Therewas once a king who was so wicked that he would not allow any widows to live in his kingdom, because he was certain that they had caused the death of their husbands; nor would he admit of any fat man or woman, as he was afraid that they would eat up everything in the kingdom.
He was also very proud and arrogant, and if any man happened to be taller than himself, he would give him the choice of being lowered to a proper height by either having his head or his legs cut off.
His subjects were so afraid of him and of his laws, that the married women would not let their husbands go out of their sight, lest any harm should happen to them, and if they turned at all pale, or had broken sleep, or had lost their appetites, they would nurse them night and day. So afraid were they of becomingwidows that they always agreed with their husbands on all points, lest by disagreeing they should bring about an attack of indigestion, or something worse that might produce death.
And when their children commenced to grow rapidly, their fears were doubled lest they should become taller than the king; for if they fed them on pudding, which does not promote growth, they incurred the danger of their becoming fat; and if they fed them on meat, so as to make them lean, they would probably grow tall.
It very soon became evident that there were more hunchbacks in that country than in any other; for as soon as the children were approaching the forbidden height, their parents would suspend heavy weights from their shoulders, so that their backs became rounded and eventually humped.
The young men, when they were at an age to marry, found it very difficult to get any woman to have them, because they were afraid of becoming widows, and also because so many of the men were humpbacked.
But, notwithstanding the king’s wickedness, it was admitted by the married men that their condition had considerably improved.
There was a wide road made round the cities and towns, on which all who were inclined to be stout, both men and women, would run until they were out of breath, and jump over hurdles; and there were so many of these people that the revenues of the Church commenced to suffer, owing to the decreased demand for “bulls,” as they willingly imposed long fasts on themselves.
Now, in the chief city of this country there was a very wise man, well versed in the law and in concocting drugs, for he was the public executioner and the chemist of the place. To him, therefore, went a deputation of the people to lay their grievances before him; and after the spokesman had finished what he had to say, the executioner looked very wise, and, after considering awhile, he said—
“Our king’s predecessor was held to be just and generous because he allowed every man to retain a fifth of his produce for the maintenance of his family, and the tax he imposed on this fifth part was always readily paid.” Here he touched the edge of his sharp axe and smiled; and the deputation exclaimed—
“Quite right; so it was.”
“Now, the present king,” continued the wiseman, again feeling the edge of his axe, “has magnanimously increased your loyal tribute to him by one part in a hundred of the produce of the land, and yet you are not satisfied!”
“The king’s generosity we all feel,” said the deputation; “but, if we may be allowed to express an opinion to you, sir, we would——”
“Certainly you may,” interrupted the man of drugs, running his hand quickly over the axe—“certainly you may; why should you not?”
By this time the chief spokesman had got behind the others, and it was very evident that the members of the deputation were becoming aware that the logic of the executioner was too sharp for them.
Seeing that they were all silent, the executioner went on to say that the king had, in his opinion, been extremely considerate; for he had, by the law against widows, contributed to the happiness and long life of the husbands; and, by enacting that no man should exceed a certain height or stoutness, they had economized in many ways, for they ate less, and their clothes would cost them less. In fact, he saw no reason for dissatisfaction; but as they had come to him as a deputation, he felt it to be his duty to place their supposed grievances beforethe king, and he, the executioner, felt certain that the king would reply to them in a suitable manner. And having said this he raised the axe to the light to see that there was no notch on the edge, which caused the deputation to tremble most violently, and to assure the executioner that they were perfectly satisfied, and desired to withdraw.
The executioner, however, would not allow them to retire—for the grievances of a people should not be withheld from the king’s ear; but the members of the deputation became so frightened that they made their escape through the windows as fast as they could. And when the king heard all about it he remarked that “Folly had entered with dignity by the door, and Wisdom had unceremoniously escaped through the window.”
