The Princess withdrew to her tent, for she knew that the distant spearmen must be the unknown King’s following, and that in a short time she would be summoned to receive him. She called her maids, and when they had dressed her in her state robes, she took a knife and made a slit in the curtains that she might see the King’s arrival without being seen. As she stood watching the little band advancing, she was surprised to hear her father’s voice almost beside the tent. She ran towards the place, and, cutting another slit, looked through and saw him in conversation with a man-at-arms, who had just dismounted from the steaming horse he held.
He was dressed from head to heel in russet leather, and a steel helmet, with spreading steel wings, was on his head. He was tall and brown, and his white teeth gleamed as he smiled. “Sire,” he was saying, “I beg you to forgive this unceremonious coming. When I saw your tents on the plain and knew that the Princess was so near, I could contain myself no longer and galloped forward with all speed. I will not dare to enter her presence till my people have arrived, and I have cast off the dust of the road. But wait I could not. I hope your Majesty will forgive me.”
And so this rash, leather-clad soldier was the King—this careless, dusty fellow who was loosening his horse’s girths as any common groom might do! Did he think to thrust himself thus, without ceremony, into the following of a royal Princess?
Behind her curtains she turned away, biting her lips, and she was still frowning when her father entered.
“Daughter,” said he, “the King is here and I have spoken with him.”
“And what is he like?” inquired she, her voice cold with scorn.
“He is the most gallant-looking gentleman that ever I saw,” said the old man.
The Princess turned her back.
An hour later father and daughter waited to receive their guest in a long tent hung with fine stuffs and wreathed in garlands. The whole of their retinue stood around, and, at the far end, the Princess sat on a carved chair, her eyes on the ground and her face as pale as ivory, never looking at the opposite door, by which her suitor was to enter.
At last the hangings were drawn wide and he came in. He still wore his russet brown, but it was now of silver-studded velvet which clung to him like a glove, and as he went forward a murmur of admiration ran through the crowd; for he walked like some kingly animal, and his eyes sparkled under his dark brows. “Here is a King indeed,” whispered the bystanders.
The Princess scarcely glanced at him. She curtseyed low as he approached, but when he would have taken her hand, she drew back, her lip curling.
“Your Majesty does me an honour for which I have no desire,” she said; “and if I have brought you to the meeting-place only to refuse your hand, you will pardon it the more readily as you yourself like ceremony so little.”
So saying, she turned and left everyone standing speechless.
When the company had dispersed, the Princess declared that she would set out next morning for the city. There was nothing left for the King to do but to depart by the way he had come, and, furious and mortified, he returned to his own camp to throw off his velvet and resume his leather and steel; he meant to go at once. His heart was hot within him, for the one look he had had at the Princess was enough to set it in a flame. She was so beautiful that he had never seen her like, and even through his anger there was a sharp stab of regret for what he had lost. Heartless as she seemed, and ill as she had treated him, he would have given the world for her. While his men and horses were getting ready, he went out into the night, and turned his steps to a little thicket of birches which stood with their glimmering stems not far from the camp. The darkness was moist and chill, and some of the Princess’s men had lit a fire on the outskirts of the trees, and were sitting round it. He drew close to them under cover of the wood, and saw an old soldier in the centre of the circle who was talking to his companions. “If I had my will,” he was saying, “I would fell the tree to the ground, and the old goblin should die with it. He should pay for turning the sweetest, most beautiful lady in the world into such a jade! I remember her from the time she was no higher than my sword, and until she tasted that accursed fruit there was no creature more beloved in the kingdom—and with reason, too. And look at her now!”
“What is all this talk?” asked a new-comer, as he joined the group in the firelight. “Not but what Her Highness has given us enough to talk about for some time to come.”
“Why, it is just that,” continued the first speaker; “there’s the matter plain. She has eaten of the Tree of Pride. I saw it myself.”
“The Tree of Pride?” cried the others—“whoever heard of that?”
