These reflections put the old man into an ill humor, which was greatly increased when, on entering the city, he became an object of boisterous mirth and rude jest to the populace. On endeavoring to ascertain the cause of this annoyance, he discovered that one of his most valuable pigs, that had formed a very powerful attachment to Prince Bladud, had followed them on their journey, and was now grunting at their very heels.
The herdsman's anger at length broke out in words, and he bitterly upbraided Bladud for having beguiled him into such a wild-goose expedition. "And, as if that were not enough," quoth he, "thou couldst not be contented without bringing thy pet pig hither, to make a fool both of thyself and me. Why, verily, we are the laughing-stock of the whole city."
Bladud mildly assured his master that it was through no act of his that the pig had followed them to his father's court.
"Thy father's court, forsooth!" retorted the old man, angrily; "I do verily believe it is all a trick which thou hast cunningly planned, for the sake of stealing my best pig. Else why shouldst thou have permitted it to follow thee thither?"
Bladud was prevented from replying to this unjust accusation by a rabble of rude boys, who had gathered round them, and began to assail the poor pig with sticks and stones. Bladud at first mildly requested them to desist from such cruel sport; but finding that they paid no attention to his remonstrances, he began to deal out blows, right and left, with his stout quarter-staff, by which he kept the foremost at bay, calling at the same time on his master to assist him in defending the pig.
But Bladud and his master together were very unequally matched against this lawless band of young aggressors. They certainly would have been very roughly handled, had it not been for the unexpected aid of a shepherd-lad who came to their assistance, and, with the help of his faithful dog, succeeded in driving away the most troublesome of their assailants.
In this brave and generous ally, Bladud had the satisfaction of discovering his old friend Math of the Downs. So completely, however, was Bladud's appearance changed in consequence of his being cleansed of the leprosy, that it was some time before he could convince Math that he was the wretched and forlorn outcast with whom he had changed clothes, nearly a twelvemonth before on the Somersetshire Downs.
Math, however, presently remembered his old clothes, in the sorry remains of which Bladud was still dressed; and Bladud also pointed with a smile to the painted vest of a British prince, in which the young shepherd had arrayed himself to attend the festival of the acorn-gathering. Strange to say, the generous boy had altogether escaped infection from the clothes of his diseased prince.
Bladud now briefly explained his situation to the astonished Math, whom he invited to join himself and his master in their visit to the royal pavilion, in order that he might be a witness of his restoration to the arms of his parents, and the honors of his father's court.
Math, though still more incredulous than even the old herdsman, was strongly moved by curiosity to witness the interview. He stoutly assisted Bladud in making his way through the crowd, who appeared resolutely bent on impeding their progress to the royal pavilion, which, however, they at length approached, still followed by the persevering pig.
The last load of acorns, adorned with the faded branches of the noble oak, and crowned with the mistletoe, a plant which the Druids taught the ancient Britons to hold in superstitious reverence, was now borne into the city, preceded by a band of Druids in their long white robes, and a company of minstrels, singing songs, and dancing before the wain. The king and queen came forth to meet the procession, and, after addressing suitable speeches to the Druids and the people, re-entered the pavilion, where they sat down to regale themselves.
Bladud, who had continued to press forward, now availed himself of an opportunity of entering the pavilion behind one of the queen's favorite ladies, whose office it was to fill her royal mistress' goblet with mead. This lady had been Bladud's nurse, which rendered her very dear to the queen, whom nothing could console for the loss of her son.
Bladud, concealed from observation by one of the rude pillars that supported the roof of the building, contemplated the scene in silence, which was broken only by the agitated beating of his swelling heart. He observed that the queen, his mother, looked sad and pale, and that she scarcely tasted of the cheer before her. She sighed deeply from time to time, and kept her eyes fixed on the vacant place which, in former happy days used to be occupied by her only son!
King Hurdebras endeavored to prevail upon her to partake of some of the dainties with which the board was spread.
"How can I partake of costly food," she replied, "when my only child is a wanderer on the face of the earth, and, perchance, lacketh bread?"
Bladud, unable longer to restrain the emotions under which he labored, now softly stole from behind the pillar, and, unperceived, dropped the agate ring into his mother's goblet.
"Nay," replied the king, "but this is useless sorrow, my lady queen. Thinkest thou that I have borne the loss of our only son without grief and sorrow? Deeply have I also suffered; but we must not forget that it is our duty to bow with humility to the wise decrees of the great Disposer of all human events?"
"But canst thou feel our loss in like degree with me?" she exclaimed, bursting into tears; "what shall equal a mother's love, or the grief of her who sorroweth for her only one?"
"Fill high the goblet, Hetha," said the king, turning to the favorite of his royal consort; "and implore the queen, thy mistress, to taste of the sweet mead, and, for the happiness of those around her, to subdue her sorrow."
The queen, after some persuasion, took the wine-cup, and raised it with a reluctant hand; but, ere the sparkling liquor reached her lips, she perceived the ring at the bottom of the goblet, and hastily pouring the mead upon the ground, seized the precious token, and holding it up, with a cry of joy, exclaimed, "My son! my son!"
Bladud sprang forward, and bowed his knee to the earth before her. "Hast thou forgotten me, oh! my mother?" he exclaimed, in a faltering voice; for the queen, accustomed to see her princely son attired in robes befitting his royal birth, looked with a doubtful eye on the ragged garb of abject indigence in which the youth was arrayed. Moreover, he was sun-burnt and weather-beaten; had grown tall and robust; and was, withal, attended by his strange friend, the pig, who, in the untaught warmth of his affection, had intruded himself into the presence of royalty, in the train of his master.
A second glance convinced the queen, the king, and the delightful Hetha, that it was indeed the long-lost Bladud upon whom they looked; and it scarcely required the testimony of the old herdsman, his master, and that of his friend Math, the shepherd, to certify the fact, and bear witness to the truth of his simple tale.
Touching was the scene when the king, recovering from the surprise into which the first shock of recognition had plunged him, rushed forward and clasped his long-lost son to his bosom. The big tear-drops rolled down his manly cheeks, and, relaxing the dignity of the king, and the sternness of the warrior, all the energies of his nature were embodied in the one single feeling, that he was a happy and a beloved father!
The news of the return of their prince spread throughout the assembled multitudes, on wings of joy. Loud and long were the shouts and acclamations which burst forth in every direction, as the distant groups became apprised of the event. The Druids and the Minstrels formed themselves into processions, in which the people joined; and the harpers, sounding their loudest strains, struck up their songs of joy and triumph. The oxen, loosened from the wains, and decked with garlands of flowers, were led forward in the train; and the dancers and revelers followed, performing with energy and delight their rude sports and pastimes around the king's pavilion.