Overlookingthe river Douro, close to Freixo, are some huge rocks, situated on the brink of an almost perpendicular eminence. To this spot do congregate, so it is reported, the souls of unbaptized children, who make the midnight hour hideous with their shrieks when the tempest is hurrying down through the valley and over the snow-capped hills. When the wind is at its highest do these souls of the lost utter their weird shrieks, so nigh akin unto the howling of the wind that only the neighbouring villagers pretend to be able to distinguish between the clamouring voices of the unbaptized and the howling caused by the fitful gusts of the wintry blast as it rushes impetuously among the rocks and down the precipices.
On such nights will the farmer’s wife lightthe tapers around the image of good St. Laurence, patron of the winds, and calling her household around her, the following verses are intoned—
“Good St. Laurence, keep us freeFrom the sin of heresy;Lull the angry winds to rest,Still be thou our honoured guest,By our fathers prized.“Drive all goblins from our door,Those whom Heaven doth ignore—Witches, demons, bogeys all,May they sink and may they fallWith the unbaptized.”
“Good St. Laurence, keep us freeFrom the sin of heresy;Lull the angry winds to rest,Still be thou our honoured guest,By our fathers prized.
“Drive all goblins from our door,Those whom Heaven doth ignore—Witches, demons, bogeys all,May they sink and may they fallWith the unbaptized.”
At times it takes longer to appease the wrath of St. Laurence than at others; but with daylight the courage of the worshippers revives, and the souls of the unbaptized seek rest, although the winds may continue to howl.
Many centuries ago the palace of the now enchanted Moors at Freixo was the glory of the place. Although considerably smaller, it was after the style of the Alhambra, at Granada; but it was held in almost greater esteem than the principal residence of the Moorish kings, for in a magnificent stable was lodged the ass on which the prophet Mohamed was supposedto have ascended to Paradise. It seems that the chosen quadruped, unaccustomed to the pastures of the Mohamedan Paradise, had escaped, and descended on earth close to the palace, or alcazar, at Freixo, where he was found one morning by the dwellers when they were on their way to the mosque.
He was a fine specimen of an ass, and worthy of the Mohamedan creed. Tradition hints at a miller having laid claim to him; but as he could offer no proofs why the ass should not have been in Paradise, and seeing that the ass was as white as the prophet’s, the miller was ordered to look for his donkey elsewhere, as this was the ass of the prophet.
How long this favoured quadruped lived is not recorded, but no doubts have been raised as to his eventual demise; and he, too, was heard braying furiously from his resting-place when the winds blew high.
But few vestiges are now left of this once splendid alcazar. Time defied its ornamental turrets and richly chased walls, and levelled them with the ground. Only the surrounding rocks have remained, and with them many traditions. These the inhabitants of the district have preserved intact, or maybe added to theirinterest by investing them with a semblance to truth which renders them all the more worthy of preservation, as being stepping-stones carrying us back to a long past.
But even where such doubtful lore holds the people in awe, a few may be found who, although rejecting that part of the tradition which is evidently but the fruit of a fertile imagination, or of religious fanaticism, recognize in these legends the preservation of a still unwritten history, to whose identification with facts the ruins of many a Moslem building of rare architectural beauty attest.
And if, after many a sanguinary fight, the Cross was victorious over the Crescent, the Christian population of the Iberic Peninsula must admit that the faint vestiges of beauty in their architecture of to-day have an Arabic origin; that to their Moorish conquerors they owe much of the daring and endurance which characterized the generation of great navigators, as also to them was due the introduction of many of the useful arts and sciences.
The traveller will now look in vain for the alcazar of El Rachid at Freixo. The mighty rocks alone mark the spot, and naught remains of art to please the eye. Traditionary lore mayinterest him, but he must be ready to listen to it with all the additions which a gross superstition can alone invent or believe.
Here, then, is it recorded that Al Rachid held a Christian maiden captive for many years. That she was as good as she was beautiful goes without further remark. Maria das Dores, for so she is named by her chroniclers, was one of those splendid women worthy to be the mothers of that succeeding generation of heroes who overthrew the Moors on the plains of Ourique.
