{"collection":"folklore-oral-tradition","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_36612/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_36612","id":"gutenberg_36612","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36612","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Novels","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Children's stories","Fairy tales","Fantasy literature"],"text":"</pre>\n\nE-text prepared by Matthew Wheaton, Suzanne Shell, and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images\ngenerously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries\n(http://www.archive.org/details/americana)\n\n\n\nNote: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n      file which includes the original illustrations.\n      See 36612-h.htm or 36612-h.zip:\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/36612/pg36612-images.html)\n      or\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/files/36612/36612-h.zip)\n\n\n      Images of the original pages are available through\n      Internet Archive/American Libraries. See\n      http://www.archive.org/details/princesscurdie00macdiala\n\n\nTranscriber's note:\n\n      Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics).\n\n      Text in bold face is enclosed by equal signs (=bold=).\n\n      Text that was in small capitals is in upper case (LIKE\n      THIS).\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: _Frontispiece. \"Come in, Curdie,\" said the voice._]\n\n\nTHE PRINCESS AND CURDIE\n\nby\n\nGEORGE MACDONALD, LL.D\n\nWith Eleven Illustrations by James Allen\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPhiladelphia:\nJ. B. Lippincott & Co.\n1883.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n    CHAP.\n\n       I. THE MOUNTAIN\n\n      II. THE WHITE PIGEON\n\n     III. THE MISTRESS OF THE SILVER MOON\n\n      IV. CURDIE'S FATHER AND MOTHER\n\n       V. THE MINERS\n\n      VI. THE EMERALD\n\n     VII. WHAT IS IN A NAME?\n\n    VIII. CURDIE'S MISSION\n\n      IX. HANDS\n\n       X. THE HEATH\n\n      XI. LINA\n\n     XII. MORE CREATURES\n\n    XIII. THE BAKER'S WIFE\n\n     XIV. THE DOGS OF GWYNTYSTORM\n\n      XV. DERBA AND BARBARA\n\n     XVI. THE MATTOCK\n\n    XVII. THE WINE CELLAR\n\n   XVIII. THE KING'S KITCHEN\n\n     XIX. THE KING'S CHAMBER\n\n      XX. COUNTER-PLOTTING\n\n     XXI. THE LOAF\n\n    XXII. THE LORD CHAMBERLAIN\n\n   XXIII. DR. KELMAN\n\n    XXIV. THE PROPHECY\n\n     XXV. THE AVENGERS\n\n    XXVI. THE VENGEANCE\n\n   XXVII. MORE VENGEANCE\n\n  XXVIII. THE PREACHER\n\n    XXIX. BARBARA\n\n     XXX. PETER\n\n    XXXI. THE SACRIFICE\n\n   XXXII. THE KING'S ARMY\n\n  XXXIII. THE BATTLE\n\n   XXXIV. JUDGMENT\n\n    XXXV. THE END\n\n\n\n\nTHE PRINCESS AND CURDIE.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nTHE MOUNTAIN.\n\n\nCurdie was the son of Peter the miner. He lived with his father and\nmother in a cottage built on a mountain, and he worked with his father\ninside the mountain.\n\nA mountain is a strange and awful thing. In old times, without knowing\nso much of their strangeness and awfulness as we do, people were yet\nmore afraid of mountains. But then somehow they had not come to see how\nbeautiful they are as well as awful, and they hated them,--and what\npeople hate they must fear. Now that we have learned to look at them\nwith admiration, perhaps we do not always feel quite awe enough of them.\nTo me they are beautiful terrors.\n\nI will try to tell you what they are. They are portions of the heart of\nthe earth that have escaped from the dungeon down below, and rushed up\nand out. For the heart of the earth is a great wallowing mass, not of\nblood, as in the hearts of men and animals, but of glowing hot melted\nmetals and stones. And as our hearts keep us alive, so that great lump\nof heat keeps the earth alive: it is a huge power of buried\nsunlight--that is what it is. Now think: out of that caldron, where all\nthe bubbles would be as big as the Alps if it could get room for its\nboiling, certain bubbles have bubbled out and escaped--up and away, and\nthere they stand in the cool, cold sky--mountains. Think of the change,\nand you will no more wonder that there should be something awful about\nthe very look of a mountain: from the darkness--for where the light has\nnothing to shine upon, it is much the same as darkness--from the heat,\nfrom the endless tumult of boiling unrest--up, with a sudden heavenward\nshoot, into the wind, and the cold, and the starshine, and a cloak of\nsnow that lies like ermine above the blue-green mail of the glaciers;\nand the great sun, their grandfather, up there in the sky; and their\nlittle old cold aunt, the moon, that comes wandering about the house at\nnight; and everlasting stillness, except for the wind that turns the\nrocks and caverns into a roaring organ for the young archangels that\nare studying how to let out the pent-up praises of their hearts, and the\nmolten music of the streams, rushing ever from the bosoms of the\nglaciers fresh-born. Think too of the change in their own substance--no\nlonger molten and soft, heaving and glowing, but hard and shining and\ncold. Think of the creatures scampering over and burrowing in it, and\nthe birds building their nests upon it, and the trees growing out of its\nsides, like hair to clothe it, and the lovely grass in the valleys, and\nthe gracious flowers even at the very edge of its armour of ice, like\nthe rich embroidery of the garment below, and the rivers galloping down\nthe valleys in a tumult of white and green! And along with all these,\nthink of the terrible precipices down which the traveller may fall and\nbe lost, and the frightful gulfs of blue air cracked in the glaciers,\nand the dark profound lakes, covered like little arctic oceans with\nfloating lumps of ice. All this outside the mountain! But the inside,\nwho shall tell what lies there? Caverns of awfullest solitude, their\nwalls miles thick, sparkling with ores of gold or silver, copper or\niron, tin or mercury, studded perhaps with precious stones--perhaps a\nbrook, with eyeless fish in it, running, running ceaseless, cold and\nbabbling, through banks crusted with carbuncles and golden topazes, or\nover a gravel of which some of the stones are rubies and emeralds,\nperhaps diamonds and sapphires--who can tell?--and whoever can't tell\nis free to think--all waiting to flash, waiting for millions of\nages--ever since the earth flew off from the sun, a great blot of fire,\nand began to cool. Then there are caverns full of water, numbing cold,\nfiercely hot--hotter than any boiling water. From some of these the\nwater cannot get out, and from others it runs in channels as the blood\nin the body: little veins bring it down from the ice above into the\ngreat caverns of the mountain's heart, whence the arteries let it out\nagain, gushing in pipes and clefts and ducts of all shapes and kinds,\nthrough and through its bulk, until it springs newborn to the light, and\nrushes down the mountain side in torrents, and down the valleys in\nrivers--down, down, rejoicing, to the mighty lungs of the world, that is\nthe sea, where it is tossed in storms and cyclones, heaved up in\nbillows, twisted in waterspouts, dashed to mist upon rocks, beaten by\nmillions of tails, and breathed by millions of gills, whence at last,\nmelted into vapour by the sun, it is lifted up pure into the air, and\nborne by the servant winds back to the mountain tops and the snow, the\nsolid ice, and the molten stream.\n\nWell, when the heart of the earth has thus come rushing up among her\nchildren, bringing with it gifts of all that she possesses, then\nstraightway into it rush her children to see what they can find there.\nWith pickaxe and spade and crowbar, with boring chisel and blasting\npowder, they force their way back: is it to search for what toys they\nmay have left in their long-forgotten nurseries? Hence the mountains\nthat lift their heads into the clear air, and are dotted over with the\ndwellings of men, are tunnelled and bored in the darkness of their\nbosoms by the dwellers in the houses which they hold up to the sun and\nair.\n\nCurdie and his father were of these: their business was to bring to\nlight hidden things; they sought silver in the rock and found it, and\ncarried it out. Of the many other precious things in their mountain they\nknew little or nothing. Silver ore was what they were sent to find, and\nin darkness and danger they found it. But oh, how sweet was the air on\nthe mountain face when they came out at sunset to go home to wife and\nmother! They did breathe deep then!\n\nThe mines belonged to the king of the country, and the miners were his\nservants, working under his overseers and officers. He was a real\nking--that is one who ruled for the good of his people, and not to\nplease himself, and he wanted the silver not to buy rich things for\nhimself, but to help him to govern the country, and pay the armies that\ndefended it from certain troublesome neighbours, and the judges whom he\nset to portion out righteousness amongst the people, that so they might\nlearn it themselves, and come to do without judges at all. Nothing that\ncould be got from the heart of the earth could have been put to better\npurposes than the silver the king's miners got for him. There were\npeople in the country who, when it came into their hands, degraded it by\nlocking it up in a chest, and then it grew diseased and was called\n_mammon_, and bred all sorts of quarrels; but when first it left the\nking's hands it never made any but friends, and the air of the world\nkept it clean.\n\nAbout a year before this story began, a series of very remarkable events\nhad just ended. I will narrate as much of them as will serve to show the\ntops of the roots of my tree.\n\nUpon the mountain, on one of its many claws, stood a grand old house,\nhalf farmhouse, half castle, belonging to the king; and there his only\nchild, the Princess Irene, had been brought up till she was nearly nine\nyears old, and would doubtless have continued much longer, but for the\nstrange events to which I have referred.\n\nAt that time the hollow places of the mountain were inhabited by\ncreatures called goblins, who for various reasons and in various ways\nmade themselves troublesome to all, but to the little princess\ndangerous. Mainly by the watchful devotion and energy of Curdie,\nhowever, their designs had been utterly defeated, and made to recoil\nupon themselves to their own destruction, so that now there were very\nfew of them left alive, and the miners did not believe there was a\nsingle goblin remaining in the whole inside of the mountain.\n\nThe king had been so pleased with the boy--then approaching thirteen\nyears of age--that when he carried away his daughter he asked him to\naccompany them; but he was still better pleased with him when he found\nthat he preferred staying with his father and mother. He was a right\ngood king, and knew that the love of a boy who would not leave his\nfather and mother to be made a great man, was worth ten thousand offers\nto die for his sake, and would prove so when the right time came. For\nhis father and mother, they would have given him up without a grumble,\nfor they were just as good as the king, and he and they perfectly\nunderstood each other; but in this matter, not seeing that he could do\nanything for the king which one of his numerous attendants could not do\nas well, Curdie felt that it was for him to decide. So the king took a\nkind farewell of them all and rode away, with his daughter on his horse\nbefore him.\n\nA gloom fell upon the mountain and the miners when she was gone, and\nCurdie did not whistle for a whole week. As for his verses, there was no\noccasion to make any now. He had made them only to drive away the\ngoblins, and they were all gone--a good riddance--only the princess was\ngone too! He would rather have had things as they were, except for the\nprincess's sake. But whoever is diligent will soon be cheerful, and\nthough the miners missed the household of the castle, they yet managed\nto get on without them.\n\nPeter and his wife, however, were troubled with the fancy that they had\nstood in the way of their boy's good fortune. It would have been such a\nfine thing for him and them too, they thought, if he had ridden with the\ngood king's train. How beautiful he looked, they said, when he rode the\nking's own horse through the river that the goblins had sent out of the\nhill! He might soon have been a captain, they did believe! The good,\nkind people did not reflect that the road to the next duty is the only\nstraight one, or that, for their fancied good, we should never wish our\nchildren or friends to do what we would not do ourselves if we were in\ntheir position. We must accept righteous sacrifices as well as make\nthem.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nTHE WHITE PIGEON.\n\n\nWhen in the winter they had had their supper and sat about the fire, or\nwhen in the summer they lay on the border of the rock-margined stream\nthat ran through their little meadow, close by the door of their\ncottage, issuing from the far-up whiteness often folded in clouds,\nCurdie's mother would not seldom lead the conversation to one peculiar\npersonage said and believed to have been much concerned in the late\nissue of events. That personage was the great-great-grandmother of the\nprincess, of whom the princess had often talked, but whom neither Curdie\nnor his mother had ever seen. Curdie could indeed remember, although\nalready it looked more like a dream than he could account for if it had\nreally taken place, how the princess had once led him up many stairs to\nwhat she called a beautiful room in the top of the tower, where she went\nthrough all the--what should he call it?