Night at length closed upon the happy scene, and the king and queen retired to their tent, accompanied by their son, to learn from his lips the course of events by which his life had been preserved, and his health restored. They joined in humble thanks to the Great Author of all happiness, for the special blessings that had been bestowed upon them; and the king marked his sense of gratitude by gifts and benefits extended to the helpless and the deserving among his subjects. The good old herdsman was among the most favored, and the worthy Math was put in a path of honor and promotion, of which he proved himself well deserving.
You could not have found anywhere two happier boys than were Charlie and Selwyn Kingsley one Saturday morning early in June. In their delight they threw their arms around each other and danced up and down the piazza, they tossed their hats in the air and hurrahed, they sprang down the stone steps two at a time, dashed about the grounds in a wild fashion that excited their dog Fritz, and set him barking in the expectation of a frolic, then raced across to their special chum and playmate, Ned Petry. They arrived there almost out of breath, but with such beaming faces that before they reached the hammock where he lay swinging Ned called out, "Halloa! what's happened? Something good, I know."
"We're going—" panted Charlie, dropping down on the grass beside him.
"To Europe!" supplemented Selwyn.
"No!" cried Ned, springing up. "Isn't that just jolly! When do you sail, and who all are going? Let's sit in the hammock together. Now tell me all about it." The three boys crowded into the hammock, and for a few minutes questions and answers flew thick and fast.
"You know we've always wanted to go." said Charlie. Ned nodded. "And the last time papa went he promised he'd take us the next trip, but we didn't dream he was going this summer."
"Though we suspected something was up," broke in Selwyn, "because for about a week past whenever Charlie and I would come into the room papa and mamma'd stop talking; but we never thought of Europe."
"Until this morning," continued Charlie, "after breakfast, when papa said, 'Boys, how would you like a trip to Europe with your mother and me?'"
"At first we thought he was joking," again interrupted eager little Selwyn, "because his eyes twinkled just as they do when he is telling a joke."
"But he wasn't," resumed his brother, "and the long and short of the matter is that we are all—papa, mamma, sister Agatha, Selwyn, and I—to sail in the Majestic, June 17, so we've only about a week more to wait."
"Oh! oh! it's too splendid for anything!" cried Selwyn, clapping his hands in delight and giving the hammock a sudden impetus, which set it swaying rapidly. "We're to spend some time with Uncle Geoffrey Barrington—you know, Ned, Rex's father—and we're to see all the sights of 'famous London town'—the Houses of Parliament, the Zoo, Westminster Abbey, and the dear old Tower! Just think of it, Ned, papa's going to show us the very cells in which Lady Jane Grey and Sir Walter Raleigh were shut up! Oh, don't I wish you were going, too!"
"Wouldn't it be splendid!" said Charlie, throwing his arm across Ned's shoulders.
"Wouldn't it!" echoed Ned, ruefully. "I wonder when our turn will come; soon, I hope. I shall miss you fellows awfully."
"Never mind, Ned, we'll write to you," cried both boys, warmly, "and tell you all about everything."
The next week was full of pleasant excitement for Charlie and Selwyn. They left school a few days before it closed that they might help mamma and sister Agatha, who were very busy getting things into what papa called "leaving order." There was a great deal to do, but at last everything was accomplished, the steamer trunks had been packed, and some last good-byes spoken. Fritz and the rabbits had been given into Ned's keeping with many injunctions and cautions. Carefully wrapped in cloths, the boys had placed their bicycles in the seclusion which a garret granted. Balls, tennis rackets, boxes of pet tools, favorite books, everything, in fact, had been thought of and cared for, and at last the eventful day of sailing arrived.
A number of friends came to the city to see the Kingsleys off. They sat in the saloon of the big steamer with Mrs. Kingsley and her daughter, while the boys, under papa's care, remained on the dock for a while, deeply interested in their unusual surroundings. They were almost wild with excitement, which not even the prospect of parting with Ned could quiet, and it is not much to be wondered at, there was so much going on.
The long covered dock was crowded with men, women, and children, nearly all of whom were talking at the same time. Large wagons were unloading; trunks, boxes and steamer-chairs stood about, which the steamer "hands" were carrying up the gangway as rapidly as possible; huge cases, burlap-covered bundles, barrels and boxes were being lowered into the hold by means of a derrick; men were shouting, children crying, horses champing, and in the midst of the confusion loving last words were being spoken.
When papa joined the grown people in the saloon, Charlie, Selwyn, and Ned made a tour of the steamer. Of course they were careful not to get in the way of the busy sailors, but they found lots to see without doing that. First, wraps and hand-satchels were deposited in their state-rooms, which were directly opposite each other, and the state-rooms thoroughly investigated, each boy climbing into the upper berths "to see how it felt." Then they visited the kitchen, saw the enormous tea and coffee pots, and the deep, round shining pans in which the food was cooked. But they did not stay here long, as it was nearly dinner time, and everybody was very busy. Next came the engine-room, which completely fascinated them with its many wheels and rods and bolts, all shining like new silver and gold.
From there they went on deck, clambered up little flights of steps as steep as ladders and as slippery as glass; walked about the upper deck, and managed to see a great deal in fifteen or twenty minutes. By the time they returned to the gangway all the baggage and merchandise had been taken on board. A man in a blue coat with brass buttons, and a cap with a gilt band around it, called out in a loud voice, "All on shore!" and then came last good-byes. Smiles and laughter vanished, tears and sobs took their places. "Good-bye!" "God bless you!" "Bon voyage!" "Don't forget to write!" was heard on every side. Mamma and sister Agatha shed a few tears; even papa was seen to take off his glasses several times to wipe the moisture which would collect on them.
Of course, Charlie, Selwyn, and Ned wouldn't cry, that was "too babyish;" but they had to wink very hard at one time to avert such a disgrace, and just at the last, when no one was looking, they threw dignity to the winds, and heartily kissed each other good-bye.
"Write just as soon as you get over," cried Ned, as he ran down the gangway.
"We will, indeed we will!" the boys answered, eagerly. Then the gangway was drawn on board, the engine began to move, and the big ship steamed away from the pier in fine style, with flags flying and handkerchiefs fluttering.
Mrs. Kingsley was confined to her berth for nearly all of the voyage, but the rest of the family remained in excellent health and spirits, and the boys thoroughly enjoyed themselves.
When about three days out the ship passed near enough to an iceberg for the passengers to distinguish distinctly its castle-like outline, and to feel the chill it gave to the air.
Our two boys were such courteous, kindly little gentlemen that all who came in contact with them liked them, and returned to them the same measure that they gave. The captain even took them on the "bridge," a favor which was not accorded to any other boy or girl on board. And what with visiting the engine-room, waiting on mamma and sister Agatha, walking and talking with papa, sitting in their steamer-chairs, and paying proper attention to the good things which were served four or five times a day, Charlie and Selwyn found that the time fairly flew away. Selwyn had brought "An American Boy in London" to read aloud to Charlie, but there were so many other interesting things to occupy their attention that only one chapter was accomplished.