Maria was the daughter of a very wealthy farmer who resided close to the mouth of the river Minho. It was her duty to work with the farm labourers in the field, and she would mingle her sweet voice with theirs when singing hymns to the Virgin as they plied their hoes.
Often had Al Rachid seen her at work from his hiding-place in a neighbouring forest. He loved the maiden, although he had reason to believe she was a Christian; but he knew that she had given her love to another, and could, therefore, not be his unless he took her by force.
One day, at vesper-time, she did not returnto the farm with the labourers. Search was made for her everywhere, but she could not be found. Then it was imagined she might be in conversation with her lover; but, on inquiry, he had not seen her.
Mounted parties scoured the country all around, but in vain; she had not been seen, and there was no doubt entertained but that she had been lured into the forest, and become the captive of Al Rachid.
But, then, nobody had seen the Moorish chief that day. True; but the Moors were enchanters, and it was known that they could make subterranean passages which closed behind them so as to prevent their being pursued.
The wise woman of the district was therefore called into requisition, and she, having consulted the astrolabe and made a fire of pine needles, discovered the direction in which the fugitives were going. Mounting their horses, and led by the wise woman, who bestrode a splendid white mule, they galloped off, and after two days’ hard riding they distinctly heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs, but they could not see the horse.
Then they knew that Al Rachid was making use of the enchanted passage which they couldnot hope to find, and they had to content themselves with following the sound until they came within sight of Al Rachid’s palace.
They were now in the enemy’s country, and with their little force they could not successfully besiege the palace, so, much against their will, they returned home.
There was only one means of rescuing the captive maiden, and this would take time. No Christian man or woman could gain admittance to the enchanted passage, and no Moslem could be found willing to attempt the rescue. Therefore they hit upon a plan of securing the services of a heretic. A child had been born in the village, and him, it was resolved, they should not baptize. When old enough, he should be entrusted with the task of rescue, and being unbaptized he would gain admittance to all the enchanted places.
Years rolled by, and the youth had attained the age of thirteen, when he was informed of the mission on which it was intended to send him. Being of a daring disposition, he courted danger, and buckling on his sword, and bearing his shield, he left the farmer’s house; and, accompanied by the wise woman, he directed his steps to the forest. When the two hadreached an old oak-tree, the wise woman repeated the following words three times—
“Here stands an unbaptizedTo thread the subterranean way;”
“Here stands an unbaptizedTo thread the subterranean way;”
and then she knocked with her staff three times on the ground, which opened, and the youthful heretic boldly descended, the earth closing above him. Before him was a magnificent display of jewels studding the walls on each side, whose brilliancy at first dazzled him. Getting more accustomed to the strong light, he discovered a coal-black horse, fully caparisoned, standing by his side, as if ready for him to mount; but he was not to be tempted, for he would rather trust to his legs than to a strange horse. Then when he had walked some distance he came to a river, on which there was a boat rowed by six lovely maidens, who asked him to get in, and they would row him across. But he would not be tempted, and he boldly waded the stream and crossed over. Having proceeded a little further, however, he heard the piteous cry of a child, and, hastening forward, he saw a lovely little boy, dressed in the Oriental fashion, who besought him, with tears in his eyes, to carry him a little way, for he was very tired and had still a longway to go. He could not refuse him, and, stooping slightly, raised him in his arms; but no sooner had he done so, than this little boy turned into a giant, who, twining his arms around the heretic’s neck, would have strangled him, but that, being unbaptized, he could not be killed. After many attempts to strangle the intruder the giant relaxed his hold, and as suddenly disappeared.
The heretic, after a time, came to a standstill, for he was confronted by total darkness. Nothing daunted, however, he drew his sword and hit out, so that the blade, striking against the sides of the passage, caused the jewels to emit sparks, and these lit up thousands of lamps. In the distance he saw two enormous tigers, each having two heads. They seemed to be ready to tear him to pieces, but, on observing him advance sword in hand, they ran away.