--the behaviour of presenting\nhim to her grandmother, talking now to her and now to him, while all the\ntime he saw nothing but a bare garret, a heap of musty straw, a sunbeam,\nand a withered apple. Lady, he would have declared before the king\nhimself, young or old, there was none, except the princess herself, who\nwas certainly vexed that he could not see what she at least believed she\nsaw. And for his mother, she had once seen, long before Curdie was born,\na certain mysterious light of the same description with one Irene spoke\nof, calling it her grandmother's moon; and Curdie himself had seen this\nsame light, shining from above the castle, just as the king and princess\nwere taking their leave. Since that time neither had seen or heard\nanything that could be supposed connected with her. Strangely enough,\nhowever, nobody had seen her go away. If she was such an old lady, she\ncould hardly be supposed to have set out alone and on foot when all the\nhouse was asleep. Still, away she must have gone, for of course, if she\nwas so powerful, she would always be about the princess to take care of\nher.\n\nBut as Curdie grew older, he doubted more and more whether Irene had not\nbeen talking of some dream she had taken for reality: he had heard it\nsaid that children could not always distinguish betwixt dreams and\nactual events. At the same time there was his mother's testimony: what\nwas he to do with that? His mother, through whom he had learned\neverything, could hardly be imagined by her own dutiful son to have\nmistaken a dream for a fact of the waking world. So he rather shrunk\nfrom thinking about it, and the less he thought about it, the less he\nwas inclined to believe it when he did think about it, and therefore, of\ncourse, the less inclined to talk about it to his father and mother; for\nalthough his father was one of those men who for one word they say think\ntwenty thoughts, Curdie was well assured that he would rather doubt his\nown eyes than his wife's testimony. There were no others to whom he\ncould have talked about it. The miners were a mingled company--some\ngood, some not so good, some rather bad--none of them so bad or so good\nas they might have been; Curdie liked most of them, and was a favourite\nwith all; but they knew very little about the upper world, and what\nmight or might not take place there. They knew silver from copper ore;\nthey understood the underground ways of things, and they could look very\nwise with their lanterns in their hands searching after this or that\nsign of ore, or for some mark to guide their way in the hollows of the\nearth; but as to great-great-grandmothers, they would have mocked him\nall the rest of his life for the absurdity of not being absolutely\ncertain that the solemn belief of his father and mother was\nnothing but ridiculous nonsense. Why, to them the very word\n\"great-great-grandmother\" would have been a week's laughter! I am not\nsure that they were able quite to believe there were such persons as\ngreat-great-grandmothers; they had never seen one. They were not\ncompanions to give the best of help towards progress, and as Curdie\ngrew, he grew at this time faster in body than in mind--with the usual\nconsequence, that he was getting rather stupid--one of the chief signs\nof which was that he believed less and less of things he had never seen.\nAt the same time I do not think he was ever so stupid as to imagine that\nthis was a sign of superior faculty and strength of mind. Still, he was\nbecoming more and more a miner, and less and less a man of the upper\nworld where the wind blew. On his way to and from the mine he took less\nand less notice of bees and butterflies, moths and dragon-flies, the\nflowers and the brooks and the clouds. He was gradually changing into a\ncommonplace man. There is this difference between the growth of some\nhuman beings and that of others: in the one case it is a continuous\ndying, in the other a continuous resurrection. One of the latter sort\ncomes at length to know at once whether a thing is true the moment it\ncomes before him; one of the former class grows more and more afraid of\nbeing taken in, so afraid of it that he takes himself in altogether, and\ncomes at length to believe in nothing but his dinner: to be sure of a\nthing with him is to have it between his teeth. Curdie was not in a very\ngood way then at that time. His father and mother had, it is true, no\nfault to find with him--and yet--and yet--neither of them was ready to\nsing when the thought of him came up. There must be something wrong when\na mother catches herself sighing over the time when her boy was in\npetticoats, or the father looks sad when he thinks how he used to carry\nhim on his shoulder. The boy should enclose and keep, as his life, the\nold child at the heart of him, and never let it go. He must still, to be\na right man, be his mother's darling, and more, his father's pride, and\nmore. The child is not meant to die, but to be for ever fresh-born.\n\nCurdie had made himself a bow and some arrows, and was teaching himself\nto shoot with them. One evening in the early summer, as he was walking\nhome from the mine with them in his hand, a light flashed across his\neyes. He looked, and there was a snow-white pigeon settling on a rock in\nfront of him, in the red light of the level sun. There it fell at once\nto work with one of its wings, in which a feather or two had got some\nsprays twisted, causing a certain roughness unpleasant to the fastidious\ncreature of the air. It was indeed a lovely being, and Curdie thought\nhow happy it must be flitting through the air with a flash--a live bolt\nof light. For a moment he became so one with the bird that he seemed to\nfeel both its bill and its feathers, as the one adjusted the other to\nfly again, and his heart swelled with the pleasure of its involuntary\nsympathy. Another moment and it would have been aloft in the waves of\nrosy light--it was just bending its little legs to spring: that moment\nit fell on the path broken-winged and bleeding from Curdie's cruel\narrow. With a gush of pride at his skill, and pleasure at its success,\nhe ran to pick up his prey. I must say for him he picked it up\ngently--perhaps it was the beginning of his repentance. But when he had\nthe white thing in his hands--its whiteness stained with another red\nthan that of the sunset flood in which it had been revelling--ah God!\nwho knows the joy of a bird, the ecstasy of a creature that has neither\nstorehouse nor barn!--when he held it, I say, in his victorious hands,\nthe winged thing looked up in his face--and with such eyes! asking what\nwas the matter, and where the red sun had gone, and the clouds, and the\nwind of its flight. Then they closed, but to open again presently, with\nthe same questions in them. And so they closed and opened several times,\nbut always when they opened, their look was fixed on his. It did not\nonce flutter or try to get away; it only throbbed and bled and looked at\nhim. Curdie's heart began to grow very large in his bosom. What could it\nmean? It was nothing but a pigeon, and why should he not kill a\npigeon? But the fact was, that not till this very moment had he ever\nknown what a pigeon was. A good many discoveries of a similar kind have\nto be made by most of us. Once more it opened its eyes--then closed them\nagain, and its throbbing ceased. Curdie gave a sob: its last look\nreminded him of the princess--he did not know why. He remembered how\nhard he had laboured to set her beyond danger, and yet what dangers she\nhad had to encounter for his sake: they had been saviours to each\nother--and what had he done now? He had stopped saving, and had begun\nkilling! What had he been sent into the world for? Surely not to be a\ndeath to its joy and loveliness. He had done the thing that was contrary\nto gladness; he was a destroyer! He was not the Curdie he had been meant\nto be! Then the underground waters gushed from the boy's heart. And with\nthe tears came the remembrance that a white pigeon, just before the\nprincess went away with her father, came from somewhere--yes, from the\ngrandmother's lamp, and flew round the king and Irene and himself, and\nthen flew away: this might be that very pigeon! Horrible to think! And\nif it wasn't, yet it was a white pigeon, the same as it. And if she kept\na great many pigeons--and white ones, as Irene had told him, then whose\npigeon could he have killed but the grand old princess's? Suddenly\neverything round about him seemed against him. The red sunset stung\nhim: the rocks frowned at him; the sweet wind that had been laving his\nface as he walked up the hill, dropped--as if he wasn't fit to be kissed\nany more. Was the whole world going to cast him out? Would he have to\nstand there for ever, not knowing what to do, with the dead pigeon in\nhis hand? Things looked bad indeed. Was the whole world going to make a\nwork about a pigeon--a white pigeon? The sun went down. Great clouds\ngathered over the west, and shortened the twilight. The wind gave a\nhowl, and then lay down again. The clouds gathered thicker. Then came a\nrumbling. He thought it was thunder. It was a rock that fell inside the\nmountain. A goat ran past him down the hill, followed by a dog sent to\nfetch him home. He thought they were goblin creatures, and trembled. He\nused to despise them. And still he held the dead pigeon tenderly in his\nhand. It grew darker and darker. An evil something began to move in his\nheart. \"What a fool I am!\" he said to himself. Then he grew angry, and\nwas just going to throw the bird from him and whistle, when a brightness\nshone all round him. He lifted his eyes, and saw a great globe of\nlight--like silver at the hottest heat: he had once seen silver run from\nthe furnace. It shone from somewhere above the roofs of the castle: it\nmust be the great old princess's moon! How could she be there? Of\ncourse she was not there! He had asked the whole household, and nobody\nknew anything about her or her globe either. It couldn't be! And yet\nwhat did that signify, when there was the white globe shining, and here\nwas the dead white bird in his hand? That moment the pigeon gave a\nlittle flutter. \"_It's not dead!_\" cried Curdie, almost with a shriek.\nThe same instant he was running full speed towards the castle, never\nletting his heels down, lest he should shake the poor wounded bird.\n\n[Illustration: \"_That moment the pigeon fell on the path, broken-winged\nand bleeding._\"]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nTHE MISTRESS OF THE SILVER MOON.\n\n\nWhen Curdie reached the castle, and ran into the little garden in front\nof it, there stood the door wide open. This was as he had hoped, for\nwhat could he have said if he had had to knock at it? Those whose\nbusiness it is to open doors, so often mistake and shut them! But the\nwoman now in charge often puzzled herself greatly to account for the\nstrange fact that however often she shut the door, which, like the rest,\nshe took a great deal of unnecessary trouble to do, she was certain, the\nnext time she went to it, to find it open. I speak now of the great\nfront door, of course: the back door she as persistently kept wide: if\npeople _could_ only go in by that, she said, she would then know what\nsort they were, and what they wanted. But she would neither have known\nwhat sort Curdie was, nor what he wanted, and would assuredly have\ndenied him admittance, for she knew nothing of who was in the tower. So\nthe front door was left open for him, and in he walked.\n\nBut where to go next he could not tell. It was not quite dark: a dull,\nshineless twilight filled the place. All he knew was that he must go up,\nand that proved enough for the present, for there he saw the great\nstaircase rising before him. When he reached the top of it, he knew\nthere must be more stairs yet, for he could not be near the top of the\ntower. Indeed by the situation of the stair, he must be a good way from\nthe tower itself. But those who work well in the depths more easily\nunderstand the heights, for indeed in their true nature they are one and\nthe same: mines are in mountains; and Curdie from knowing the ways of\nthe king's mines, and being able to calculate his whereabouts in them,\nwas now able to find his way about the king's house. He knew its outside\nperfectly, and now his business was to get his notion of the inside\nright with the outside. So he shut his eyes and made a picture of the\noutside of it in his mind. Then he came in at the door of the picture,\nand yet kept the picture before him all the time--for you can do that\nkind of thing in your mind,--and took every turn of the stair over\nagain, always watching to remember, every time he turned his face, how\nthe tower lay, and then when he came to himself at the top where he\nstood, he knew exactly where it was, and walked at once in the right\ndirection. On his way, however, he came to another stair, and up that he\nwent of course, watching still at every turn how the tower must lie. At\nthe top of this stair was yet another--they were the stairs up which the\nprincess ran when first, without knowing it, she was on her way to find\nher great-great-grandmother. At the top of the second stair he could go\nno farther, and must therefore set out again to find the tower, which,\nas it rose far above the rest of the house, must have the last of its\nstairs inside itself. Having watched every turn to the very last, he\nstill knew quite well in what direction he must go to find it, so he\nleft the stair and went down a passage that led, if not exactly towards\nit, yet nearer it. This passage was rather dark, for it was very long,\nwith only one window at the end, and although there were doors on both\nsides of it, they were all shut. At the distant window glimmered the\nchill east, with a few feeble stars in it, and its light was dreary and\nold, growing brown, and looking as if it were thinking about the day\nthat was just gone. Presently he turned into another passage, which also\nhad a window at the end of it; and in at that window shone all that was\nleft of the sunset, a few ashes, with here and there a little touch of\nwarmth: it was nearly as sad as the east, only there was one\ndifference--it was very plainly thinking of to-morrow. But at present\nCurdie had nothing to do with to-day or to-morrow; his business was\nwith the bird, and the tower where dwelt the grand old princess to whom\nit belonged. So he kept on his way, still eastward, and came to yet\nanother passage, which brought him to a door. He was afraid to open it\nwithout first knocking. He knocked, but heard no answer. He was answered\nnevertheless; for the door gently opened, and there was a narrow\nstair--and so steep that, big lad as he was, he too, like the Princess\nIrene before him, found his hands needful for the climbing. And it was a\nlong climb, but he reached the top at last--a little landing, with a\ndoor in front and one on each side. Which should he knock at?