On the afternoon of the seventh day after leaving New York, the Majestic steamed up to the Liverpool dock, and a few hours later the Kingsleys found themselves comfortably settled in a railroad carriage en route for London. It was late when they arrived in the great metropolis, and every one was glad enough to get to the hotel and to rest as quickly as possible.
Early the next morning Uncle Geoffrey Barrington came to carry off the entire family to his big house in Portland Place. Here he declared they should remain during their stay in London, and as he had a charming wife and grown-up daughter, who devoted themselves to Mrs. Kingsley and sister Agatha, and a son about Charlie's age, who was full of fun and friendliness, all parties found themselves well satisfied with the arrangement.
Uncle Geof was one of the judges of the Queen's Bench, and a very busy man, so he could not always go about with his American relatives; but Dr. Kingsley was well acquainted with London, and therefore able to escort his party to all the places of interest. I only wish I had time to tell you of all the delightful trips they took, and all the interesting things they saw in this fascinating old city. Visits to the Tower, the Houses of Parliament, where they heard "Big Ben" strike the hour—and Westminster Abbey with its illustrious dead; excursions to Windsor and the Crystal Palace; sails down the Thames, and dinners and teas at Richmond and Kew Gardens, driving home by moonlight! How the boys did enjoy it all, and what long letters went home to America addressed to Master Edward Petry!
All this sight-seeing took up many days; three weeks slipped by before anybody realized it, and Dr. Kingsley was talking of a trip to the Continent, when a little incident occurred of which I must tell you.
Rex and his American cousins had become the best of friends. He knew all about their pretty home in Orange, about Ned and the rabbits, Fritz, the bicycling, and the tennis playing, while they in their turn took the deepest interest in his country and Eton experiences. They took "bus" rides together, and played jokes on the pompous footman, whom Charlie had nicknamed the "S. C." (Superb Creature).
One morning Rex and our two boys went to Justice Barrington's chambers. There they expected to find Dr. Kingsley, but when they arrived only Jarvis, the solemn-faced old servitor, met them. He showed them into the inner room and left them to their own devices, saying that "his ludship and the reverend doctor" would, no doubt, soon be in.
The room was very dark; three sides were covered with uninteresting-looking law books, and after gazing out of the window, which overlooked a quiet little church-yard where the monuments and headstones were falling into decay, the three boys were at a loss what to do with themselves. Charlie and Selwyn would have liked a walk about the neighborhood, but Reginald demurred. "It's a horrid bore being shut up here," he admitted frankly, "but papa might return while we were out, and I'm not sure that he would like to find us away. I wish I could think of some way to amuse you. Oh, I know—we were talking about barristers' robes the other day; I'll show you papa's gown and wig. I know where Jarvis keeps them. Wouldn't you like to see them?"
"Indeed we should," responded the American boys. So, after hunting for the key, Rex opened what he called a "cupboard" (though Charlie and Selwyn thought it a closet), where hung a long black silk robe, very similar in style to those worn by our bishops in America. This he brought out; next, from a flat wooden box, which looked very old and black, he drew a large, white, curly wig. The boys looked at these with eager interest. "These are like what are worn in the Houses of Parliament," said Charlie. "What a funny idea to wear such a dress."
"I think it's a very nice idea," Rex answered, quickly. "I assure you the judges and the barristers look very imposing in their robes and wigs."
"I expect to be a lawyer one of these days; wouldn't I astonish the American public if I appeared in such a costume?" said Charlie, laughing. "I wonder how I'd look in it?"
"Try it on and see," suggested Rex.
"Oh, do, do, Charlie! it'll be such fun!" pleaded Selwyn. So, nothing loth, Charlie slipped on the long black silk robe, then Rex and Selwyn arranged the thin white muslin bands at his throat, and settled the big white wig on his head. His soft, dark hair was brushed well off his face so that not a lock escaped from beneath the wig, and when he put on a pair of Uncle Geof's spectacles, which lay conveniently near, the boys were convulsed with laughter at his appearance.
"Good-day, your 'ludship,'" said Rex, with a mocking bow; "will your 'ludship' hold court to-day?"
"Yes, let's have court and try a prisoner," cried Charlie, who began to feel rather proud of his unusual appearance. "You don't mind, do you, Rex?"
"Why, no! I think it'll be no end of fun," was the merry reply. "One of us could be the prisoner, and the other the barrister who defends him. I'd better be the barrister, because I know more about English law than Selwyn does. And the furniture'll have to be the other counsel and the gentlemen of the jury. Sit over there, Charlie, near that railing, and we'll make believe it's the bar. The only trouble is the barrister will have no gown and wig. Isn't it a pity?"
"Let's take the table cover," suggested Selwyn, which was immediately acted upon. With their combined efforts, amid much laughter, it was draped about Rex's shoulders in a fashion very nearly approaching the graceful style of a North American Indian's blanket. A Russian bath towel, which they also found in the closet, was arranged on his head for a wig; then Selwyn was placed behind a chair which was supposed to be the prisoner's box, the judge took his place, and court opened.
The ceremony differed from any previously known in judicial experience, and bursts of merry laughter disturbed the dignity of the learned judge and counsel, to say nothing of the prisoner.
"The prisoner at the bar, your 'ludship,'" began the counsel, striving to steady his voice, "has stolen a—a—a—what shall I say you have stolen?" addressing Selwyn in a stage whisper.
"Tom, Tom, the piper's son,Stole a pig,And away did run;The pig was eat,And Tom was beat,And Tom went roaringDown the street,"
sang the prisoner, in a sweet little voice.
"Your 'ludship,' singing is contempt of court; you will please fine the prisoner at the bar," said the counsel, regardless of the fact that the prisoner was supposed to be his client.
"Silence, both of you!" cried the judge, with impartial justice, rapping his desk sharply with a brass paper-cutter. "Now, Mr. Barrister, state the case." Then, in an aside, "Wasn't that well said?"
"The prisoner has stolen a pig, your 'ludship,'" said the counsel. "He admits it, but as the animal has been eaten—"
"And the prisoner has been beaten," put in the incorrigible Selwyn.
"And the prisoner is a stranger in a strange land," continued Rex, ignoring the irrelevant remark, "a most noble and learned American—ahem!—what sentence, your 'ludship,' shall be passed upon him?"
"Hum, hum!" said his "ludship," resting his cheek on his hand meditatively, trying to assume the expression which he had seen sometimes on papa's face when he and Selwyn were under consideration for some childish offence.
"The court waits, your 'ludship,'" remarked the counsel, throwing a paper ball at the judge.