“You are young men,” the old soldier went on, “and you were not born, as I was, in a hut in these fields, where all the tales of the country round were common talk. My home was in sight of the Tree of Pride, where we camped last night, and many’s the time I’ve seen the old man sitting among the boughs like an evil bird. Whoever tastes of it, rich or poor, man or woman, young or old, becomes mad with vanity and pride. And but yesterday the Princess stood under the branches, and the old man reached down and offered her the fruit. She took it, poor lady, and thanked him, understanding nothing. I’ve more than a mind to turn aside and slay him on the way back.”
The King waited to hear no more; he stole through the trees and back to his own camp: he was determined to start at once for the Tree of Pride. He rode all night, taking only a couple of men with him, and in the morning sunlight he saw it raising its heavy head above the plain. He drew up almost under the boughs and dismounted. There, peering down on him, was the wizened face of the old man, smiling elusively as he plucked a cluster of fruit and began climbing down to offer it. The King waited until he had reached the lowest arm of the tree, and then, instead of taking the gift, he seized his garment and dragged him to the ground.
The old man shrieked and struggled, but the King held him fast, and, throwing him on the grass, stood over him while his two soldiers bound him hand and foot.
“Look!” cried the King, when they had done this, “here is my blade, ready to plunge into your evil body. Because the Princess ate the fruit you gave her, her whole heart is changed. You have only one chance of life. I will spare it if you tell me the remedy that can turn her into her true self.”
“There is no remedy,” he said, fixing his malicious eyes on the King.
“Then,” said the young man, “I will prevent anyone else from sharing the Princess’s fate.”
And he raised his arm.
“Stop!” screamed the other. “I will tell you everything! Only let me go and I will promise never to offer the fruit to anyone again.”
“Lie still,” said the King. “You will tell me the cure before you move and then I will cut down the tree. Go to the nearest hut and borrow an axe,” he added, turning to one of his men.
“No! no!” cried the old man again; “cut it down and all will be lost! Only unbind my hands and I vow I will make the mischief right.”
“You will be loosed when you have spoken,” replied the King.
“Tell your soldiers to go away,” said the prisoner at last; “for the thing is a secret.”
The King told his men to raise him, and when they were alone the old man began.
“You will need patience,” said he. “The winter must come and go before the tree whitens again, for it is only the blossom that can cure the poison of the fruit. When spring comes you must make a crown of the white flowers and take it as a gift to the Princess. If you can persuade her to wear it—if only for a few moments—her heart will change, and she will once more be the woman she was.”
The King’s face fell. It was full six months of waiting and it seemed like an eternity.
“Now let me go!” cried the old man again.
“I will unbind you, as I promised,” said the King, “but from now till the day we return together to pluck the flowers I will not lose sight of you—no, not for an hour—until your words are proven. Come, hold out your hands and feet, and I will cut the cords. Then we will turn our faces to my kingdom.”
And the prisoner was mounted and led away between two men-at-arms in the King’s troop.
* * * * *
While these things were happening, the Princess was on the road home. Having arrived, she shut herself up in her rooms and would hardly deign to go outside the walls of her garden, or to notice anyone. When her father was with her she treated him as though he were an intruder, and the slightest difference of opinion between them threw her into a fury.
She would pace up and down the corridor, her figure erect, her head thrown back; in her eyes was the look of one scarce conscious of her surroundings. And indeed, her soul had strayed into another world—the world of pride, and self and hardness of heart.
Time went, and the leaves of the Tree of Pride lay thick round its foot. Winter’s white veil covered plain and city, and the Princess, in her palace, drew every day farther from humanity; only the King, in his distant kingdom, hoped on, waiting for spring.
But in the old man, his prisoner, a mighty change was being wrought, and his malignant spirit was beginning to go from him. He had never before been brought so close to a noble human being. As the King had said, so he had done, and in the winter which followed his return he had hardly allowed his hostage out of his sight for an hour: waking, he kept him at his side, and sleeping, he lay across his barred door.