\n\nAs he hesitated, he heard the noise of a spinning-wheel. He knew it at\nonce, because his mother's spinning-wheel had been his governess long\nago, and still taught him things. It was the spinning-wheel that first\ntaught him to make verses, and to sing, and to think whether all was\nright inside him; or at least it had helped him in all these things.\nHence it was no wonder he should know a spinning-wheel when he heard it\nsing--even although as the bird of paradise to other birds was the song\nof that wheel to the song of his mother's.\n\nHe stood listening so entranced that he forgot to knock, and the wheel\nwent on and on, spinning in his brain songs and tales and rhymes, till\nhe was almost asleep as well as dreaming, for sleep does not _always_\ncome first. But suddenly came the thought of the poor bird, which had\nbeen lying motionless in his hand all the time, and that woke him up,\nand at once he knocked.\n\n\"Come in, Curdie,\" said a voice.\n\nCurdie shook. It was getting rather awful. The heart that had never much\nheeded an army of goblins, trembled at the soft word of invitation. But\nthen there was the red-spotted white thing in his hand! He dared not\nhesitate, though. Gently he opened the door through which the sound\ncame, and what did he see? Nothing at first--except indeed a great\nsloping shaft of moonlight, that came in at a high window, and rested on\nthe floor. He stood and stared at it, forgetting to shut the door.\n\n\"Why don't you come in, Curdie?\" said the voice. \"Did you never see\nmoonlight before?\"\n\n\"Never without a moon,\" answered Curdie, in a trembling tone, but\ngathering courage.\n\n\"Certainly not,\" returned the voice, which was thin and quavering: \"_I_\nnever saw moonlight without a moon.\"\n\n\"But there's no moon outside,\" said Curdie.\n\n\"Ah! but you're inside now,\" said the voice.\n\nThe answer did not satisfy Curdie; but the voice went on.\n\n\"There are more moons than you know of, Curdie. Where there is one sun\nthere are many moons--and of many sorts. Come in and look out of my\nwindow, and you will soon satisfy yourself that there is a moon looking\nin at it.\"\n\nThe gentleness of the voice made Curdie remember his manners. He shut\nthe door, and drew a step or two nearer to the moonlight.\n\nAll the time the sound of the spinning had been going on and on, and\nCurdie now caught sight of the wheel. Oh, it was such a thin, delicate\nthing--reminding him of a spider's web in a hedge! It stood in the\nmiddle of the moonlight, and it seemed as if the moonlight had nearly\nmelted it away. A step nearer, he saw, with a start, two little hands at\nwork with it. And then at last, in the shadow on the other side of the\nmoonlight which came like a river between, he saw the form to which the\nhands belonged: a small, withered creature, so old that no age would\nhave seemed too great to write under her picture, seated on a stool\nbeyond the spinning-wheel, which looked very large beside her, but, as I\nsaid, very thin, like a long-legged spider holding up its own web, which\nwas the round wheel itself. She sat crumpled together, a filmy thing\nthat it seemed a puff would blow away, more like the body of a fly the\nbig spider had sucked empty and left hanging in his web, than anything\nelse I can think of.\n\nWhen Curdie saw her, he stood still again, a good deal in wonder, a very\nlittle in reverence, a little in doubt, and, I must add, a little in\namusement at the odd look of the old marvel. Her grey hair mixed with\nthe moonlight so that he could not tell where the one began and the\nother ended. Her crooked back bent forward over her chest, her shoulders\nnearly swallowed up her head between them, and her two little hands were\njust like the grey claws of a hen, scratching at the thread, which to\nCurdie was of course invisible across the moonlight. Indeed Curdie\nlaughed within himself, just a little, at the sight; and when he thought\nof how the princess used to talk about her huge great old grandmother,\nhe laughed more. But that moment the little lady leaned forward into the\nmoonlight, and Curdie caught a glimpse of her eyes, and all the laugh\nwent out of him.\n\n\"What do you come here for, Curdie?\" she said, as gently as before.\n\nThen Curdie remembered that he stood there as a culprit, and worst of\nall, as one who had his confession yet to make. There was no time to\nhesitate over it.\n\n\"Oh, ma'am! see here,\" he said, and advanced a step or two, holding out\nthe dead pigeon.\n\n\"What have you got there?\" she asked.\n\nAgain Curdie advanced a few steps, and held out his hand with the\npigeon, that she might see what it was, into the moonlight. The moment\nthe rays fell upon it the pigeon gave a faint flutter. The old lady put\nout her old hands and took it, and held it to her bosom, and rocked it,\nmurmuring over it as if it were a sick baby.\n\nWhen Curdie saw how distressed she was he grew sorrier still, and\nsaid,--\n\n\"I didn't mean to do any harm, ma'am. I didn't think of its being\nyours.\"\n\n\"Ah, Curdie! if it weren't mine, what would become of it now?\" she\nreturned. \"You say you didn't mean any harm: did you mean any good,\nCurdie?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Curdie.\n\n\"Remember, then, that whoever does not mean good is always in danger of\nharm. But I try to give everybody fair play; and those that are in the\nwrong are in far more need of it always than those who are in the right:\nthey can afford to do without it. Therefore I say for you that when you\nshot that arrow you did not know what a pigeon is. Now that you do know,\nyou are sorry. It is very dangerous to do things you don't know about.\"\n\n\"But, please, ma'am--I don't mean to be rude or to contradict you,\" said\nCurdie, \"but if a body was never to do anything but what he knew to be\ngood, he would have to live half his time doing nothing.\"\n\n\"There you are much mistaken,\" said the old quavering voice. \"How little\nyou must have thought! Why, you don't seem even to know the good of the\nthings you are constantly doing. Now don't mistake me. I don't mean you\nare good for doing them. It is a good thing to eat your breakfast, but\nyou don't fancy it's very good of you to do it. The thing is good--not\nyou.\"\n\nCurdie laughed.\n\n\"There are a great many more good things than bad things to do. Now tell\nme what bad thing you have done to-day besides this sore hurt to my\nlittle white friend.\"\n\nWhile she talked Curdie had sunk into a sort of reverie, in which he\nhardly knew whether it was the old lady or his own heart that spoke. And\nwhen she asked him that question, he was at first much inclined to\nconsider himself a very good fellow on the whole. \"I really don't think\nI did anything else that was very bad all day,\" he said to himself. But\nat the same time he could not honestly feel that he was worth standing\nup for. All at once a light seemed to break in upon his mind, and he\nwoke up, and there was the withered little atomy of the old lady on the\nother side of the moonlight, and there was the spinning-wheel singing on\nand on in the middle of it!\n\n\"I know now, ma'am; I understand now,\" he said. \"Thank you, ma'am for\nspinning it into me with your wheel. I see now that I have been doing\nwrong the whole day, and such a many days besides! Indeed, I don't know\nwhen I ever did right, and yet it seems as if I had done right some\ntime and had forgotten how. When I killed your bird I did not know I was\ndoing wrong, just because I was always doing wrong, and the wrong had\nsoaked all through me.\"\n\n\"What wrong were you doing all day, Curdie? It is better to come to the\npoint, you know,\" said the old lady, and her voice was gentler even than\nbefore.\n\n\"I was doing the wrong of never wanting or trying to be better. And now\nI see that I have been letting things go as they would for a long time.\nWhatever came into my head I did, and whatever didn't come into my head\nI didn't do. I never sent anything away, and never looked out for\nanything to come. I haven't been attending to my mother--or my father\neither. And now I think of it, I know I have often seen them looking\ntroubled, and I have never asked them what was the matter. And now I see\ntoo that I did not ask because I suspected it had something to do with\nme and my behaviour, and didn't want to hear the truth. And I know I\nhave been grumbling at my work, and doing a hundred other things that\nare wrong.\"\n\n\"You have got it, Curdie,\" said the old lady, in a voice that sounded\nalmost as if she had been crying. \"When people don't care to be better\nthey must be doing everything wrong. I am so glad you shot my bird!\"\n\n\"Ma'am!\" exclaimed Curdie. \"How _can_ you be?\"\n\n\"Because it has brought you to see what sort you were when you did it,\nand what sort you will grow to be again, only worse, if you don't mind.\nNow that you are sorry, my poor bird will be better. Look up, my dovey.\"\n\nThe pigeon gave a flutter, and spread out one of its red-spotted wings\nacross the old woman's bosom.\n\n\"I will mend the little angel,\" she said, \"and in a week or two it will\nbe flying again. So you may ease your heart about the pigeon.\"\n\n\"Oh, thank you! thank you!\" cried Curdie. \"I don't know how to thank\nyou.\"\n\n\"Then I will tell you. There is only one way I care for. Do better, and\ngrow better, and be better. And never kill anything without a good\nreason for it.\"\n\n\"Ma'am, I will go and fetch my bow and arrows, and you shall burn them\nyourself.\"\n\n\"I have no fire that would burn your bow and arrows, Curdie.\"\n\n\"Then I promise you to burn them all under my mother's porridge-pot\nto-morrow morning.\"\n\n\"No, no, Curdie. Keep them, and practise with them every day, and grow a\ngood shot. There are plenty of bad things that want killing, and a day\nwill come when they will prove useful. But I must see first whether you\nwill do as I tell you.\"\n\n\"That I will!\" said Curdie. \"What is it, ma'am?\"\n\n\"Only something not to do,\" answered the old lady; \"if you should hear\nany one speak about me, never to laugh or make fun of me.\"\n\n\"Oh, ma'am!\" exclaimed Curdie, shocked that she should think such a\nrequest needful.\n\n\"Stop, stop,\" she went on. \"People hereabout sometimes tell very odd and\nin fact ridiculous stories of an old woman who watches what is going on,\nand occasionally interferes. They mean me, though what they say is often\ngreat nonsense. Now what I want of you is not to laugh, or side with\nthem in any way; because they will take that to mean that you don't\nbelieve there is any such person a bit more than they do. Now that would\nnot be the case--would it, Curdie?\"\n\n\"No indeed, ma'am. I've seen you.\"\n\nThe old woman smiled very oddly.\n\n\"Yes, you've seen me,\" she said. \"But mind,\" she continued, \"I don't\nwant you to say anything--only to hold your tongue, and not seem to side\nwith them.\"\n\n\"That will be easy,\" said Curdie, \"now that I've seen you with my very\nown eyes, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Not so easy as you think, perhaps,\" said the old lady, with another\ncurious smile. \"I want to be your friend,\" she added after a little\npause, \"but I don't quite know yet whether you will let me.\"\n\n\"Indeed I will, ma'am,\" said Curdie.\n\n\"That is for me to find out,\" she rejoined, with yet another strange\nsmile. \"In the meantime all I can say is, come to me again when you find\nyourself in any trouble, and I will see what I can do for you--only the\n_canning_ depends on yourself. I am greatly pleased with you for\nbringing me my pigeon, doing your best to set right what you had set\nwrong.