"Silence!" again shouted the judge, rapping vigorously. "The sentence is this: the prisoner shall stand on his head for two seconds, then recite a piece of poetry, and then—in the course of a week—leave the country."
"Your 'ludship' will please sign the sentence and we will submit it to the jury," suggested the learned counsel, who, as you will perceive, had rather peculiar ideas about court formula.
"What shall I sign?" asked his "ludship."
"Anything," said Rex. "Those papers all look like old things—quick!I think I hear Jarvis coming. Sign the one in your hand. Just writeGeoffrey Addison Barrington. It's only for fun, you know."
He caught up a dingy-looking document, opened it, and, thrusting the pen which was in his "ludship's" hand into the ink, he and the prisoner at the bar crowded up to see the signature which Charlie wrote as he had been told to do, in a distinct schoolboy's hand. He had barely crossed the "t" and dotted the last "i" when they heard a step, and scurrying into the cupboard, they saw Jarvis come in, take something from the desk, and go out without a glance in their direction. As the door closed behind him it opened again to admit Justice Barrington and Dr. Kingsley.
"Where are they?" asked Uncle Geof, peering about the dark room as if the boys might be hidden behind some table or chair.
"Boys," called the doctor, "where are you?"
Then they walked out—such a funny-looking trio! Rex's table-cover robe floated behind him, and the style of his wig was certainly unique. Selwyn had brought away on his coat a goodly share of the dust of the cupboard. His brown hair stood on end, and his blue eyes were shining with excitement. But his "ludship" brought down the house. He came forth holding up his long gown on each side, his bands were almost under his left ear, his wig was on one side, and his glasses awry! The contrast between his magisterial garb and his round young face and merry hazel eyes was too much for the gravity of the two gentlemen. With a glance at each other they burst into a long, hearty laugh, in which the boys joined.
A little later, the gown and wig having been restored to their proper places by the much scandalized Jarvis, the party returned to Portland Square. And none of the boys thought of mentioning that Charlie had signed a document with his uncle's name, which he had not read.
A few days after this Dr. Kingsley and his family left England for the Continent, taking Rex with them, and not until September did they return to London for a short visit before sailing for America.
"I have an account to settle with you, Master Charlie," said Uncle Geoffrey, the first evening, when they were all assembled in the drawing-room. "Do you recollect a certain visit to my chambers when you represented a judge of the Queen's Bench?"
Charlie, Selwyn and Rex looked at each other, laughed, and nodded.
"Do you remember signing a paper?" asked the justice.
"Yes," said Charlie; "but it was an old dingy-looking one—we didn't read it—I just signed it for fun."
"I told Charlie to put your name to it," broke in Rex, eagerly. "Is anything wrong, papa?"
"I will tell you the story and you shall judge for yourself," said the justice, smiling. "As it happened, the paper Charlie signed was not an old one. It was in reference to removing an orphan boy from one guardianship to another. He is about as old as Charlie, and it appears that the first guardian ill-treated the little fellow under the guise of kindness, being only intent on gain. When the paper which 'his ludship,'" with a deep bow in Charlie's direction—"signed arrived, the boy was delighted, and he thoroughly enjoys the excellent home he is now in. Imagine my surprise when a letter reached me thanking me for my wise decision. I could not understand it, as I thought I knew the paper in reference to it was lying on my desk waiting its turn. You may well laugh, you young rogues."
"How did you find out?" asked Charlie, divided between contrition and a desire to enjoy the joke.
"Jarvis and I traced it out. I paid a visit to Wales and put the signature of the original Barrington to the document. The present guardian of the boy declares the little fellow's disposition would have been completely ruined if he had remained much longer under his former guardian's care, and I am afraid, in the ordinary course of the law, which moves slowly, it would have been some time before the matter could have been attended to. So you have done that much good to a fellow-boy. Only be careful in the future, dear lad, to read a document before signing it, for carelessness in that direction might not always end as well as it has in this instance. What puzzles me is how you came to take that particular paper when so many others lay about; it was but one chance in a million."
"'A chance—the eternal God that chance did guide,'" quoted Dr.Kingsley, in his quiet, gentle voice.
"What lots we'll have to tell Ned! O boys, do let's cheer!" criedSelwyn eagerly, springing to his feet. "Here goes—three cheers forUncle Geof and dear papa, and a big, big 'tiger' for his 'ludship!'"
Once upon a time the Emperor of Rome had a beautiful daughter named Constance. She was so fair to look on, that far and wide, she was spoken of as "the beautiful princess." But, better than that, she was so good and so saintly that everybody in her father's dominions loved her, and often they forgot to call her "the beautiful princess," but called her instead, "Constance the good."
All the merchants who came thither to buy and sell goods, carried away to other countries accounts of Constance, her beauty, and her holiness. One day there came to Rome some merchants from Syria, with shiploads of cloths of gold, and satins rich in hue, and all kinds of spicery, which they would sell in the Roman markets. While they abode here, the fame of Constance came to their ears, and they sometimes saw her lovely face as she went about the city among the poor and suffering, and were so pleased with the sight that they could talk of nothing else when they returned home; so that, after a while, their reports came to the ear of the Soldan of Syria, their ruler, and he sent to the merchants to hear from their lips all about the fair Roman maiden.
As soon as he heard this story, this Soldan began secretly to love the fair picture which his fancy painted of the good Constance, and he shut himself up to think off her, and to study how he could gain her for his own.
At length he sent to all his wise men, and called them together in council.
"You have heard," he said to them, "of the beauty and goodness of the Roman princess. I desire her for my wife. So cast about quickly for some way by which I may win her."
Then all the wise men were horrified; because Constance was a Christian, while the Syrians believed in Mohammed as their sacred prophet. One wise man thought the Soldan had been bewitched by some fatal love-charm brought from Rome. Another explained that some of the stars in the heavens were out of place, and had been making great mischief among the planets which governed the life of the Soldan. One had one explanation and one another, but to all the Soldan only answered,—"All these words avail nothing. I shall die if I may not have Constance for my wife."
One of the wise men then said plainly,—"But the Emperor of Rome will not give his daughter to any but a Christian."
When the Soldan heard that he cried joyfully: "O, if that is all, I will straight-way turn Christian, and all my kingdom with me."
So they sent an ambassador to the Emperor to know if he would give his daughter to the Soldan of Syria, if he and all his people would turn Christian. And the Emperor, who was very devout, and thought he ought to use all means to spread his religion, answered that he would.
So poor little Constance, like a white lamb chosen for a sacrifice, was made ready to go to Syria. A fine ship was prepared, and with a treasure for her dowry, beautiful clothes, and hosts of attendants, she was put on board.
She herself was pale with grief and weeping at parting from her home and her own dear mother. But she was so pious and devoted that she was willing to go if it would make Syria a good Christian land. So, as cheerfully as she could, she set sail.