At the end of the third day he had walked so quickly that he stood before the secret entrance to the alcazar of Al Rachid. The ponderous gates were wide open, but he could not enter because of an enormous frog that blocked up the way, and emitted flames of fire from its mouth and eyes. Do what he could, there was no getting near the hideous creature.
He had recourse to stratagem, and, pretending not to be afraid of the animal, he threw his sword over the frog’s back, exclaiming, “Take that; I fear thee not!”
The frog, turning to get hold of the sword, offered an opportunity to the heretic of jumping on its back, which he did, and, digging his spurs into its sides, he obliged it to advance, when, as it passed by his sword, he dexterously picked it up, and was not at all particular how he used it about the creature’s head.
The more he struck at the frog, the more fierce were the flames of fire it emitted; and Al Rachid, hearing the noise, hurried to the entrance to see what was the matter, when he found himself enveloped in flames which the heretic forced the frog to throw out until the cruel Moor was completely burned.
Then at one stroke he cut off the animal’s head, and at the same moment the castle vanished, and where it had previously stood the heretic found Maria, the farmer’s daughter, who was overjoyed at her deliverance.
The two wended their way back to their native village, where great rejoicings awaited them; and seeing that the services of the heretic would in all probability no longer be required,he was baptized with as little delay as possible, and for the rescue he had effected the rich farmer amply rewarded him, while the Church accorded him plenary absolution for his past heresy.
Ona deserted part of the rock-bound Cantabrian coast, a poor fisherman, named Pedro, discovered a lovely maiden, magnificently dressed, combing her long jet-black hair with a golden comb studded with diamonds.
It was still early morning, and the sun had not attained its greatest power; and as the tide was at its lowest, an innumerable number of ponds were formed by the rocks which, for a distance of half a mile, were left bare by the receding sea.
Seated near to one of these ponds, and cooling her feet in the water, sat this lovely maiden; and she was so intent on performing her toilet that she did not perceive Pedro, who, thinking she was a mermaid, and might therefore cast a spell over him, hid behind a ledge of rocks, and was able to see and hear her without being seen.
Pedro heard her singing the following words—
“I am daughter of a kingWho rules in Aragon,My messengers they bringMe food to live upon.My father thinks me dead;My death he did ordain,For that I would not wedA wicked knight of Spain.But those whom he did sendTo kill me in this place,My youth they did befriend,But cruel is my case.”
“I am daughter of a kingWho rules in Aragon,My messengers they bringMe food to live upon.My father thinks me dead;My death he did ordain,For that I would not wedA wicked knight of Spain.But those whom he did sendTo kill me in this place,My youth they did befriend,But cruel is my case.”
“Is it even so,” said Pedro to himself, “that this lovely maiden is the daughter of a king? If I render her assistance I may incur great danger, and if I leave her to die it will be a crying shame; what, then, am I to do?”
As he was thus pondering in his mind, he heard a flapping of wings, and, looking in the direction whence the noise came, he saw a pair of perfectly white pigeons bearing a small basket between them, strung on a thin golden bar, which they held at each end between their beaks.
Descending, they deposited the basket by the side of the princess, who caressed them most tenderly, and then took from the basketsome articles of food which she greedily ate (for she had not eaten since the previous morning), and after having finished the contents she again sang—
“I am daughter of a king,Who thinks that I am dead;Here on this beach I sing,By pigeons I am fed.Thank you, my pretty birds,Who are so kind to me.But what avail my words?Oh, I a bird would be!”
“I am daughter of a king,Who thinks that I am dead;Here on this beach I sing,By pigeons I am fed.Thank you, my pretty birds,Who are so kind to me.But what avail my words?Oh, I a bird would be!”
This wish was no sooner uttered than Pedro, much to his astonishment, saw that the lovely princess had been turned into a white swan, with a small gold crown on the top of its head.