But, even while so much was at stake, he could not neglect his daily work, and so it came about that where he went the old man had to go also. While he sat in council he was at his left hand; when he dealt out justice he was present; and when he was occupied with his army—the pride of his soul—he was still beside him. He saw how the King made himself as one of his soldiers, how he shirked no work, took no advantage; he saw his gay and noble heart his joy in living, his prowess in all feats of arms, the love his troops bore him—and as he saw, his withered nature grew soft. And so it was that by the time the young buds began to show on the branches and the season drew near for their journey to the Tree of Pride, captive though he was, he would have laid down his life for him willingly.
All the earth was bursting into youth as the two rode over the plain and approached the tree. The scent of its blossoms was blowing towards them, heavy on the air. The flowers were thick about the ends of the green shoots, the petals, half closing, like cups, over the golden hearts within them. The King cut a few handfuls with his knife while his companion plaited them into a wreath, and when it was made, they mounted and rode into the city.
When they arrived, they went to a small inn, and the King, not wishing his presence to be known, sent a messenger to the palace, giving him a sum of money. With this he was to bribe the servants to carry news to the Princess that two strangers, having discovered a treasure, desired to offer it to her. In this manner they hoped to induce her to receive the crown. On the following day the man returned, having reached the Princess’s ear, and bringing leave for the strangers to approach. So they presented themselves.
They placed the wreath upon a velvet cushion, and the King waited in a dark corner of the Princess’s antechamber, while the old man, whose face was hidden by a magician’s hood which he had procured, entered and laid the gift at her feet.
“Royal lady——” he began, but his voice dropped, for the Princess’s glance fell on the flowers, and she rose from her chair, her eyes alight with wrath and her lips trembling. Instead of the rich jewels she had imagined, there lay before her a simple wreath—beautiful exceedingly, but with a beauty for which she had ceased to care. There was nothing about the offering that could add to her splendour. Any peasant girl, having leisure to weave such a crown, might wear it without pride and without remark.
And as she sprang up, her eyes met those of her rejected suitor, who had drawn the curtains of the antechamber a little aside in his suspense.
When the old man raised the cushion, she seized the wreath and tore it in pieces, scattering the petals, like snowflakes, on the floor.
The King went from the palace in despair and returned to his lodging. He had hoped so fiercely and so long that life seemed almost to have come to an end. He mounted his horse, and, bidding the old man farewell, determined to return to his kingdom and his soldiers, putting the thought of the Princess from him for ever. Before he went he gave him a thousand gold pieces, and made him promise to return to the Tree of Pride and cut it down. As the city walls faded behind him, he looked back at them with a sigh. For the first time he had lost interest in everything, and he knew that it was no longer his pleasure to which he was returning; but he had not forgotten that it was still his duty.
Now, it chanced that, while the Princess refused the crown, there stood by the chair a certain lady-in-waiting. She was no longer young, but she had been a beauty in her day and had seen much of men and matters. She had been at the Court for years and her heart was heavy at the change she saw in her mistress. She was a shrewd woman, and it did not escape her notice that the person who offered the crown wore a hood like those she had seen on the heads of magicians; besides this, she marvelled that two strangers, one of whom did not even show himself, should wish to give the Princess what any one of her servants might pluck from the hedge. The old man had scarcely disappeared before she made up her mind that here was some mystery she did not understand. Unobserved, she gathered up the broken flowers, and that evening she sent a page secretly to discover where he lived, and to desire him to meet her, after dark, at the foot of the palace garden. She also sent the key of a little door by which he might enter unobserved.
When the page found him, the old man was on the point of leaving the city. He was sad, for he had just parted from the King; but he was resolved, when he should have destroyed the Tree of Pride, to follow him to his own country and spend the rest of his life in his service. When he received the lady’s commands, he did not hesitate to obey them.
The watchmen were crying ten o’clock as he stood in the starlight inside the little door. He trembled, for he suspected the summons might lead him into some trap; but to serve the King he was ready to venture all, and he only hoped the morning might not find him at the bottom of a dungeon. He was considering these things when the lady appeared. He was about to speak when she held up her hand.