Now the Soldan had a very wicked mother, who was all the time angry in her heart that the Soldan had become a Christian. Before Constance arrived in Syria she called together all the lords in the kingdom whom she knew to be friendly to him. She told them of a plot she had made to kill the Soldan and all those who changed their religion with him, as soon as the bride bad come. They all agreed to this dreadful plot, and then the old Soldaness went smiling and bland, to the Soldan's palace.
"My dear son," she said, "at last I am resolved to become a Christian; I am surprised I have been blind so long to the beauty of this new faith. And, in token of our agreement about it, I pray you will honor me by attending with your bride at a great feast which I shall make for you."
The Soldan was overjoyed to see his mother so amiable. He knelt at her feet and kissed her hand, saying,—"Now, my dear mother, my happiness is full, since you are reconciled to this marriage. And Constance and I will gladly come to your feast."
Then the hideous old hag went away, nodding and mumbling,—"Aha! Mistress Constance, white as they call you, you shall be dyed so red that all the water in your church font shall not wash you clean again!"
Constance came soon after, and there was great feasting and merry-making, and the Soldan was very happy.
Then the Soldaness gave her great feast, and while they sat at the table, her soldiers came in and killed the Soldan and all the lords who were friendly to him, and slaughtered so many that the banquet hall swam ankle deep in blood.
But they did not slay Constance. Instead, they bore her to the sea and put her on board her ship all alone, with provisions for a long journey, and then set her adrift on the wide waters.
So she sailed on, drifting past many shores, out into the limitless ocean, borne on by the billows, seeing the day dawn and the sun set, and never meeting living creature. All alone on a wide ocean! drifting down into soft southern seas where the warm winds always blew, then driving up into frozen waters where green, glittering icebergs sailed solemnly past the ship, so near, it seemed as if they would crush the frail bark to atoms.
So for three long years, day and night, winter and summer, this lonely ship went on, till at length the winds cast it on the English shores.
As soon as the ship stranded, the governor of the town, with his wife and a great crowd of people, came to see this strange vessel. They were all charmed with the sweet face of Constance, and Dame Hennegilde, the governor's wife, on the instant loved her as her life. So this noble couple took her home and made much of her. But Constance was so mazed with the peril she had passed that she could scarcely remember who she was or whence she came, and could answer naught to all their questionings.
While she lived with the good Hennegilde, a young knight began to love her, and sued for her love in return. But he was so wicked that Constance would not heed him. This made him very angry. He swore in his heart that he would have revenge. He waited until one night when the governor was absent, and going into the room where Dame Hennegilde lay, with Constance sleeping in the same chamber, this wicked knight killed the good lady. Then he put the dripping knife into the hand of Constance, and smeared her face and clothes with blood, that it might appear she had done the deed.
When the governor returned and saw this dreadful sight, he knew not what to think. Yet, even then, he could not believe Constance was guilty. He carried her before the king to be judged. This king, Alla, was very tender and good, and when he saw Constance standing in the midst of the people, with her frightened eyes looking appealing from one to another like a wounded deer who is chased to its death, his heart was moved with pity.
The governor and all his people told how Constance had loved the murdered lady, and what holy words she had taught. All except the real murderer, who kept declaring she was the guilty one, believed her innocent.
The king asked her, "Have you any champion who could fight for you?"
At this Constance, falling on her knees, cried out that she had no champion but God, and prayed that He would defend her innocence.
"Now," cried the king, "bring the holy book which was brought from Brittany by my fathers, and let the knight swear upon it that the maiden is guilty."
So they brought the book of the Gospels, and the knight kissed it, but as soon as he began to take the oath he was felled down as by a terrible blow, and his neck was found broken and his eyes burst from his head. Before them all, in great agony, he died, confessing his guilt and the innocence of Constance.
King Alla had been much moved by the beauty of Constance and her innocent looks, and now she was proved guiltless, all his heart went out to her. And when he asked her to become his queen she gladly consented, for she loved him because he had pitied and helped her. They were soon married amidst the great rejoicing of the people, and the king and all the land became converted to the Christian faith.
This king also had a mother, named Donegilde, an old heatheness, no less cruel than the mother of the Soldan. She hated Constance because she had been made queen though for fear of her son's wrath she dared not molest her.
After his honeymoon, King Alla went northward to do battle with the Scots, who were his foemen, leaving his wife in charge of a bishop and the good governor, the husband of the murdered Hennegilde. While he was absent heaven sent Constance a beautiful little son, whom she named Maurice.
As soon as the babe was born, the governor sent a messenger to the king with a letter telling him of his good fortune. Now it happened this messenger was a courtier, who wished to keep on good terms with all the royal family. So, as soon as he got the letter, he went to Donegilde, the king's mother, and asked her if she had any message to send her son.
Donegilde was very courteous and begged him to wait till next morning, while she got her message ready. She plied the man with wine and strong liquor till evening, when he slept so fast that nothing could wake him. While he was asleep she opened his letters and read all that the governor had written. Then this wicked old woman wrote to Alla that his wife Constance was a witch who had bewitched him and all his people, but now her true character became plain, and she had given birth to a horrible, fiend-like creature, who, she said, was his son. This she put in place of the governor's letter, and dispatched the messenger at dawn.
King Alla was nearly heart-broken when he read these bad tidings, but he wrote back to wait all things till he returned, and to harm neither Constance nor her son. Back rode the messenger to Donegilde once again. She played her tricks over again and got him sound asleep. Then she took the king's letter and put one in its place commanding the governor to put Constance and her child aboard the ship in which she came to these shores and set her afloat.
The good governor could hardly believe his eyes when he read these orders, and the tears ran over his cheeks for grief. But he dared not disobey what he supposed was the command of his king and master, so he made the vessel ready and went and told Constance what he must do.
She, poor soul, was almost struck dumb with grief. Then, kneeling before the governor, she cried, with many tears,—
"If I must go again on the cruel seas, at least this poor little innocent, who has done no evil, may be spared. Keep my poor baby till his father comes back, and perchance he will take pity on him."
But the governor dared not consent, and Constance must go to the ship, carrying her babe in her arms. Through the street she walked, the people following her with tears, she with eyes fixed on heaven and the infant sobbing on her bosom. Thus she went on board ship and drifted away again.
Now, for another season, she went about at the mercy of winds and waves, in icy waters where winds whistled through the frozen rigging, and down into tropical seas where she lay becalmed for months in the glassy water. Then fresh breezes would spring up and drive her this way or that, as they listed. But this time she had her babe for comfort, and he grew to be a child near five years old before she was rescued. And this is the way it happened. When the Emperor of Rome heard of the deeds the cruel Soldaness had done, and how his daughter's husband had been slain, he sent an army to Syria, and all these years they had besieged the royal city till it was burnt and destroyed. Now the fleet, returning to Rome, met the ship in which Constance sailed, and they fetched her and her child to her native country. The senator who commanded the fleet was her uncle, but he knew her not, and she did not make herself known. He took her into his own house, and her aunt, the senator's wife, loved her greatly, never guessing she was her own princess and kinswoman.