\"\n\nAs she spoke she held out her hand to him, and when he took it she made\nuse of his to help herself up from her stool, and--when or how it came\nabout, Curdie could not tell--the same instant she stood before him a\ntall, strong woman--plainly very old, but as grand as she was old, and\nonly _rather_ severe-looking. Every trace of the decrepitude and\nwitheredness she showed as she hovered like a film about her wheel, had\nvanished. Her hair was very white, but it hung about her head in great\nplenty, and shone like silver in the moonlight. Straight as a pillar she\nstood before the astonished boy, and the wounded bird had now spread out\nboth its wings across her bosom, like some great mystical ornament of\nfrosted silver.\n\n\"Oh, now I can never forget you!\" cried Curdie. \"I see now what you\nreally are!\"\n\n\"Did I not tell you the truth when I sat at my wheel?\" said the old\nlady.\n\n[Illustration: \"_The wounded bird now spread out both its wings across\nher bosom._\"]\n\n\"Yes, ma'am,\" answered Curdie.\n\n\"I can do no more than tell you the truth now,\" she rejoined. \"It is a\nbad thing indeed to forget one who has told us the truth. Now go.\"\n\nCurdie obeyed, and took a few steps towards the door.\n\n\"Please, ma'am,\"--\"what am I to call you?\" he was going to say; but when\nhe turned to speak, he saw nobody. Whether she was there or not he could\nnot tell, however, for the moonlight had vanished, and the room was\nutterly dark. A great fear, such as he had never before known, came upon\nhim, and almost overwhelmed him. He groped his way to the door, and\ncrawled down the stair--in doubt and anxiety as to how he should find\nhis way out of the house in the dark. And the stair seemed ever so much\nlonger than when he came up. Nor was that any wonder, for down and down\nhe went, until at length his foot struck on a door, and when he rose and\nopened it, he found himself under the starry, moonless sky at the foot\nof the tower. He soon discovered the way out of the garden, with which\nhe had some acquaintance already, and in a few minutes was climbing the\nmountain with a solemn and cheerful heart. It was rather dark, but he\nknew the way well. As he passed the rock from which the poor pigeon fell\nwounded with his arrow, a great joy filled his heart at the thought that\nhe was delivered from the blood of the little bird, and he ran the next\nhundred yards at full speed up the hill. Some dark shadows passed him:\nhe did not even care to think what they were, but let them run. When he\nreached home, he found his father and mother waiting supper for him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nCURDIE'S FATHER AND MOTHER.\n\n\nThe eyes of the fathers and mothers are quick to read their children's\nlooks, and when Curdie entered the cottage, his parents saw at once that\nsomething unusual had taken place. When he said to his mother, \"I beg\nyour pardon for being so late,\" there was something in the tone beyond\nthe politeness that went to her heart, for it seemed to come from the\nplace where all lovely things were born before they began to grow in\nthis world. When he set his father's chair to the table, an attention he\nhad not shown him for a long time, Peter thanked him with more gratitude\nthan the boy had ever yet felt in all his life. It was a small thing to\ndo for the man who had been serving him since ever he was born, but I\nsuspect there is nothing a man can be so grateful for as that to which\nhe has the most right. There was a change upon Curdie, and father and\nmother felt there must be something to account for it, and therefore\nwere pretty sure he had something to tell them. For when a child's heart\nis _all_ right, it is not likely he will want to keep anything from his\nparents. But the story of the evening was too solemn for Curdie to come\nout with all at once. He must wait until they had had their porridge,\nand the affairs of this world were over for the day. But when they were\nseated on the grassy bank of the brook that went so sweetly blundering\nover the great stones of its rocky channel, for the whole meadow lay on\nthe top of a huge rock, then he felt that the right hour had come for\nsharing with them the wonderful things that had come to him. It was\nperhaps the loveliest of all hours in the year. The summer was young and\nsoft, and this was the warmest evening they had yet had--dusky, dark\neven below, while above the stars were bright and large and sharp in the\nblackest blue sky. The night came close around them, clasping them in\none universal arm of love, and although it neither spoke nor smiled,\nseemed all eye and ear, seemed to see and hear and know everything they\nsaid and did. It is a way the night has sometimes, and there is a reason\nfor it. The only sound was that of the brook, for there was no wind, and\nno trees for it to make its music upon if there had been, for the\ncottage was high up on the mountain, on a great shoulder of stone where\ntrees would not grow. There, to the accompaniment of the water, as it\nhurried down to the valley and the sea, talking busily of a thousand\ntrue things which it could not understand, Curdie told his tale, outside\nand in, to his father and mother. What a world had slipped in between\nthe mouth of the mine and his mother's cottage! Neither of them said a\nword until he had ended.\n\n\"Now what am I to make of it, mother? It's so strange!\" he said, and\nstopped.\n\n\"It's easy enough to see what Curdie has got to make of it--isn't it,\nPeter?\" said the good woman, turning her face towards all she could see\nof her husband's.\n\n\"It seems so to me,\" answered Peter, with a smile, which only the night\nsaw, but his wife felt in the tone of his words. They were the happiest\ncouple in that country, because they always understood each other, and\nthat was because they always meant the same thing, and that was because\nthey always loved what was fair and true and right better--not than\nanything else, but than everything else put together.\n\n\"Then will you tell Curdie?\" said she.\n\n\"You can talk best, Joan,\" said he. \"You tell him, and I will\nlisten--and learn how to say what I think,\" he added, laughing.\n\n\"_I_,\" said Curdie, \"don't know what to think.\"\n\n\"It does not matter so much,\" said his mother. \"If only you know what\nto make of a thing, you'll know soon enough what to think of it. Now I\nneedn't tell you, surely, Curdie, what you've got to do with this?\"\n\n\"I suppose you mean, mother,\" answered Curdie, \"that I must do as the\nold lady told me?\"\n\n\"That is what I mean: what else could it be? Am I not right, Peter?\"\n\n\"Quite right, Joan,\" answered Peter, \"so far as my judgment goes. It is\na very strange story, but you see the question is not about believing\nit, for Curdie knows what came to him.\"\n\n\"And you remember, Curdie,\" said his mother, \"that when the princess\ntook you up that tower once before, and there talked to her\ngreat-great-grandmother, you came home quite angry with her, and said\nthere was nothing in the place but an old tub, a heap of straw--oh, I\nremember your inventory quite well!--an old tub, a heap of straw, a\nwithered apple, and a sunbeam. According to your eyes, that was all\nthere was in the great old musty garret. But now you have had a glimpse\nof the old princess herself!\"\n\n\"Yes, mother, I _did_ see her--or if I didn't,--\" said Curdie very\nthoughtfully--then began again. \"The hardest thing to believe, though I\nsaw it with my own eyes, was when the thin, filmy creature, that seemed\nalmost to float about in the moonlight like a bit of the silver paper\nthey put over pictures, or like a handkerchief made of spider-threads,\ntook my hand, and rose up. She was taller and stronger than you, mother,\never so much!--at least, she looked so.\"\n\n\"And most certainly was so, Curdie, if she looked so,\" said Mrs.\nPeterson.\n\n\"Well, I confess,\" returned her son, \"that one thing, if there were no\nother, would make me doubt whether I was not dreaming after all, for as\nwide awake as I fancied myself to be.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" answered his mother, \"it is not for me to say whether you\nwere dreaming or not if you are doubtful of it yourself; but it doesn't\nmake me think I am dreaming when in the summer I hold in my hand the\nbunch of sweet-peas that make my heart glad with their colour and scent,\nand remember the dry, withered-looking little thing I dibbled into the\nhole in the same spot in the spring. I only think how wonderful and\nlovely it all is. It seems just as full of reason as it is of wonder.\nHow it is done I can't tell, only there it is! And there is this in it\ntoo, Curdie--of which you would not be so ready to think--that when you\ncome home to your father and mother, and they find you behaving more\nlike a dear good son than you have behaved for a long time, they at\nleast are not likely to think you were only dreaming.\"\n\n\"Still,\" said Curdie, looking a little ashamed, \"I might have dreamed my\nduty.\"\n\n\"Then dream often, my son; for there must then be more truth in your\ndreams than in your waking thoughts. But however any of these things may\nbe, this one point remains certain: there can be no harm in doing as she\ntold you. And, indeed, until you are sure there is no such person, you\nare bound to do it, for you promised.\"\n\n\"It seems to me,\" said his father, \"that if a lady comes to you in a\ndream, Curdie, and tells you not to talk about her when you wake, the\nleast you can do is to hold your tongue.\"\n\n\"True, father!--Yes, mother, I'll do it,\" said Curdie.\n\nThen they went to bed, and sleep, which is the night of the soul, next\ntook them in its arms and made them well.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nTHE MINERS.\n\n\nIt much increased Curdie's feeling of the strangeness of the whole\naffair, that, the next morning, when they were at work in the mine, the\nparty of which he and his father were two, just as if they had known\nwhat had happened to him the night before, began talking about all\nmanner of wonderful tales that were abroad in the country, chiefly of\ncourse those connected with the mines, and the mountains in which they\nlay. Their wives and mothers and grandmothers were their chief\nauthorities. For when they sat by their firesides they heard their wives\ntelling their children the selfsame tales, with little differences, and\nhere and there one they had not heard before, which they had heard their\nmothers and grandmothers tell in one or other of the same cottages. At\nlength they came to speak of a certain strange being they called Old\nMother Wotherwop. Some said their wives had seen her. It appeared as\nthey talked that not one had seen her more than once. Some of their\nmothers and grandmothers, however, had seen her also, and they all had\ntold them tales about her when they were children. They said she could\ntake any shape she liked, but that in reality she was a withered old\nwoman, so old and so withered that she was as thin as a sieve with a\nlamp behind it; that she was never seen except at night, and when\nsomething terrible had taken place, or was going to take place--such as\nthe falling in of the roof of a mine, or the breaking out of water in\nit. She had more than once been seen--it was always at night--beside\nsome well, sitting on the brink of it, and leaning over and stirring it\nwith her forefinger, which was six times as long as any of the rest. And\nwhoever for months after drank of that well was sure to be ill. To this\none of them, however, added that he remembered his mother saying that\nwhoever in bad health drank of the well was sure to get better. But the\nmajority agreed that the former was the right version of the story--for\nwas she not a witch, an old hating witch, whose delight was to do\nmischief? One said he had heard that she took the shape of a young woman\nsometimes, as beautiful as an angel, and then was most dangerous of all,\nfor she struck every man who looked upon her stone-blind. Peter ventured\nthe question whether she might not as likely be an angel that took the\nform of an old woman, as an old woman that took the form of an angel.\nBut nobody except Curdie, who was holding his peace with all his might,\nsaw any sense in the question. They said an old woman might be very glad\nto make herself look like a young one, but who ever heard of a young and\nbeautiful one making herself look old and ugly? Peter asked why they\nwere so much more ready to believe the bad that was said of her than the\ngood. They answered because she was bad. He asked why they believed her\nto be bad, and they answered, because she did bad things. When he asked\nhow they knew that, they said, because she was a bad creature. Even if\nthey didn't know it, they said, a woman like that was so much more\nlikely to be bad than good. Why did she go about at night? Why did she\nappear only now and then, and on such occasions? One went on to tell how\none night when his grandfather had been having a jolly time of it with\nhis friends in the market town, she had served him so upon his way home\nthat the poor man never drank a drop of anything stronger than water\nafter it to the day of his death. She dragged him into a bog, and\ntumbled him up and down in it till he was nearly dead.\n\n\"I suppose that was her way of teaching him what a good thing water\nwas,\" said Peter; but the man, who liked strong drink, did not see the\njoke.\n\n\"They do say,\" said another, \"that she has lived in the old house over\nthere ever since the little princess left it. They say too that the\nhousekeeper knows all about it, and is hand and glove with the old\nwitch. I don't doubt they have many a nice airing together on\nbroomsticks. But I don't doubt either it's all nonsense, and there's no\nsuch person at all.