Expanding her wings, she gradually rose high above him, attended by the pigeons, and all three flew out to sea; when suddenly Pedro observed a magnificent ship not far from the coast, whose deck was of burnished gold, and her sides of ivory fastened with golden nails. The ropes were of thread of silver, and the sails of white silk, while the masts and yards were made of the finest sandal-wood.
To the ship the three birds flew, and no sooner did they alight on the deck thanPedro observed that they were three beautiful maidens.
The princess sat on a richly ornamented chair, and the other two maidens on velvet cushions embroidered in gold at her feet.
Over them was spread a superb awning to shelter them from the rays of the sun, and the vessel glided about over the vast expanse of water, now in one direction, now in another, as if the breeze blew to suit the sails.
Pedro was so astonished at what he saw that at last he got frightened, and, being young and nimble, he soon lost sight of the ship; but at every pace he seemed to hear a voice saying, “Run not away, future king of Aragon!”
Pedro continued running till he left the beach far behind, and was now in the pine-forest; nor did he stop till he was in the densest part, when, for very fatigue, he threw himself on the ground, and then he distinctly heard a voice say, “Pedro, you are destined to be King of Aragon; but tell no one.”
Not till then had he discovered that he was no longer dressed in fisherman’s attire, but that his clothes were of the finest cloth fringed with gold lace.
Pedro, on seeing this, said, “I am enchanted. That princess is indeed a mermaid, and has cast a spell over me. I am undone, my eyes deceive me, and what I take for so much grandeur is but a deception.” Saying which, he started to his feet, and hurried towards his village as fast as his legs would carry him.
Arrived at the fishing hamlet, all his old companions paid him such deference that he tried to get out of their way, thinking they did but laugh at him, and, arriving at the door of his widowed mother’s cottage, he ran into the kitchen. His mother happened to be frying some fish, and when she saw a grand gentleman enter the apartment she took the pan off the fire, and, bowing low, said, “My noble sir, this house is too humble for such as you; allow me to conduct you to his reverence’s house, for there you will find accommodation more suited to your high estate.”
Pedro would have replied to his mother, and sought to kiss her hand and ask her blessing, after the custom of the country; but, on attempting to speak, his tongue hung out of his mouth, and he made so strange a noise and so gesticulated that his mother was glad to get out of the house, followed, however, by her son anda large crowd of villagers who had congregated to see the grand stranger.
As soon as it was known throughout the village of the arrival of the grand stranger the church bells pealed, and the parish priest mingled with the crowd desirous of seeing the new arrival; but as soon as Pedro commenced gesticulating as before, the priest and all the rest of the people were much frightened, for they thought that he was dangerously mad.
Pedro, noticing this, sorrowfully turned away from his native village and took the high-road to the next town.
As he was going along, thinking of his present trouble, he observed a wide gate made of gold, opening into a beautiful garden, into which he hesitated not to enter; for he recollected what the wise woman of the village had once told him—that “grand clothes beget respect.”
“Open wide those gates, O worker midst the flowers,” exclaimed Pedro to an old gardener (for he had now recovered his speech). “I come in cloth of gold to speak unto my love.”
“Sir,” replied the old man, “you may always enter here, for you are D. Pedro of Aragon, I well can see.”
“What very high balconies, a hundred feet in height!” exclaimed Pedro. “Tell me, good old man, does the princess ever come there?”
“To those balconies so high, to feel the cooling breeze,” replied the gardener, “the princess comes there every evening alone.”
“Should she ask you,” continued Pedro, “who I am, tell her that I am your son come from a distant land, and I will help you to water the pinks.”
At her usual time the princess came to her favourite balcony, and seeing Pedro watering the flowers, she beckoned to him, saying—
“O waterer of the pinks, come a little nearer and speak to me.”
“Is it true that you desire to speak to me?” inquired Pedro of the princess.
“No mirror bright ever reflected the truth more correctly than the words I uttered conveyed my desire,” answered the princess.