When King Alla got back from his war with the Scots and heard how Constance had been sent away, he was very angry; but when he questioned and found the letter which had been sent him was false, and that Constance had borne him a beautiful boy, he knew not what to think. When the governor showed him the letter with his own seal which directed that his wife and child should be sent away, he knew there was some hidden wickedness in all this. He forced the messenger to tell where he had carried the letters, and he confessed he had slept two nights at the castle of Donegilde.
So it all came out, and the king, in a passion of rage, slew his mother, and then shut himself up in his castle to give way to grief.
After a time he began to repent his deed, because he remembered it was contrary to the gentle teachings of the faith Constance had taught him. In his penitence he resolved to go to Rome on a pilgrimage to atone for his sin. So in his pilgrim dress he set out for the great empire.
Now when it was heard in Rome that the great Alla from the North-land had come thither on a Christian pilgrimage, all the noble Romans vied to do him honor. Among others, the senator with whom Constance abode invited him to a great banquet which he made for him. While Alla sat at this feast, his eyes were constantly fixed upon a beautiful boy, one of the senator's pages, who stood near and filled their goblets with wine. At length he said to his host,—"Pray tell me, whence came the boy who serves you? Who is he, and do his father and mother live in the country?"
"A mother he has," answered the senator: "so holy a woman never was seen. But if he has a father I cannot tell you." Then he went on and told the king of Constance, and how she was found with this bey, her child, on the pathless sea.
Alla was overjoyed in his heart, for he knew then that this child was his own son. Immediately they sent for Constance to come thither. As soon as she saw her husband, she uttered a cry and fell into a deep swoon. When she was recovered she looked reproachfully at Alla, for she supposed it was by his order she had been so ruthlessly sent from his kingdom. But when, with many tears of pity for her misfortunes, King Alla told her how he had grieved for her, and how long he had suffered thus, she was convinced.
Then they embraced each other, and were so happy that no other happiness, except that of heavenly spirits, could ever equal theirs.
After this, she made herself known to the Emperor, her father, who had great rejoicing over his long-lost daughter, whom he had thought dead. For many weeks Rome was full of feasting, and merry-making, and happiness. These being over, King Alla, with his dear wife, returned to his kingdom of England, where they lived in great happiness all the rest of their days.
Painfully toiled the camels over the burning sands of Arabia. Weary and thirsty were they, for they had not for days had herbage to crop, or water to drink, as they trod, mile after mile, the barren waste, where the sands glowed red like a fiery sea. And weary were the riders, exhausted with toil and heat, for they dared not stop to rest. The water which they carried with them was almost spent; some of the skins which had held it flapped empty against the sides of the camels, and too well the travelers knew that if they loitered on their way, all must perish of thirst.
Amongst the travelers in that caravan was a Persian, Sadi by name, a tall, strong man, with black beard, and fierce, dark eye. He urged his tired camel to the side of that of the foremost Arab, the leader and guide of the rest, and after pointing fiercely toward one of the travelers a little behind him, thus he spake:
"Dost thou know that yon Syrian Yusef is a dog of a Christian, a kaffir?" (Kaffir—unbeliever—is a name of contempt given by Moslems, the followers of the false Prophet, to those who worship our Lord.)
"I know that the hakeem (doctor) never calls on the name of theProphet," was the stern reply.
"Dost thou know," continued Sadi, "that Yusef rides the best camel in the caravan, and has the fullest water-skin, and has shawls and merchandise with him?"
The leader cast a covetous glance toward the poor Syrian traveler, who was generally called the hakeem because of the medicines which he gave, and the many cures which he wrought.
"He has no friends here," said the wicked Sadi; "if he were cast from his camel and left here to die, there would be none to inquire after his fate; for who cares what becomes of a dog of a kaffir?"
I will not further repeat the cruel counsels of this bad man, but I will give the reason for the deadly hatred which he bore toward the poor hakeem. Yusef had defended the cause of a widow whom Sadi had tried to defraud; and Sadi's dishonesty being found out, he had been punished with stripes, which he had but too well deserved. Therefore did he seek to ruin the man who had brought just punishment on him, therefore he resolved to destroy Yusef by inducing his Arab comrades to leave him to die in the desert.
Sadi had, alas! little difficulty in persuading the Arabs that it was no great sin to rob and desert a Christian. Just as the fiery sun was sinking over the sands, Yusef, who was suspecting treachery, but knew not how to escape from it, was rudely dragged off his camel, stripped of the best part of his clothes, and, in spite of his earnest entreaties, left to die in the terrible waste. It would have been less cruel to slay him at once.
"Oh! leave me at least water—water!" exclaimed the poor victim of malice and hatred.
"We'll leave you nothing but your own worthless drugs, hakeem!—take that!" cried Sadi, as he flung at Yusef's head a tin case containing a few of his medicines.
Then bending down from Yusef's camel, which he himself had mounted, Sadi hissed out between his clenched teeth, "Thou hast wronged me—I have repaid thee, Christian! this is a Moslem's revenge!"
They had gone, the last camel had disappeared from the view of Yusef; darkness was falling around, and he remained to suffer alone, to die alone, amidst those scorching-sands! The Syrian's first feeling was that of despair, as he stood gazing in the direction of the caravan which he could no longer see. Then Yusef lifted up his eyes to the sky above him: in its now darkened expanse shone the calm evening star, like a drop of pure light.
Yusef, in thinking over his situation, felt thankful that he had not been deprived of his camel in an earlier part of his journey, when he was in the midst of the desert. He hoped that he was not very far from its border, and resolved, guided by the stars, to walk as far as his strength would permit, in the faint hope of reaching a well, and the habitations of men. It was a great relief to him that the burning glare of day was over: had the sun been still blazing over his head, he must soon have sunk and fainted by the way. Yusef picked up the small case of medicines which Sadi in mockery had flung at him; he doubted whether to burden himself with it, yet was unwilling to leave it behind. "I am not likely to live to make use of this, and yet—who knows?" said Yusef to himself, as, with the case in his hand, he painfully struggled on over the wide expanse of dreary desert. "I will make what efforts I can to preserve the life which God has given."
Struggling against extreme exhaustion, his limbs almost sinking under his weight, Yusef pressed on his way, till a glowing red line in the east showed where the blazing sun would soon rise. What was his eager hope and joy on seeing that red line broken by some dark pointed objects that appeared rise out of the sand. New strength seemed given to the weary man, for now his ear caught the welcome sound of the bark of a dog, and then the bleating of sheep.