\"\n\n\"When our cow died,\" said another, \"she was seen going round and round\nthe cowhouse the same night. To be sure she left a fine calf behind\nher--I mean the cow did, not the witch. I wonder she didn't kill that\ntoo, for she'll be a far finer cow than ever her mother was.\"\n\n\"My old woman came upon her one night, not long before the water broke\nout in the mine, sitting on a stone on the hill-side with a whole\ncongregation of cobs about her. When they saw my wife they all scampered\noff as fast as they could run, and where the witch was sitting there was\nnothing to be seen but a withered bracken bush. I make no doubt myself\nshe was putting them up to it.\"\n\nAnd so they went on with one foolish tale after another, while Peter put\nin a word now and then, and Curdie diligently held his peace. But his\nsilence at last drew attention upon it, and one of them said,--\n\n\"Come, young Curdie, what are you thinking of?\"\n\n\"How do you know I'm thinking of anything?\" asked Curdie.\n\n\"Because you're not saying anything.\"\n\n\"Does it follow then that, as you are saying so much, you're not\nthinking at all?\" said Curdie.\n\n\"I know what he's thinking,\" said one who had not yet spoken; \"--he's\nthinking what a set of fools you are to talk such rubbish; as if ever\nthere was or could be such an old woman as you say! I'm sure Curdie\nknows better than all that comes to.\"\n\n\"I think,\" said Curdie, \"it would be better that he who says anything\nabout her should be quite sure it is true, lest she should hear him, and\nnot like to be slandered.\"\n\n\"But would she like it any better if it were true?\" said the same man.\n\"If she is what they say--I don't know--but I never knew a man that\nwouldn't go in a rage to be called the very thing he was.\"\n\n\"If bad things were true of her, and I _knew_ it,\" said Curdie, \"I would\nnot hesitate to say them, for I will never give in to being afraid of\nanything that's bad. I suspect that the things they tell, however, if we\nknew all about them, would turn out to have nothing but good in them;\nand I won't say a word more for fear I should say something that\nmightn't be to her mind.\"\n\nThey all burst into a loud laugh.\n\n\"Hear the parson!\" they cried. \"He believes in the witch! Ha! ha!\"\n\n\"He's afraid of her!\"\n\n\"And says all she does is good!\"\n\n\"He wants to make friends with her, that she may help him to find the\ngangue.\"\n\n\"Give me my own eyes and a good divining rod before all the witches in\nthe world! and so I'd advise you too, Master Curdie; that is, when your\neyes have grown to be worth anything, and you have learned to cut the\nhazel fork.\"\n\nThus they all mocked and jeered at him, but he did his best to keep his\ntemper and go quietly on with his work. He got as close to his father as\nhe could, however, for that helped him to bear it. As soon as they were\ntired of laughing and mocking, Curdie was friendly with them, and long\nbefore their midday meal all between them was as it had been.\n\nBut when the evening came, Peter and Curdie felt that they would rather\nwalk home together without other company, and therefore lingered behind\nwhen the rest of the men left the mine.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nTHE EMERALD.\n\n\nFather and son had seated themselves on a projecting piece of the rock\nat a corner where three galleries met--the one they had come along from\ntheir work, one to the right leading out of the mountain, and the other\nto the left leading far into a portion of it which had been long\ndisused. Since the inundation caused by the goblins, it had indeed been\nrendered impassable by the settlement of a quantity of the water,\nforming a small but very deep lake, in a part where was a considerable\ndescent. They had just risen and were turning to the right, when a gleam\ncaught their eyes, and made them look along the whole gangue. Far up\nthey saw a pale green light, whence issuing they could not tell, about\nhalfway between floor and roof of the passage. They saw nothing but the\nlight, which was like a large star, with a point of darker colour yet\nbrighter radiance in the heart of it, whence the rest of the light shot\nout in rays that faded towards the ends until they vanished. It shed\nhardly any light around it, although in itself it was so bright as to\nsting the eyes that beheld it. Wonderful stories had from ages gone been\ncurrent in the mines about certain magic gems which gave out light of\nthemselves, and this light looked just like what might be supposed to\nshoot from the heart of such a gem. They went up the old gallery to find\nout what it could be.\n\nTo their surprise they found, however, that, after going some distance,\nthey were no nearer to it, so far as they could judge, than when they\nstarted. It did not seem to move, and yet they moving did not approach\nit. Still they persevered, for it was far too wonderful a thing to lose\nsight of so long as they could keep it. At length they drew near the\nhollow where the water lay, and still were no nearer the light. Where\nthey expected to be stopped by the water, however, water was none:\nsomething had taken place in some part of the mine that had drained it\noff, and the gallery lay open as in former times. And now, to their\nsurprise, the light, instead of being in front of them, was shining at\nthe same distance to the right, where they did not know there was any\npassage at all. Then they discovered, by the light of the lanterns they\ncarried, that there the water had broken through, and made an adit to a\npart of the mountain of which Peter knew nothing. But they were hardly\nwell into it, still following the light, before Curdie thought he\nrecognised some of the passages he had so often gone through when he was\nwatching the goblins. After they had advanced a long way, with many\nturnings, now to the right, now to the left, all at once their eyes\nseemed to come suddenly to themselves, and they became aware that the\nlight which they had taken to be a great way from them was in reality\nalmost within reach of their hands. The same instant it began to grow\nlarger and thinner, the point of light grew dim as it spread, the\ngreenness melted away, and in a moment or two, instead of the star, a\ndark, dark and yet luminous face was looking at them with living eyes.\nAnd Curdie felt a great awe swell up in his heart, for he thought he had\nseen those eyes before.\n\n\"I see you know me, Curdie,\" said a voice.\n\n\"If your eyes are you, ma'am, then I know you,\" said Curdie. \"But I\nnever saw your face before.\"\n\n\"Yes, you have seen it, Curdie,\" said the voice.\n\nAnd with that the darkness of its complexion melted away, and down from\nthe face dawned out the form that belonged to it, until at last Curdie\nand his father beheld a lady, \"beautiful exceedingly,\" dressed in\nsomething pale green, like velvet, over which her hair fell in cataracts\nof a rich golden colour. It looked as if it were pouring down from her\nhead, and, like the water of the Dustbrook, vanishing in a golden vapour\nere it reached the floor. It came flowing from under the edge of a\ncoronet of gold, set with alternated pearls and emeralds. In front of\nthe crown was a great emerald, which looked somehow as if out of it had\ncome the light they had followed. There was no ornament else about her,\nexcept on her slippers, which were one mass of gleaming emeralds, of\nvarious shades of green, all mingling lovely like the waving of grass in\nthe wind and sun. She looked about five-and-twenty years old. And for\nall the difference, Curdie knew somehow or other, he could not have told\nhow, that the face before him was that of the old princess, Irene's\ngreat-great-grandmother.\n\nBy this time all around them had grown light, and now first they could\nsee where they were. They stood in a great splendid cavern, which Curdie\nrecognised as that in which the goblins held their state assemblies.\nBut, strange to tell, the light by which they saw came streaming,\nsparkling, and shooting from stones of many colours in the sides and\nroof and floor of the cavern--stones of all the colours of the rainbow,\nand many more. It was a glorious sight--the whole rugged place flashing\nwith colours--in one spot a great light of deep carbuncular red, in\nanother of sapphirine blue, in another of topaz-yellow; while here and\nthere were groups of stones of all hues and sizes, and again nebulous\nspaces of thousands of tiniest spots of brilliancy of every conceivable\nshade. Sometimes the colours ran together, and made a little river or\nlake of lambent interfusing and changing tints, which, by their\nvariegation, seemed to imitate the flowing of water, or waves made by\nthe wind. Curdie would have gazed entranced, but that all the beauty of\nthe cavern, yes, of all he knew of the whole creation, seemed gathered\nin one centre of harmony and loveliness in the person of the ancient\nlady who stood before him in the very summer of beauty and strength.\nTurning from the first glance at the circumfulgent splendour, it\ndwindled into nothing as he looked again at the lady. Nothing flashed or\nglowed or shone about her, and yet it was with a prevision of the truth\nthat he said,--\n\n\"I was here once before, ma'am.\"\n\n\"I know that, Curdie,\" she replied.\n\n\"The place was full of torches, and the walls gleamed, but nothing as\nthey do now, and there is no light in the place.\"\n\n\"You want to know where the light comes from?\" she said, smiling.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Then see: I will go out of the cavern. Do not be afraid, but watch.\"\n\nShe went slowly out. The moment she turned her back to go, the light\nbegan to pale and fade; the moment she was out of their sight the place\nwas black as night, save that now the smoky yellow-red of their lamps,\nwhich they thought had gone out long ago, cast a dusky glimmer around\nthem.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nWHAT _IS_ IN A NAME?\n\n\nFor a time that seemed to them long, the two men stood waiting, while\nstill the Mother of Light did not return. So long was she absent that\nthey began to grow anxious: how were they to find their way from the\nnatural hollows of the mountain crossed by goblin paths, if their lamps\nshould go out? To spend the night there would mean to sit and wait until\nan earthquake rent the mountain, or the earth herself fell back into the\nsmelting furnace of the sun whence she had issued--for it was all night\nand no faintest dawn in the bosom of the world. So long did they wait\nunrevisited, that, had there not been two of them, either would at\nlength have concluded the vision a home-born product of his own seething\nbrain. And their lamps _were_ going out, for they grew redder and\nsmokier! But they did not lose courage, for there is a kind of capillary\nattraction in the facing of two souls, that lifts faith quite beyond\nthe level to which either could raise it alone: they knew that they had\nseen the lady of emeralds, and it was to give them their own desire that\nshe had gone from them, and neither would yield for a moment to the\nhalf-doubts and half-dreads that awoke in his heart. And still she who\nwith her absence darkened their air did not return. They grew weary, and\nsat down on the rocky floor, for wait they would--indeed, wait they\nmust. Each set his lamp by his knee, and watched it die. Slowly it sank,\ndulled, looked lazy and stupid. But ever as it sank and dulled, the\nimage in his mind of the Lady of Light grew stronger and clearer.\nTogether the two lamps panted and shuddered. First one, then the other\nwent out, leaving for a moment a great red, evil-smelling snuff. Then\nall was the blackness of darkness up to their very hearts and everywhere\naround them. Was it? No. Far away--it looked miles away--shone one\nminute faint point of green light--where, who could tell? They only knew\nthat it shone. It grew larger, and seemed to draw nearer, until at last,\nas they watched with speechless delight and expectation, it seemed once\nmore within reach of an outstretched hand. Then it spread and melted\naway as before, and there were eyes--and a face--and a lovely form--and\nlo! the whole cavern blazing with lights innumerable, and gorgeous, yet\nsoft and interfused--so blended, indeed, that the eye had to search and\nsee in order to separate distinct spots of special colour.\n\nThe moment they saw the speck in the vast distance they had risen and\nstood on their feet. When it came nearer they bowed their heads. Yet now\nthey looked with fearless eyes, for the woman that was old and yet young\nwas a joy to see, and filled their hearts with reverent delight. She\nturned first to Peter.\n\n\"I have known you long,\" she said. \"I have met you going to and from the\nmine, and seen you working in it for the last forty years.\"\n\n\"How should it be, madam, that a grand lady like you should take notice\nof a poor man like me?\" said Peter, humbly, but more foolishly than he\ncould then have understood.\n\n\"I am poor as well as rich,\" said she. \"I too work for my bread, and I\nshow myself no favour when I pay myself my own wages. Last night when\nyou sat by the brook, and Curdie told you about my pigeon, and my\nspinning, and wondered whether he could believe that he had actually\nseen me, I heard all you said to each other. I am always about, as the\nminers said the other night when they talked of me as Old Mother\nWotherwop.\"\n\nThe lovely lady laughed, and her laugh was a lightning of delight in\ntheir souls.