“I am the Princess’s chief lady-in-waiting,” she began, “and her welfare is to me as my own. I have sent for you that I may ask you, for her sake, what reason you had for bringing such a gift. She has everything the world can offer, and I am certain that you would not have brought her such a present as a common flower wreath if there had not been some hidden virtue in it.”
The old man fell down before her, clinging to her skirt and kissing its hem.
“Madam!” he cried, “only persuade the Princess to wear it and all that I have is yours! The King, who loves her, and whose heart she has broken, has made me rich for the rest of my days, but I will give it all up to you if you will only induce her to wear it, even for a moment.”
Then the lady remembered the King, for she had been at her post when he received his dismissal, and, under her breath, she had called the Princess a fool. She had lived long enough in the world to know a man when she saw one.
“I never take bribes,” she said, “nor, as a rule, do I tolerate those who offer them; but if you will tell me the truth, I will do my best to bring the King and my mistress together.”
So the old man told her all.
When the lady returned to the palace, she took the fragments of the wreath and put them carefully together. The petals she collected and sewed into their right places with fine silk; it was so deftly done that no one could suspect them of having been broken.
The next day there was to be a banquet at the palace, and before the time came for the Princess to get ready, the lady took one of her maids aside. “While you are fastening the pins of Her Royal Highness’s veil,” said she, “and before you put on her crown, you must scream as though you had pricked your finger. Do as I tell you and ask no questions, for I myself will be present and keep her wrath from you.”
So when the Princess sat before her mirror, the maid brought her veil and began to fasten it, while the lady stood by with the wreath concealed in her wide sleeve. All at once the girl shrieked aloud: “Oh! oh! I have torn my finger with a pin!”
“You unmannerly jade!” cried the lady, “will you make all this to-do while Her Highness is dressing? Off with you, and I will fasten the crown myself.”
And she thrust her from the room and took her place.
Suddenly the Princess looked up into the glass, and saw, instead of her crown, the wreath of half-opened flowers with their golden centres glowing through her hair. She put up her hand to tear the thing from her head; but just as she was going to do so, her lips trembled, and she leaned, sobbing, against the table, her face buried in her hands.
* * * * *
Great was the joy in the palace that night. The Princess sat at her father’s side with a strange look in her eyes, but her speech was gentle and her voice soft. The lady-in-waiting watched her, smiling. She had given the true history of the wreath, and she wondered what would happen.
* * * * *
Before dawn next morning the Princess rose. Without a word to anyone, she ordered her horse to be brought, and, riding by the quietest streets, left the city while the world was yet asleep. She took with her a heavy purse full of gold, which she hid in the trappings of the saddle, and her spaniel, Giroflé, which she carried on her knee. A mantle was thrown over her head, that her face should not be seen, and under it she still wore the wreath of flowers. Her way took her past the old man’s lodging, and there she stopped.
“Come out!” she cried. “Here are some gold pieces. Go to the stable, take the best mule you can find, and follow me. I have vowed to wear the wreath from the Tree of Pride until I can mend the heart that its evil magic has broken. I have determined to seek out the King and ask his forgiveness for all I have done.”
The old man desired nothing better. In a few minutes he came from the stable, leading a fine strong mule, and, as soon as he was mounted, they set off, and passed through the city gate while the sun was still rising through the mist.
Now, the little dog, Giroflé, was not in the best of tempers, for he resented his position very much. He had spent a pampered youth in the royal palace, and was now entering on a worldly and selfish middle age. His mistress had always made a great deal of him, and she now took him with her, because she feared his arrogant manners would earn him scant consideration in her absence. She knew that he thought himself a great deal better than her chief lady-in-waiting, and, in the days before her own pride blinded her to everything else, she had often rebuked him sharply. He sat curled up under her cloak, putting his nose out now and then, and sniffing to show his contempt for everything they passed.
“I suppose,” said he to the Princess’s horse, “that when one travels in outlandish places one is justified in addressing those whom one would not be called upon to notice at home. I shall, therefore, speak to you. Be good enough to inform me where we are going.”