"God be praised!" exclaimed Yusef, "I, am near the abodes of men!"
Exerting all his powers, the Syrian, made one great effort to reach the black tents which he now saw distinctly in broad daylight, and which he knew must belong to some tribe of wandering Bedouin Arabs: he tottered on for a hundred yards, and then sank exhausted on the sand.
But the Bedouins had seen the poor, solitary stranger, and as hospitality is one of their leading virtues, some of these wild sons of the desert now hastened toward Yusef. They raised him, they held to his parched lips a most delicious draught of rich camel's milk. The Syrian felt as if he were drinking in new life, and was so much revived by what he had taken, that he was able to accompany his preservers to the black goat's-hair tent of their Sheik or chief, an elderly man of noble aspect, who welcomed the stranger kindly.
Yusef had not been long in that tent before he found that he had not only been guided to a place of safety, but to the very place where his presence was needed. The sound of low moans made him turn his eyes toward a dark corner of the tent. There lay the only son of the Sheik, dangerously ill, and, as the Bedouins believed, dying. Already all their rough, simple remedies had been tried on the youth, but tried in vain. With stern grief the Sheik listened to the moans of pain that burst from the suffering lad and wrung the heart of the father.
The Syrian asked leave to examine the youth, and was soon at his side. Yusef very soon perceived that the Bedouin's case was not hopeless,—that God's blessing on the hakeem's skill might in a few days effect a wonderful change. He offered to try what his art and medicines could do. The Sheik caught at the last hope held out to him of preserving the life of his son. The Bedouins gathered round, and watched with keen interest the measures which were at once taken by the stranger hakeem to effect the cure of the lad.
Yusef's success was beyond his hopes. The medicine which he gave afforded speedy relief from pain, and within an hour the young Bedouin had sunk into a deep and refreshing sleep. His slumber lasted long, and he awoke quite free from fever, though of course some days elapsed before his strength was fully restored.
Great was the gratitude of Azim, the Sheik, for the cure of his only son; and great was the admiration of the simple Bedouins for the skill of the wondrous hakeem. Yusef soon had plenty of patients. The sons of the desert now looked upon the poor deserted stranger as one sent to them by heaven; and Yusef himself felt that his own plans had been defeated, his own course changed by wisdom and love. He had intended, as a medical missionary, to fix his abode in some Arabian town: he had been directed instead to the tents of the Bedouin Arabs. The wild tribe soon learned to reverence and love him, and listen to his words. Azim supplied him with a tent, a horse, a rich striped mantle, and all that the Syrian's wants required. Yusef found that he could be happy as well as useful in his wild desert home.
One day, after months had elapsed, Yusef rode forth with Azim and two of his Bedouins, to visit a distant encampment of part of the tribe. They carried with them spear and gun, water, and a small supply of provisions. The party had not proceeded far when Azim pointed to a train of camels that were disappearing in the distance. "Yonder go pilgrims to Mecca," he said: "long and weary is the journey before them; the path which they take will be marked by the bones of camels that fall and perish by the way."
"Methinks by yon sand-mound," observed Yusef, "I see an object that looks at this distance like a pilgrim stretched on the waste."
"Some traveler may have fallen sick," said the Sheik, "and be left on the sand to die."
The words made Yusef at once set spurs to his horse: having himself so narrowly escaped a dreadful death in the desert, he naturally felt strong pity for any one in danger of meeting so terrible a fate. Azim galloped after Yusef, and having the fleeter horse outstripped him, as they approached the spot on which lay stretched the form of a man, apparently dead.
As soon as Azim reached the pilgrim he sprang from his horse, laid his gun down on the sand, and, taking a skin-bottle of water which hung at his saddle bow, proceeded to pour some down the throat of the man, who gave signs of returning life.
Yusef almost instantly joined him; but what were the feelings of the Syrian when in the pale, wasted features of the sufferer before him he recognized those of Sadi, his deadly, merciless foe!
"Let me hold the skin-bottle, Sheik!" exclaimed Yusef; "let the draught of cold water be from my hand." The Syrian remembered the command, "If thine enemy thirst, give him drink."
Sadi was too ill to be conscious of anything passing around him; but he drank with feverish eagerness, as if his thirst could never be slaked.
"How shall we bear him hence?" said the Sheik; "my journey cannot be delayed."
"Go on thy journey, O Sheik," replied Yusef; "I will return to the tents with this man, if thou but help me to place him on my horse. He shall share my tent and my cup,—he shall be to me as a brother."
"Dost thou know him?" inquired the Sheik.
"Ay, well I know him," the Syrian replied.
Sadi was gently placed on the horse, for it would have been death to remain long unsheltered on the sand. Yusef walked beside the horse, with difficulty supporting the drooping form of Sadi, which would otherwise soon have fallen to the ground. The journey on foot was very exhausting to Yusef, who could scarcely sustain the weight of the helpless Sadi. Thankful was the Syrian hakeem when they reached the Bedouin tents.
Then Sadi was placed on the mat which had served Yusef for a bed. Yusef himself passed the night without rest, watching at the sufferer's side. Most carefully did the hakeem nurse his enemy through a raging fever. Yusef spared no effort of skill, shrank from no painful exertion, to save the life of the man who had nearly destroyed his own!
On the third day the fever abated; on the evening of that day Sadi suddenly opened his eyes, and, for the first time since his illness, recognized Yusef, who had, as he believed, perished months before in the desert.
"Has the dead come to life?" exclaimed the trembling Sadi, fixing upon Yusef a wild and terrified gaze; "has the injured returned for vengeance?"
"Nay, my brother," replied Yusef soothingly; "let us not recall the past, or recall it but to bless Him who has preserved us both from death."
Tears dimmed the dark eyes of Sadi; he grasped the kind hand which Yusef held out. "I have deeply wronged thee," he faltered forth; "how can I receive all this kindness at thy hand?"
A gentle smile passed over the lips of Yusef; he remembered the cruel words once uttered by Sadi, and made reply: "If thou hast wronged me, thus I repay thee: Moslem, this is a Christian's revenge!"
Once upon a time, near a large wood, there lived a woodcutter and his wife, who had only one child, a little girl three years old; but they were so poor that they had scarcely food sufficient for every day in the week, and often they were puzzled to know what they should get to eat. One morning the woodcutter went into the wood to work, full of care, and, as he chopped the trees, there stood before him a tall and beautiful woman, having a crown of shining stars upon her head, who thus addressed him:
"I am the Guardian Angel of every Christian child; thou art poor and needy; bring me thy child, and I will take her with me. I will be her mother, and henceforth she shall be under my care." The woodcutter consented, and calling his child gave her to the Angel, who carried her to the land of Happiness. There everything went happily; she ate sweet bread and drank pure milk; her clothes were gold, and her playfellows were beautiful children. When she became fourteen years old, the Guardian Angel called her to her side and said, "My dear child, I have a long journey for thee. Take these keys of the thirteen doors of the land of Happiness; twelve of them thou mayest open, and behold the glories therein; but the thirteenth, to which this little key belongs, thou art forbidden to open. Beware! if thou dost disobey, harm will befall thee."