\n\n\"Yes,\" she went on, \"you have got to thank me that you are so poor,\nPeter. I have seen to that, and it has done well for both you and me, my\nfriend. Things come to the poor that can't get in at the door of the\nrich. Their money somehow blocks it up. It is a great privilege to be\npoor, Peter--one that no man ever coveted, and but a very few have\nsought to retain, but one that yet many have learned to prize. You must\nnot mistake, however, and imagine it a virtue; it is but a privilege,\nand one also that, like other privileges, may be terribly misused. Hadst\nthou been rich, my Peter, thou wouldst not have been so good as some\nrich men I know. And now I am going to tell you what no one knows but\nmyself: you, Peter, and your wife have both the blood of the royal\nfamily in your veins. I have been trying to cultivate your family tree,\nevery branch of which is known to me, and I expect Curdie to turn out a\nblossom on it. Therefore I have been training him for a work that must\nsoon be done. I was near losing him, and had to send my pigeon. Had he\nnot shot it, that would have been better; but he repented, and that\nshall be as good in the end.\"\n\nShe turned to Curdie and smiled.\n\n\"Ma'am,\" said Curdie, \"may I ask questions?\"\n\n\"Why not, Curdie?\"\n\n\"Because I have been told, ma'am, that nobody must ask the king\nquestions.\"\n\n\"The king never made that law,\" she answered, with some displeasure.\n\"You may ask me as many as you please--that is, so long as they are\nsensible. Only I may take a few thousand years to answer some of them.\nBut that's nothing. Of all things time is the cheapest.\"\n\n\"Then would you mind telling me now, ma'am, for I feel very confused\nabout it--are you the Lady of the Silver Moon?\"\n\n\"Yes, Curdie; you may call me that if you like. What it means is true.\"\n\n\"And now I see you dark, and clothed in green, and the mother of all the\nlight that dwells in the stones of the earth! And up there they call you\nOld Mother Wotherwop! And the Princess Irene told me you were her\ngreat-great-grandmother! And you spin the spider-threads, and take care\nof a whole people of pigeons; and you are worn to a pale shadow with old\nage; and are as young as anybody can be, not to be too young; and as\nstrong, I do believe, as I am.\"\n\nThe lady stooped towards a large green stone bedded in the rock of the\nfloor, and looking like a well of grassy light in it. She laid hold of\nit with her fingers, broke it out, and gave it to Peter.\n\n\"There!\" cried Curdie, \"I told you so. Twenty men could not have done\nthat. And your fingers are white and smooth as any lady's in the land. I\ndon't know what to make of it.\"\n\n\"I could give you twenty names more to call me, Curdie, and not one of\nthem would be a false one. What does it matter how many names if the\nperson is one?\"\n\n\"Ah! but it is not names only, ma'am. Look at what you were like last\nnight, and what I see you now!\"\n\n\"Shapes are only dresses, Curdie, and dresses are only names. That which\nis inside is the same all the time.\"\n\n\"But then how can all the shapes speak the truth?\"\n\n\"It would want thousands more to speak the truth, Curdie; and then they\ncould not. But there is a point I must not let you mistake about. It is\none thing the shape I choose to put on, and quite another the shape that\nfoolish talk and nursery tale may please to put upon me. Also, it is one\nthing what you or your father may think about me, and quite another what\na foolish or bad man may see in me. For instance, if a thief were to\ncome in here just now, he would think he saw the demon of the mine, all\nin green flames, come to protect her treasure, and would run like a\nhunted wild goat. I should be all the same, but his evil eyes would see\nme as I was not.\"\n\n\"I think I understand,\" said Curdie.\n\n\"Peter,\" said the lady, turning then to him, \"you will have to give up\nCurdie for a little while.\"\n\n\"So long as he loves us, ma'am, that will not matter--much.\"\n\n\"Ah! you are right there, my friend,\" said the beautiful princess.\n\nAnd as she said it she put out her hand, and took the hard, horny hand\nof the miner in it, and held it for a moment lovingly.\n\n\"I need say no more,\" she added, \"for we understand each other--you and\nI, Peter.\"\n\nThe tears came into Peter's eyes. He bowed his head in thankfulness, and\nhis heart was much too full to speak.\n\nThen the great old young beautiful princess turned to Curdie.\n\n\"Now, Curdie, are you ready?\" she said.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am,\" answered Curdie.\n\n\"You do not know what for.\"\n\n\"You do, ma'am. That is enough.\"\n\n\"You could not have given me a better answer, or done more to prepare\nyourself, Curdie,\" she returned, with one of her radiant smiles. \"Do you\nthink you will know me again?\"\n\n\"I think so. But how can I tell what you may look like next?\"\n\n\"Ah, that indeed! How can you tell? Or how could I expect you should?\nBut those who know me _well_, know me whatever new dress or shape or\nname I may be in; and by-and-by you will have learned to do so too.\"\n\n\"But if you want me to know you again, ma'am, for certain sure,\" said\nCurdie, \"could you not give me some sign, or tell me something about you\nthat never changes--or some other way to know you, or thing to know you\nby?\"\n\n\"No, Curdie; that would be to keep you from knowing me. You must know me\nin quite another way from that. It would not be the least use to you or\nme either if I were to make you know me in that way. It would be but to\nknow the sign of me--not to know me myself. It would be no better than\nif I were to take this emerald out of my crown and give it you to take\nhome with you, and you were to call it me, and talk to it as if it heard\nand saw and loved you. Much good that would do you, Curdie! No; you must\ndo what you can to know me, and if you do, you will. You shall see me\nagain--in very different circumstances from these, and, I will tell you\nso much, it _may_ be in a very different shape. But come now, I will\nlead you out of this cavern; my good Joan will be getting too anxious\nabout you. One word more: you will allow that the men knew little what\nthey were talking about this morning, when they told all those tales of\nOld Mother Wotherwop; but did it occur to you to think how it was they\nfell to talking about me at all?--It was because I came to them; I was\nbeside them all the time they were talking about me, though they were\nfar enough from knowing it, and had very little besides foolishness to\nsay.\"\n\nAs she spoke she turned and led the way from the cavern, which, as if a\ndoor had been closed, sunk into absolute blackness behind them. And now\nthey saw nothing more of the lady except the green star, which again\nseemed a good distance in front of them, and to which they came no\nnearer, although following it at a quick pace through the mountain. Such\nwas their confidence in her guidance, however, and so fearless were they\nin consequence, that they felt their way neither with hand nor foot, but\nwalked straight on through the pitch dark galleries. When at length the\nnight of the upper world looked in at the mouth of the mine, the green\nlight seemed to lose its way amongst the stars, and they saw it no more.\n\nOut they came into the cool, blessed night. It was very late, and only\nstarlight. To their surprise, three paces away they saw, seated upon a\nstone, an old countrywoman, in a cloak which they took for black. When\nthey came close up to it, they saw it was red.\n\n\"Good evening!\" said Peter.\n\n\"Good evening!\" returned the old woman, in a voice as old as herself.\n\nBut Curdie took off his cap and said,--\n\n\"I am your servant, princess.\"\n\nThe old woman replied,--\n\n\"Come to me in the dove-tower to-morrow night, Curdie--alone.\"\n\n\"I will, ma'am,\" said Curdie.\n\nSo they parted, and father and son went home to wife and mother--two\npersons in one rich, happy woman.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nCURDIE'S MISSION.\n\n\nThe next night Curdie went home from the mine a little earlier than\nusual, to make himself tidy before going to the dove-tower. The princess\nhad not appointed an exact time for him to be there; he would go as near\nthe time he had gone first as he could. On his way to the bottom of the\nhill, he met his father coming up. The sun was then down, and the warm\nfirst of the twilight filled the evening. He came rather wearily up the\nhill: the road, he thought, must have grown steeper in parts since he\nwas Curdie's age. His back was to the light of the sunset, which closed\nhim all round in a beautiful setting, and Curdie thought what a\ngrand-looking man his father was, even when he was tired. It is greed\nand laziness and selfishness, not hunger or weariness or cold, that take\nthe dignity out of a man, and make him look mean.\n\n\"Ah, Curdie! there you are!\" he said, seeing his son come bounding along\nas if it were morning with him and not evening.\n\n\"You look tired, father,\" said Curdie.\n\n\"Yes, my boy. I'm not so young as you.\"\n\n\"Nor so old as the princess,\" said Curdie.\n\n\"Tell me this,\" said Peter: \"why do people talk about going down hill\nwhen they begin to get old? It seems to me that then first they begin to\ngo up hill.\"\n\n\"You looked to me, father, when I caught sight of you, as if you had\nbeen climbing the hill all your life, and were soon to get to the top.\"\n\n\"Nobody can tell when that will be,\" returned Peter. \"We're so ready to\nthink we're just at the top when it lies miles away. But I must not keep\nyou, my boy, for you are wanted; and we shall be anxious to know what\nthe princess says to you--that is, if she will allow you to tell us.\"\n\n\"I think she will, for she knows there is nobody more to be trusted than\nmy father and mother,\" said Curdie, with pride.\n\nAnd away he shot, and ran, and jumped, and seemed almost to fly down the\nlong, winding, steep path, until he came to the gate of the king's\nhouse.\n\nThere he met an unexpected obstruction: in the open door stood the\nhousekeeper, and she seemed to broaden herself out until she almost\nfilled the doorway.\n\n\"So!\" she said; \"it's you, is it, young man? You are the person that\ncomes in and goes out when he pleases, and keeps running up and down my\nstairs, without ever saying by your leave, or even wiping his shoes, and\nalways leaves the door open! Don't you know that this is my house?\"\n\n\"No, I do not,\" returned Curdie, respectfully. \"You forget, ma'am, that\nit is the king's house.\"\n\n\"That is all the same. The king left it to me to take care of, and that\nyou shall know!\"\n\n\"Is the king dead, ma'am, that he has left it to you?\" asked Curdie,\nhalf in doubt from the self-assertion of the woman.\n\n\"Insolent fellow!\" exclaimed the housekeeper. \"Don't you see by my dress\nthat I am in the king's service?\"\n\n\"And am I not one of his miners?\"\n\n\"Ah! that goes for nothing. I am one of his household. You are an\nout-of-doors labourer. You are a nobody. You carry a pickaxe. I carry\nthe keys at my girdle. See!\"\n\n\"But you must not call one a nobody to whom the king has spoken,\" said\nCurdie.\n\n\"Go along with you!\" cried the housekeeper, and would have shut the door\nin his face, had she not been afraid that when she stepped back he\nwould step in ere she could get it in motion, for it was very heavy, and\nalways seemed unwilling to shut. Curdie came a pace nearer. She lifted\nthe great house key from her side, and threatened to strike him down\nwith it, calling aloud on Mar and Whelk and Plout, the men-servants\nunder her, to come and help her. Ere one of them could answer, however,\nshe gave a great shriek and turned and fled, leaving the door wide open.\n\nCurdie looked behind him, and saw an animal whose gruesome oddity even\nhe, who knew so many of the strange creatures, two of which were never\nthe same, that used to live inside the mountain with their masters the\ngoblins, had never seen equalled. Its eyes were flaming with anger, but\nit seemed to be at the housekeeper, for it came cowering and creeping\nup, and laid its head on the ground at Curdie's feet. Curdie hardly\nwaited to look at it, however, but ran into the house, eager to get up\nthe stairs before any of the men should come to annoy--he had no fear of\ntheir preventing him. Without halt or hindrance, though the passages\nwere nearly dark, he reached the door of the princess's workroom, and\nknocked.\n\n\"Come in,\" said the voice of the princess.\n\nCurdie opened the door,--but, to his astonishment, saw no room there.\nCould he have opened a wrong door? There was the great sky, and the\nstars, and beneath he could see nothing--only darkness! But what was\nthat in the sky, straight in front of him? A great wheel of fire,\nturning and turning, and flashing out blue lights!\n\n\"Come in, Curdie,\" said the voice again.\n\n\"I would at once, ma'am,\" said Curdie, \"if I were sure I was standing at\nyour door.\"\n\n\"Why should you doubt it, Curdie?\"\n\n\"Because I see neither walls nor floor, only darkness and the great\nsky.\"\n\n\"That is all right, Curdie. Come in.\"\n\nCurdie stepped forward at once. He was indeed, for the very crumb of a\nmoment, tempted to feel before him with his foot; but he saw that would\nbe to distrust the princess, and a greater rudeness he could not offer\nher. So he stepped straight in--I will not say without a little tremble\nat the thought of finding no floor beneath his foot. But that which had\nneed of the floor found it, and his foot was satisfied.\n\nNo sooner was he in than he saw that the great revolving wheel in the\nsky was the princess's spinning-wheel, near the other end of the room,\nturning very fast. He could see no sky or stars any more, but the wheel\nwas flashing out blue--oh such lovely sky-blue light!