“Here, then, you have me,” said Pedro. “Order me as your slave; but give me, for I am thirsty, a small ewer of water.”
The princess poured some water into a silver goblet, and having handed it to Pedro, he exclaimed—
“And in this mirror bright of crystal waterpure, which does reflect thy form, I quench my heart’s deep thirst.”
“You see yonder palace at the end of the garden,” said the princess to Pedro. “Well, in that palace you will be lodged for the night; but should you ever tell any one what you see there, you will put yourself in danger and cause me great trouble.”
Pedro promised to keep secret whatever he might see that night, and bidding “good night” to the princess, he hastened to the palace which the princess had pointed out to him, and, having entered it, he walked through the marble passage, which seemed to be interminable. On each side of him were rows of majestic columns, surmounted by gold capitals, and now and again he thought he saw the forms of lovely young maidens flitting among the columns.
Just as he was approaching a richly carved fountain surrounded by sacred palms, a maiden of surprising beauty seemed to be addressing a Moor in most impassioned tones, as if claiming his indulgence; but when Pedro got up to them he discovered that both were the work of the statuary.
At every step the surroundings became more magnificent, and the carved ceiling was of suchexquisite workmanship that it seemed rather the work of the loom, being so like the finest lace, than of the sculptor.
At last he arrived at the end of this avenue of columns, and noticing a door in front of him, he opened it, and found himself standing on a marble quay, against which the sea waves were washing.
Scanning the vast expanse of water before him, he observed approaching him the same beautiful ship he had seen in the morning.
When the ship came alongside the quay, a sailor sprung on shore, and made her fast by a golden cable; then, addressing Pedro, he said—
“I am glad you have not kept us waiting, for our royal mistress is very wishful to consult you, as one of her favourite doves has broken its right wing, and if you cannot cure it, the princess will die of starvation.”
Pedro made no reply, but stepped on board the ship, which soon got under way, and within a short time they were approaching the coast he knew so well.
Having landed, Pedro saw the princess seated on the sand, nursing one of her white pigeons.
“Pedro of Aragon,” the princess exclaimed, “a stranger dared to enter my royal father’s garden, and in assisting to water the pinks he trod on the wing of my favourite pigeon, and he has broken it.”
“Señora,” replied Pedro, “the intruder did probably seek you, and had no idea of hurting the lovely bird.”
“That matters not,” continued the princess, “for my principal supporter is wounded, and you must cure her. Cut out my heart, and steep this bird in my warm blood, and when I am dead throw my body into the sea.”
“How can I kill one so lovely?” asked Pedro. “I would rather die myself than hurt you!”
“Then you do not care for me, or else you would do as I bid you,” answered the princess.
“Princess, I cannot and will not kill you; but I will do anything else you bid me,” said Pedro.
“Well, then, since you will not kill me, I order you to take this pigeon back with you; for I know it was you who walked in my father’s garden to-day,” continued the princess. “And to-morrow evening, when you see that princess whom you saw to-day, you must killher, and let her blood fall over this pretty bird.”
Pedro was now in great trouble, for he had promised the princess to do anything she told him to do, except killing her, and he could not break his word; so taking hold of the pigeon very gently, and bidding good-bye to the princess, he again stepped on board the ship, and so depressed was he that he had arrived at the marble quay without being aware of it.
On landing, he retraced his steps through the avenue of pillars, and found himself once more in the garden, where the old gardener was again watering the pinks.
“What very high balconies!” exclaimed Pedro. “Tell me, old gardener of the ancient times, if the princess comes here to-day.”
“The princess loves the fresh sea-breeze,” answered the old man, “and to-night she will come to the balcony, for her noble lover will be waiting for her.”
“And who is the princess’s lover?” inquired Pedro.
“If you will help me to water the pinks, I will tell you,” said the old man.
Pedro readily acquiesced, and putting down the pigeon where he thought no harm wouldhappen to it, he commenced assisting the gardener to water the pinks.