Never having been inside the palace, the horse had not met Giroflé before, though he had often heard tell of him. His honest heart burned at the little creature’s insolence, but he answered civilly, not wishing to annoy the Princess.
“I have been told nothing, either,” said he.
“No one supposed you had,” replied Giroflé, “but one imagines that a beast of burden should know his way about the country.”
“Hold your peace, sirrah!” exclaimed the Princess. “I allow no one to speak to Amulet like that. It would be well for you if you were but half as useful and brave as he is.”
“I prefer to be ornamental myself,” said the little dog, impudently.
“You may change your mind when I set you down to run,” replied she, slapping him.
They travelled steadily day by day, sleeping at night in such country inns as lay in their road. These were not very grand places, but the Princess cared for no discomfort, thinking only how she might get forward on her way. The old man rode a few paces behind, sometimes carrying Giroflé. The little dog was light, but what he lacked in weight he made up in noise, for he barked ceaselessly, and nothing but threats of making him walk could keep his tongue still.
At last, one evening, as it grew late, they came to the borders of a forest which stretched, like a dark sea, across the horizon. A red streak from the departed sun glared angrily over the tree-tops, and they hurried on towards a miserable little house where they hoped to get a lodging. When they reached it, they found it to be an inn, but so mean and tumble-down was it that its walls seemed hardly able to hold together. A rough-looking man was leaning out of an upper window.
“Can we lodge here?” asked the Princess as she stopped before the door. “There are only myself, my servant, and my little dog.”
The man nodded, and came to take Amulet and the mule to the stable. She dismounted and went in, carrying Giroflé under her arm.
“Heavens! what a place!” he exclaimed, as he peeped from under her cloak. “Surely we are never going to spend the night here!”
“The forest is in front,” said she, “and we cannot find our way through it at this time of night. We have no choice but to stay where we are and be thankful that we have a roof over our heads. Listen! do you hear the wind? There will be a storm before morning.”
As she spoke a kind of moan ran through the air and the trees began to toss to and fro. A great splash of rain fell against the window. Giroflé said no more, but when food was brought and the Princess sat down to sup, he remained in a corner of the room, his face to the wall, and an expression on it impossible to describe.
“Come here, Giroflé, and have some food,” said the Princess, as she sat at the table.
“I am glad you call it food,” said he; “for my part, I should have called it garbage.”
The landlord, who was serving, looked at him angrily.
“I suppose you have never seen a spaniel of good family before, fellow?” snapped Giroflé, as he met his eye.
“Giroflé, behave yourself!” cried the Princess.
The landlord left the room, muttering.
So there Giroflé sat till his mistress had retired to bed; then he came out and went to warm himself by the hearth, for, the corner being cold, his exclusive demeanour had chilled him. Soon the landlord returned to take away the dishes.
“Oh, you are there, are you, little viper?” said he.
At this Giroflé turned upon him with such a torrent of impertinence as the man had never heard before. He had sharpened his tongue for years upon every member of the royal household, including the King himself, and the landlord, who soon found he was no match for him, grew almost frantic.
He rushed upon the little dog, trying to reach him with his foot and a soup-ladle which he held; but Giroflé tore about round the table and behind such furniture as there was, only darting out now and then to get a good snap at his heels. The Princess, who was not yet undressed, came downstairs to see what was the matter; for what between the landlord’s roars, Giroflé’s barks, the overturning of chairs and the wind and rain outside, the noise was really frightful.
“What is all this?” she cried, standing in the doorway.
“I’ll soon show you!” bawled the landlord. “I’ll show you that an honest man is not to be insulted for nothing! Out with you—you and your vile, ill-conditioned cur! Princess indeed! He says you are a Princess—but, Princess or not, out you go! Not another moment do you stop under this roof!”
Just then he managed to reach Giroflé with the ladle, and the little dog sprang out, yelping, into the passage.
“Come, off with you!” cried the landlord. And, before the Princess had time to say a word, he had opened the door and thrust her out into the night. It was fortunate for her that she had hidden the bag of gold in her girdle, for he slammed the door behind them, and they could hear the key turn and the bolts shoot into their places.