--and behind it of\ncourse sat the princess, but whether an old woman as thin as a skeleton\nleaf, or a glorious lady as young as perfection, he could not tell for\nthe turning and flashing of the wheel.\n\n\"Listen to the wheel,\" said the voice which had already grown dear to\nCurdie: its very tone was precious like a jewel, not _as_ a jewel, for\nno jewel could compare with it in preciousness.\n\nAnd Curdie listened and listened.\n\n\"What is it saying?\" asked the voice.\n\n\"It is singing,\" answered Curdie.\n\n\"What is it singing?\"\n\nCurdie tried to make out, but thought he could not; for no sooner had he\ngot a hold of something than it vanished again. Yet he listened, and\nlistened, entranced with delight.\n\n\"Thank you, Curdie,\" said the voice.\n\n\"Ma'am,\" said Curdie, \"I did try hard for a while, but I could not make\nanything of it.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, you did, and you have been telling it to me! Shall I tell you\nagain what I told my wheel, and my wheel told you, and you have just\ntold me without knowing it?\"\n\n\"Please, ma'am.\"\n\nThen the lady began to sing, and her wheel spun an accompaniment to her\nsong, and the music of the wheel was like the music of an Aeolian harp\nblown upon by the wind that bloweth where it listeth. Oh! the sweet\nsounds of that spinning-wheel! Now they were gold, now silver, now\ngrass, now palm-trees, now ancient cities, now rubies, now mountain\nbrooks, now peacock's feathers, now clouds, now snowdrops, and now\nmid-sea islands. But for the voice that sang through it all, about that\nI have no words to tell. It would make you weep if I were able to tell\nyou what that was like, it was so beautiful and true and lovely. But\nthis is something like the words of its song:--\n\n    The stars are spinning their threads,\n      And the clouds are the dust that flies,\n    And the suns are weaving them up\n      For the time when the sleepers shall rise.\n\n    The ocean in music rolls,\n      And gems are turning to eyes,\n    And the trees are gathering souls\n      For the time when the sleepers shall rise.\n\n    The weepers are learning to smile,\n     And laughter to glean the sighs;\n    Burn and bury the care and guile,\n      For the day when the sleepers shall rise.\n\n    Oh, the dews and the moths and the daisy-red,\n      The larks and the glimmers and flows!\n    The lilies and sparrows and daily bread,\n      And the something that nobody knows!\n\nThe princess stopped, her wheel stopped, and she laughed. And her laugh\nwas sweeter than song and wheel; sweeter than running brook and silver\nbell; sweeter than joy itself, for the heart of the laugh was love.\n\n\"Come now, Curdie, to this side of my wheel, and you will find me,\" she\nsaid; and her laugh seemed sounding on still in the words, as if they\nwere made of breath that had laughed.\n\nCurdie obeyed, and passed the wheel, and there she stood to receive\nhim!--fairer than when he saw her last, a little younger still, and\ndressed not in green and emeralds, but in pale blue, with a coronet of\nsilver set with pearls, and slippers covered with opals, that gleamed\nevery colour of the rainbow. It was some time before Curdie could take\nhis eyes from the marvel of her loveliness. Fearing at last that he was\nrude, he turned them away; and, behold, he was in a room that was for\nbeauty marvellous! The lofty ceiling was all a golden vine, whose great\nclusters of carbuncles, rubies, and chrysoberyls, hung down like the\nbosses of groined arches, and in its centre hung the most glorious lamp\nthat human eyes ever saw--the Silver Moon itself, a globe of silver, as\nit seemed, with a heart of light so wondrous potent that it rendered the\nmass translucent, and altogether radiant.\n\nThe room was so large that, looking back, he could scarcely see the end\nat which he entered; but the other was only a few yards from him--and\nthere he saw another wonder: on a huge hearth a great fire was burning,\nand the fire was a huge heap of roses, and yet it was fire. The smell of\nthe roses filled the air, and the heat of the flames of them glowed upon\nhis face. He turned an inquiring look upon the lady, and saw that she\nwas now seated in an ancient chair, the legs of which were crusted with\ngems, but the upper part like a nest of daisies and moss and green\ngrass.\n\n\"Curdie,\" she said in answer to his eyes, \"you have stood more than one\ntrial already, and have stood them well: now I am going to put you to a\nharder. Do you think you are prepared for it?\"\n\n\"How can I tell, ma'am?\" he returned, \"seeing I do not know what it is,\nor what preparation it needs? Judge me yourself, ma'am.\"\n\n\"It needs only trust and obedience,\" answered the lady.\n\n\"I dare not say anything, ma'am. If you think me fit, command me.\"\n\n\"It will hurt you terribly, Curdie, but that will be all; no real hurt,\nbut much real good will come to you from it.\"\n\nCurdie made no answer, but stood gazing with parted lips in the lady's\nface.\n\n\"Go and thrust both your hands into that fire,\" she said quickly, almost\nhurriedly.\n\nCurdie dared not stop to think. It was much too terrible to think about.\nHe rushed to the fire, and thrust both his hands right into the middle\nof the heap of flaming roses, and his arms halfway up to the elbows. And\nit _did_ hurt! But he did not draw them back. He held the pain as if it\nwere a thing that would kill him if he let it go--as indeed it would\nhave done. He was in terrible fear lest it should conquer him. But when\nit had risen to the pitch that he thought he _could_ bear it no longer,\nit began to fall again, and went on growing less and less until by\ncontrast with its former severity it had become rather pleasant. At last\nit ceased altogether, and Curdie thought his hands must be burnt to\ncinders if not ashes, for he did not feel them at all. The princess told\nhim to take them out and look at them. He did so, and found that all\nthat was gone of them was the rough hard skin; they were white and\nsmooth like the princess's.\n\n\"Come to me,\" she said.\n\nHe obeyed, and saw, to his surprise, that her face looked as if she had\nbeen weeping.\n\n\"Oh, princess! what _is_ the matter?\" he cried. \"Did I make a noise and\nvex you?\"\n\n\"No, Curdie,\" she answered; \"but it was very bad.\"\n\n\"Did you feel it too then?\"\n\n\"Of course I did. But now it is over, and all is well.--Would you like\nto know why I made you put your hands in the fire?\"\n\nCurdie looked at them again--then said,--\n\n\"To take the marks of the work off them, and make them fit for the\nking's court, I suppose.\"\n\n\"No, Curdie,\" answered the princess, shaking her head, for she was not\npleased with the answer. \"It would be a poor way of making your hands\nfit for the king's court to take off them all signs of his service.\nThere is a far greater difference on them than that. Do you feel none?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am.\"\n\n\"You will, though, by and by, when the time comes. But perhaps even then\nyou might not know what had been given you, therefore I will tell\nyou.--Have you ever heard what some philosophers say--that men were all\nanimals once?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am.\"\n\n\"It is of no consequence. But there is another thing that is of the\ngreatest consequence--this: that all men, if they do not take care, go\ndown the hill to the animals' country; that many men are actually, all\ntheir lives, going to be beasts. People knew it once, but it is long\nsince they forgot it.\"\n\n\"I am not surprised to hear it, ma'am, when I think of some of our\nminers.\"\n\n\"Ah! but you must beware, Curdie, how you say of this man or that man\nthat he is travelling beastward. There are not nearly so many going that\nway as at first sight you might think. When you met your father on the\nhill to-night, you stood and spoke together on the same spot; and\nalthough one of you was going up and the other coming down, at a little\ndistance no one could have told which was bound in the one direction and\nwhich in the other. Just so two people may be at the same spot in\nmanners and behaviour, and yet one may be getting better and the other\nworse, which is just the greatest of all differences that could possibly\nexist between them.\"\n\n\"But, ma'am,\" said Curdie, \"where is the good of knowing that there is\nsuch a difference, if you can never know where it is?\"\n\n\"Now, Curdie, you must mind exactly what words I use, because although\nthe right words cannot do exactly what I want them to do, the wrong\nwords will certainly do what I do not want them to do. I did not say\n_you can never know_. When there is a necessity for your knowing, when\nyou have to do important business with this or that man, there is always\na way of knowing enough to keep you from any great blunder. And as you\nwill have important business to do by and by, and that with people of\nwhom you yet know nothing, it will be necessary that you should have\nsome better means than usual of learning the nature of them. Now\nlisten. Since it is always what they _do_, whether in their minds or\ntheir bodies, that makes men go down to be less than men, that is,\nbeasts, the change always comes first in their hands--and first of all\nin the inside hands, to which the outside ones are but as the gloves.\nThey do not know it of course; for a beast does not know that he is a\nbeast, and the nearer a man gets to being a beast the less he knows it.\nNeither can their best friends, or their worst enemies indeed, _see_ any\ndifference in their hands, for they see only the living gloves of them.\nBut there are not a few who feel a vague something repulsive in the hand\nof a man who is growing a beast. Now here is what the rose-fire has done\nfor you: it has made your hands so knowing and wise, it has brought your\nreal hands so near the outside of your flesh-gloves, that you will\nhenceforth be able to know at once the hand of a man who is growing into\na beast; nay, more--you will at once feel the foot of the beast he is\ngrowing, just as if there were no glove made like a man's hand between\nyou and it. Hence of course it follows that you will be able often, and\nwith further education in zoology, will be able always to tell, not only\nwhen a man is growing a beast, but what beast he is growing to, for you\nwill know the foot--what it is and what beast's it is. According then to\nyour knowledge of that beast, will be your knowledge of the man you\nhave to do with. Only there is one beautiful and awful thing about it,\nthat if any one gifted with this perception once uses it for his own\nends, it is taken from him, and then, not knowing that it is gone, he is\nin a far worse condition than before, for he trusts to what he has not\ngot.\"\n\n\"How dreadful!\" said Curdie. \"I must mind what I am about.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, Curdie.\"\n\n\"But may not one sometimes make a mistake without being able to help\nit?\"\n\n\"Yes. But so long as he is not after his own ends, he will never make a\nserious mistake.\"\n\n\"I suppose you want me, ma'am, to warn every one whose hand tells me\nthat he is growing a beast--because, as you say, he does not know it\nhimself.\"\n\nThe princess smiled.\n\n\"Much good that would do, Curdie! I don't say there are no cases in\nwhich it would be of use, but they are very rare and peculiar cases, and\nif such come you will know them. To such a person there is in general no\ninsult like the truth. He cannot endure it, not because he is growing a\nbeast, but because he is ceasing to be a man. It is the dying man in him\nthat it makes uncomfortable, and he trots, or creeps, or swims, or\nflutters out of its way--calls it a foolish feeling, a whim, an old\nwives' fable, a bit of priests' humbug, an effete superstition, and so\non.\"\n\n\"And is there no hope for him? Can nothing be done? It's so awful to\nthink of going down, down, down like that!\"\n\n\"Even when it is with his own will?\"\n\n\"That's what seems to me to make it worst of all,\" said Curdie.\n\n\"You are right,\" answered the princess, nodding her head; \"but there is\nthis amount of excuse to make for all such, remember--that they do not\nknow what or how horrid their coming fate is. Many a lady, so delicate\nand nice that she can bear nothing coarser than the finest linen to\ntouch her body, if she had a mirror that could show her the animal she\nis growing to, as it lies waiting within the fair skin and the fine\nlinen and the silk and the jewels, would receive a shock that might\npossibly wake her up.\"\n\n\"Why then, ma'am, shouldn't she have it?\"\n\nThe princess held her peace.\n\n\"Come here, Lina,\" she said after a long pause.\n\nFrom somewhere behind Curdie, crept forward the same hideous animal\nwhich had fawned at his feet at the door, and which, without his knowing\nit, had followed him every step up the dove-tower. She ran to the\nprincess, and lay down at her feet, looking up at her with an\nexpression so pitiful that in Curdie's heart it overcame all the\nludicrousness of her horrible mass of incongruities. She had a very\nshort body, and very long legs made like an elephant's, so that in lying\ndown she kneeled with both pairs. Her tail, which dragged on the floor\nbehind her, was twice as long and quite as thick as her body. Her head\nwas something between that of a polar bear and a snake. Her eyes were\ndark green, with a yellow light in them. Her under teeth came up like a\nfringe of icicles, only very white, outside of her upper lip. Her throat\nlooked as if the hair had been plucked off. It showed a skin white and\nsmooth.