After a silence of a few minutes the gardener said—
“There were once seven pigeons who said, ‘Seven pigeons are we, and with other seven pigeons we might all be mated; but, as it is, we must remain seven pigeons.’”
“Yes,” put in Pedro; “but I want to know who the princess’s lover is.”
The old man took no heed of the interruption, and continued—
“There were once seven pigeons who said, ‘Seven pigeons are we——’”
“Stop!” cried Pedro; “I will have no such idle talk. Tell me who this noble lover is, or I will do you an injury.”
“Sir,” cried the gardener, with a very serious countenance, “there were once seven pigeons who said, ‘Seven pigeons are we, and——’”
“Take your watering-can,” shouted Pedro in disgust; “I will not listen to your nonsense!”
“And yet there were once seven pigeons who said, ‘Seven pigeons are we;’ and now the last of them is gone, for the noble lover has been false to his trust,” exclaimed the old man, looking very cunningly at Pedro.
At these words Pedro looked towards the place where he had placed the pigeon, and it was no longer there.
Seized with a fit of fury, he was about to lay hands on the gardener, when, to his astonishment, he found that he was also gone.
“I am undone,” cried the unhappy Pedro; “and now I shall not see the princess again.” Saying which he fainted away, and might probably have remained there some time, but that he heard a voice saying, in a jocular manner—
“There were once seven pigeons who said, ‘Seven pigeons are we, and——’”
Pedro started to his feet, and close to him was standing the princess whom he had previously seen in the balcony.
“Why do you thus tease me, princess?” said Pedro. “I want to hear no more about the seven horrid pigeons.”
“Don Pedro de Aragon,” answered the princess, “I must tell you that the old gardener to whom you spoke is a magician, and he has possessed himself of the last means I had of regaining my liberty, for I am under his power. Is it not true that you came here with the purpose of killing me?”
“I was under a vow to do so,” replied Pedro;“but I cannot kill you, although I would rather slay you, fair princess, than do you a more grievous injury.”
“Go back, then, to the unhappy lady whom you left on the sea-shore, and tell her that you have been false to your promises,” said the princess.
“How sorry I am,” exclaimed Pedro, “that I was ever destined to be King of Aragon! When I was a poor fisherman, I was far happier than I am now!”
“Pedro of Aragon, the moon will be at the full to-night, and you may then rescue me,” said the princess, “if you have the courage to meet the wicked magician in this garden at midnight, for then is his power weakest.”
“I am prepared for the worst,” replied Pedro, “and I fear not your gaoler.”
“Well, then,” continued the princess, “when the magician sees you he will again tell you about the seven pigeons; but when he has finished, you must tell him that there were once seven wives who had only one husband, and that they are waiting outside to see him. Do as I tell you, and if you are not afraid of his anger, you may be able to free me.”
Pedro promised to do as he was told, andthe princess having retired into the palace, Pedro amused himself by walking under the lofty balconies, watching the fire-flies grow brighter as night came on.
Just about midnight the magician was seen watering the pinks, and as soon as he perceived Pedro he said—
“There were once seven pigeons who said, ‘Seven pigeons are we, and with other seven pigeons we might all be mated; but, as it is, we must remain seven pigeons.’”
“Quite so,” put in Pedro. “And once upon a time there were seven wives who had only one husband, and they are waiting outside to see him.”
The magician, at these words, lost all control over his temper; but Pedro heeded him not, rather did he endeavour to increase his rage by repeating all about the seven wives.
“I am undone!” cried the magician; “but if you will induce the spirits of my seven wives to again seek the grave, I will give you what you want, and that is the princess.”
“Give me the princess first,” answered Pedro, “and then I will free you of your wives.”
“Take her, then,” said the magician; “here she is. And forget not what you have promisedme, for I may tell you in confidence that a man with seven wives cannot play the magician.”