The maiden promised to be obedient, and, when the Guardian Angel was gone, began her visits to the mansions of Happiness. Every day one door was unclosed, until she had seen all the twelve. In each mansion there sat an angel, surrounded by a bright light. The maiden rejoiced at the glory, and the child who accompanied her rejoiced with her. Now the forbidden door alone remained. A great desire possessed the maiden to know what was hidden there; and she said to the child, "I will not quite open it, nor will I go in, but I will only unlock the door so that we may peep through the chink." "No, no," said the child; "that will be a sin. The Guardian Angel has forbidden it, and misfortune would soon fall upon us."
At this the maiden was silent, but the desire still remained in her heart, and tormented her continually, so that she had no peace. One day, however, all the children were away, and she thought, "Now I am alone and can peep in, no one will know what I do;" so she found the keys, and, taking them in her hand, placed the right one in the lock and turned it round. Then the door sprang open, and she saw three angels sitting on a throne, surrounded by a great light. The maiden remained a little while standing in astonishment; and then, putting her finger in the light, she drew it back and it was turned into gold. Then great alarm seized her, and, shutting the door hastily, she ran away. But her fear only increased more and more, and her heart beat so violently that she thought it would burst; the gold also on her finger would not come off, although she washed it and rubbed it with all her strength.
Not long afterward the Guardian Angel came, back from her journey, and calling the maiden to her, demanded the keys of the mansion. As she delivered them up, the Angel looked in her face and asked, "Hast thou opened the thirteenth door?"—"No," answered the maiden.
Then the Angel laid her hand upon the maiden's heart, and felt how violently it was beating; and she knew that her command had been disregarded, and that the child had opened the door. Then she asked again, "Hast thou opened the thirteenth door?"—"No," said the maiden, for the second time.
Then the Angel perceived that the child's finger had become golden from touching the light, and she knew that the child was guilty; and she asked her for the third time, "Hast thou opened the thirteenth door?"—"No," said the maiden again.
Then the Guardian Angel replied, "Thou hast not obeyed me, nor done my bidding; therefore thou art no longer worthy to remain among good children."
And the maiden sank down in a deep sleep, and when she awoke she found herself in the midst of a wilderness. She wished to call out, but she had lost her voice. Then she sprang up, and tried to run away; but wherever she turned thick bushes held her back, so that she could not escape. In the deserted spot in which she was now enclosed, there stood an old hollow tree; this was her dwelling-place. In this place she slept by night, and when it rained and blew she found shelter within it. Roots and wild berries were her food, and she sought for them as far as she could reach. In the autumn she collected the leaves of the trees, and laid them in her hole; and when the frost and snow of the winter came, she clothed herself with them, for her clothes had dropped into rags. But during the sunshine she sat outside the tree, and her long hair fell down on all sides and covered her like a mantle. Thus she remained a long time experiencing the misery and poverty of the world.
But, once, when the trees had become green again, the King of the country was hunting in the forest, and as a bird flew into the bushes which surrounded the wood, he dismounted, and, tearing the brushwood aside, cut a path for himself with his sword. When he had at last made his way through, he saw a beautiful maiden, who was clothed from head to foot with her own golden locks, sitting under the tree. He stood in silence, and looked at her for some time in astonishment; at last he said, "Child, how came you into this wilderness?" But the maiden answered not, for she had become dumb. Then the King asked, "Will you go with me to my castle?" At that she nodded her head, and the King, taking her in his arms, put her on his horse and rode away home. Then he gave her beautiful clothing, and everything in abundance. Still she could not speak; but her beauty was so great, and so won upon the King's heart, that after a little while he married her.
When about a year had passed away, the Queen brought a son into the world, and in that night, while lying alone in her bed the Guardian Angel appeared to her and said:
"Wilt thou tell the truth and confess that thou didst unlock the forbidden door? For then will I open thy mouth and give thee again the power of speech; but if thou remainest obstinate in thy sin then will I take from thee thy new-born babe."
And the power to answer was given to her, but she remained hardened, and said, "No, I did not open the door;" and at those words the Guardian Angel took the child out of her arms and disappeared with him.
The next morning, when the child was not to be seen, a murmur arose among the people, that their Queen was a murderess, who had destroyed her only son; but, although she heard everything, she could say nothing. But the King did not believe the ill report because of his great love for her.
About a year afterward another son was born, and on the night of his birth the Guardian Angel again appeared, and asked, "Wilt thou confess that thou didst open the forbidden door? Then will I restore to thee thy son, and give thee the power of speech; but if thou hardenest thyself in thy sin, then will I take this new-born babe also with me."
Then the Queen answered again, "No, I did not open the door;" so the Angel took the second child out of her arms and bore him away. On the morrow, when the infant could not be found, the people said openly that the Queen had slain him, and the King's councillors advised that she should be brought to trial. But the King's affection was still so great that he would not believe it, and he commanded his councillors never again to mention the report on pain of death.
The next year a beautiful little girl was born, and for the third time the Guardian Angel appeared and said to the Queen, "Follow me;" and, taking her by the hand, she led her to the kingdom of Happiness, and showed to her the two other children, who were playing merrily. The Queen rejoiced at the sight, and the Angel said, "Is thy heart not yet softened? If thou wilt confess that thou didst unlock the forbidden door, then will I restore to thee both thy sons." But the Queen again answered, "No, I did not open it;" and at these words she sank upon the earth, and her third child was taken from her.
When this was rumored abroad the next day, all the people exclaimed, "The Queen is a murderess; she must be condemned;" and the King could not this time repulse his councillors. Thereupon a trial was held, and since the Queen could make no good answer or defence, she was condemned to die upon a funeral pile. The wood was collected; she was bound to the stake, and the fire was lighted all around her. Then the iron pride of her heart began to soften, and she was moved to repentance; and she thought, "Could I but now, before my death, confess that I opened the door!" And her tongue was loosened, and she cried aloud, "Thou good Angel, I confess." At these words the rain descended from heaven and extinguished the fire; then a great light shone above, and the Angel appeared and descended upon the earth, and by her side were the Queen's two sons, one on her right hand and the other on her left, and in her arms she bore the new-born babe. Then the Angel restored to the Queen her three children, and loosening her tongue promised her great happiness and said, "Whoeverwill repent and confess their sins, they shall be forgiven."