Pedro hurried away with the princess; and after they had been married and crowned, the princess, who was now queen, one day said to him—
“Pedro, the magician who held me captive from you was Rank, and therefore were the balconies so high. When you saw me on the beach fed by pigeons, it was that you should know my power; on the shore I was attended by winged messengers, and on the sea I sailed about at pleasure.”
“But what about the wounded pigeon?” asked Pedro.
“Recollect, Pedro, what you said to me in the garden,” answered the princess—“that you would rather slay me than do me a more grievous injury. That poor pigeon with its broken wing could no more hope to soar aloft than an injured woman to mix with her former associates.”
“And what about the seven wives who were waiting outside, and who so frightened the old magician, Rank?” continued Pedro.
“They are the seven deadly sins, who would each have a tongue for itself, and yet withouttongues are enough to frighten Rank,” answered the princess.
“And who am I, then,” asked Pedro, “to be so exalted now?”
“You are the wise man who strove to do his best, yet tried not to exalt himself above his position,” sweetly answered the princess.
“So that the magician Rank has unwillingly raised the poor fisherman to be king,” whispered Pedro.
“Not Rank alone, but much more so thy own worth.”
TRANSLATION.
Lady Clarewas in her garden overlooking the sea. It was a summer’s day, and the many coloured butterflies flitted about under the trees and among the sweet smelling flowers.
Lady Clare was combing her golden tresses with an ivory comb, seated on a crimson velvet cushion. She looked towards the sea, and she saw a gallant fleet making for the land.
He who was in command stepped on shore. He was a belted knight, but his features could not be seen as his vizor was down.
Approaching Lady Clare, he saluted her, and she thus addressed him—
“Hast thou, noble knight, seen my husband, who bid me good-bye many years ago when he sailed for the Holy Land?”
“I know not thy husband, fair lady. By what should I know him?”
“He took his white charger with its golden trappings with him,” answered Lady Clare. “On his lance he bore a red pennon; a tress of my hair served him for a belt, from which hung his sword. But if thou hast not seen him, Knight of the Cross, then woe be to me, lonely widow, for I have three daughters, and they are all unmarried.”
“I am a soldier,” continued the knight; “war is my employment. But what wouldst thou give, fair lady, to have thy husband near?”
“I would give thee more money than thou couldst count, as well as the roof of my house, which is made of gold and ivory,” answered Lady Clare.
“I care not for gold nor money; they are of no use to me, for I am a soldier and engaged in war, and I never saw thy husband. But what wouldst thou give, fair lady, to have him here?” inquired the knight.
“I would give thee my jewels, which cannot be weighed nor measured; I would give thee my golden loom and my distaff of burnished silver,” said Lady Clare.
“I neither wish for gold nor for silver: withsteel is my hand better acquainted, for I am a warrior, and I never saw thy husband. But what wouldst thou give to have him near thee?” cried the knight.
“I would let thee choose one of my daughters; they are as fair as the moon, or as the sun when rising,” urged Lady Clare.
“I do not want thy daughters; they may not marry me, for I am a soldier and engaged in warfare, and I never cast eyes on thy husband. But what wouldst thou give to have thy own knight here?” exclaimed the warrior.
“I cannot give thee more, nor hast thou more to ask of me,” replied Lady Clare.
“Thou hast still more to give, for thou hast not yet offered thyself, fair lady,” said the knight.
“A belted knight who dare so speak deserves to be dragged around my garden, tied to the tails of my horses. Come hither, my vassals, and punish this rude soldier!” exclaimed Lady Clare.
“Do not call for thy vassals, for they are mine also,” said the knight; “and do not be angry with me, for I have already kissed thee.”
“Then thou art surely my brave lord,” saidLady Clare; “but how wilt thou prove thyself?”
“By the golden ring with seven gems which I divided with thee when I left,” answered the knight. “Here is my half; where is thine?”
“My daughters,” cried the Lady Clare, “bring hither my half of the ring, for your father is here to claim it! But, oh, my husband, joy at seeing thee again had nigh made thee a widower.”