\n\n\"Give Curdie a paw, Lina,\" said the princess.\n\nThe creature rose, and, lifting a long fore leg, held up a great\ndog-like paw to Curdie. He took it gently. But what a shudder, as of\nterrified delight, ran through him, when, instead of the paw of a dog,\nsuch as it seemed to his eyes, he clasped in his great mining fist the\nsoft, neat little hand of a child! He took it in both of his, and held\nit as if he could not let it go. The green eyes stared at him with their\nyellow light, and the mouth was turned up towards him with its constant\nhalf-grin; but here _was_ the child's hand! If he could but pull the\nchild out of the beast! His eyes sought the princess. She was watching\nhim with evident satisfaction.\n\n\"Ma'am, here is a child's hand!\" said Curdie.\n\n\"Your gift does more for you than it promised. It is yet better to\nperceive a hidden good than a hidden evil.\"\n\n\"But,\" began Curdie.\n\n\"I am not going to answer any more questions this evening,\" interrupted\nthe princess. \"You have not half got to the bottom of the answers I have\nalready given you. That paw in your hand now might almost teach you the\nwhole science of natural history--the heavenly sort, I mean.\"\n\n\"I will think,\" said Curdie. \"But oh! please! one word more: may I tell\nmy father and mother all about it?\"\n\n\"Certainly--though perhaps now it may be their turn to find it a little\ndifficult to believe that things went just as you must tell them.\"\n\n\"They shall see that I believe it all this time,\" said Curdie.\n\n\"Tell them that to-morrow morning you must set out for the court--not\nlike a great man, but just as poor as you are. They had better not speak\nabout it. Tell them also that it will be a long time before they hear of\nyou again, but they must not lose heart. And tell your father to lay\nthat stone I gave him last night in a safe place--not because of the\ngreatness of its price, although it is such an emerald as no prince has\nin his crown, but because it will be a news-bearer between you and him.\nAs often as he gets at all anxious about you, he must take it and lay it\nin the fire, and leave it there when he goes to bed. In the morning he\nmust find it in the ashes, and if it be as green as ever, then all goes\nwell with you; if it have lost colour, things go ill with you; but if it\nbe very pale indeed, then you are in great danger, and he must come to\nme.\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am,\" said Curdie. \"Please, am I to go now?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered the princess, and held out her hand to him.\n\nCurdie took it, trembling with joy. It was a very beautiful hand--not\nsmall, very smooth, but not very soft--and just the same to his\nfire-taught touch that it was to his eyes. He would have stood there all\nnight holding it if she had not gently withdrawn it.\n\n\"I will provide you a servant,\" she said, \"for your journey, and to wait\nupon you afterwards.\"\n\n\"But where am I to go, ma'am, and what am I to do? You have given me no\nmessage to carry, neither have you said what I am wanted for. I go\nwithout a notion whether I am to walk this way or that, or what I am to\ndo when I get I don't know where.\"\n\n\"Curdie!\" said the princess, and there was a tone of reminder in his own\nname as she spoke it, \"did I not tell you to tell your father and mother\nthat you were to set out for the court? and you _know_ that lies to the\nnorth. You must learn to use far less direct directions than that. You\nmust not be like a dull servant that needs to be told again and again\nbefore he will understand. You have orders enough to start with, and you\nwill find, as you go on, and as you need to know, what you have to do.\nBut I warn you that perhaps it will not look the least like what you may\nhave been fancying I should require of you. I have one idea of you and\nyour work, and you have another. I do not blame you for that--you cannot\nhelp it yet; but you must be ready to let my idea, which sets you\nworking, set your idea right. Be true and honest and fearless, and all\nshall go well with you and your work, and all with whom your work lies,\nand so with your parents--and me too, Curdie,\" she added after a little\npause.\n\nThe young miner bowed his head low, patted the strange head that lay at\nthe princess's feet, and turned away.\n\nAs soon as he passed the spinning-wheel, which looked, in the midst of\nthe glorious room, just like any wheel you might find in a country\ncottage--old and worn and dingy and dusty--the splendour of the place\nvanished, and he saw but the big bare room he seemed at first to have\nentered, with the moon--the princess's moon no doubt--shining in at one\nof the windows upon the spinning-wheel.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nHANDS.\n\n\nCurdie went home, pondering much, and told everything to his father and\nmother. As the old princess had said, it was now their turn to find what\nthey heard hard to believe. If they had not been able to trust Curdie\nhimself, they would have refused to believe more than the half of what\nhe reported, then they would have refused that half too, and at last\nwould most likely for a time have disbelieved in the very existence of\nthe princess, what evidence their own senses had given them\nnotwithstanding. For he had nothing conclusive to show in proof of what\nhe told them. When he held out his hands to them, his mother said they\nlooked as if he had been washing them with soft soap, only they did\nsmell of something nicer than that, and she must allow it was more like\nroses than anything else she knew. His father could not see any\ndifference upon his hands, but then it was night, he said, and their\npoor little lamp was not enough for his old eyes. As to the feel of\nthem, each of his own hands, he said, was hard and horny enough for two,\nand it must be the fault of the dulness of his own thick skin that he\nfelt no change on Curdie's palms.\n\n\"Here, Curdie,\" said his mother, \"try my hand, and see what beast's paw\nlies inside it.\"\n\n\"No, mother,\" answered Curdie, half-beseeching, half-indignant, \"I will\nnot insult my new gift by making pretence to try it. That would be\nmockery. There is no hand within yours but the hand of a true woman, my\nmother.\"\n\n\"I should like you just to take hold of my hand, though,\" said his\nmother. \"You are my son, and may know all the bad there is in me.\"\n\nThen at once Curdie took her hand in his. And when he had it, he kept\nit, stroking it gently with his other hand.\n\n\"Mother,\" he said at length, \"your hand feels just like that of the\nprincess.\"\n\n\"What! my horny, cracked, rheumatic old hand, with its big joints, and\nits short nails all worn down to the quick with hard work--like the hand\nof the beautiful princess! Why, my child, you will make me fancy your\nfingers have grown very dull indeed, instead of sharp and delicate, if\nyou talk such nonsense. Mine is such an ugly hand I should be ashamed\nto show it to any but one that loved me. But love makes all\nsafe--doesn't it, Curdie?\"\n\n\"Well, mother, all I can say is that I don't feel a roughness, or a\ncrack, or a big joint, or a short nail. Your hand feels just and\nexactly, as near as I can recollect, and it's not now more than two\nhours since I had it in mine,--well, I will say, very like indeed to\nthat of the old princess.\"\n\n\"Go away, you flatterer,\" said his mother, with a smile that showed how\nshe prized the love that lay beneath what she took for its hyperbole.\nThe praise even which one cannot accept is sweet from a true mouth. \"If\nthat is all your new gift can do, it won't make a warlock of you,\" she\nadded.\n\n\"Mother, it tells me nothing but the truth,\" insisted Curdie, \"however\nunlike the truth it may seem. It wants no gift to tell what anybody's\noutside hands are like. But by it I _know_ your inside hands are like\nthe princess's.\"\n\n\"And I am sure the boy speaks true,\" said Peter. \"He only says about\nyour hand what I have known ever so long about yourself, Joan. Curdie,\nyour mother's foot is as pretty a foot as any lady's in the land, and\nwhere her hand is not so pretty it comes of killing its beauty for you\nand me, my boy. And I can tell you more, Curdie. I don't know much\nabout ladies and gentlemen, but I am sure your inside mother must be a\nlady, as her hand tells you, and I will try to say how I know it. This\nis how: when I forget myself looking at her as she goes about her\nwork--and that happens oftener as I grow older--I fancy for a moment or\ntwo that I am a gentleman; and when I wake up from my little dream, it\nis only to feel the more strongly that I must do everything as a\ngentleman should. I will try to tell you what I mean, Curdie. If a\ngentleman--I mean a real gentleman, not a pretended one, of which sort\nthey say there are a many above ground--if a real gentleman were to lose\nall his money and come down to work in the mines to get bread for his\nfamily--do you think, Curdie, he would work like the lazy ones? Would he\ntry to do as little as he could for his wages? I know the sort of the\ntrue gentleman--pretty near as well as he does himself. And my wife,\nthat's your mother, Curdie, she's a true lady, you may take my word for\nit, for it's she that makes me want to be a true gentleman. Wife, the\nboy is in the right about your hand.\"\n\n\"Now, father, let me feel yours,\" said Curdie, daring a little more.\n\n\"No, no, my boy,\" answered Peter. \"I don't want to hear anything about\nmy hand or my head or my heart. I am what I am, and I hope growing\nbetter, and that's enough. No, you shan't feel my hand. You must go to\nbed, for you must start with the sun.\"\n\nIt was not as if Curdie had been leaving them to go to prison, or to\nmake a fortune, and although they were sorry enough to lose him, they\nwere not in the least heart-broken or even troubled at his going.\n\nAs the princess had said he was to go like the poor man he was, Curdie\ncame down in the morning from his little loft dressed in his working\nclothes. His mother, who was busy getting his breakfast for him, while\nhis father sat reading to her out of an old book, would have had him put\non his holiday garments, which, she said, would look poor enough amongst\nthe fine ladies and gentlemen he was going to. But Curdie said he did\nnot know that he was going amongst ladies and gentlemen, and that as\nwork was better than play, his work-day clothes must on the whole be\nbetter than his play-day clothes; and as his father accepted the\nargument, his mother gave in.\n\nWhen he had eaten his breakfast, she took a pouch made of goatskin, with\nthe long hair on it, filled it with bread and cheese, and hung it over\nhis shoulder. Then his father gave him a stick he had cut for him in the\nwood, and he bade them good-bye rather hurriedly, for he was afraid of\nbreaking down. As he went out, he caught up his mattock and took it with\nhim. It had on the one side a pointed curve of strong steel, for\nloosening the earth and the ore, and on the other a steel hammer for\nbreaking the stones and rocks. Just as he crossed the threshold the sun\nshowed the first segment of his disc above the horizon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nTHE HEATH.\n\n\nHe had to go to the bottom of the hill to get into a country he could\ncross, for the mountains to the north were full of precipices, and it\nwould have been losing time to go that way. Not until he had reached the\nking's house was it any use to turn northwards. Many a look did he\nraise, as he passed it, to the dove-tower, and as long as it was in\nsight, but he saw nothing of the lady of the pigeons.\n\nOn and on he fared, and came in a few hours to a country where there\nwere no mountains more--only hills, with great stretches of desolate\nheath. Here and there was a village, but that brought him little\npleasure, for the people were rougher and worse-mannered than those in\nthe mountains, and as he passed through, the children came behind and\nmocked him.\n\n\"There's a monkey running away from the mines!\" they cried.\n\nSometimes their parents came out and encouraged them.\n\n\"He don't want to find gold for the king any longer,--the lazybones!\"\nthey would say. \"He'll be well taxed down here though, and he won't like\nthat either.\"\n\nBut it was little to Curdie that men who did not know what he was about\nshould not approve of his proceedings. He gave them a merry answer now\nand then, and held diligently on his way. When they got so rude as\nnearly to make him angry, he would treat them as he used to treat the\ngoblins, and sing his own songs to keep out their foolish noises. Once a\nchild fell as he turned to run away after throwing a stone at him. He\npicked him up, kissed him, and carried him to his mother. The woman had\nrun out in terror when she saw the strange miner about, as she thought,\nto take vengeance on her boy. When he put him in her arms, she blessed\nhim, and Curdie went on his way rejoicing.\n\nAnd so the day went on, and the evening came, and in the middle of a\ngreat desolate heath he began to feel tired, and sat down under an\nancient hawthorn, through which every now and then a lone wind that\nseemed to come from nowhere and to go nowhither sighed and hissed. It\nwas very old and distorted. There was not another tree for miles all\naround. It seemed to have lived so long, and to have been so torn and\ntossed by the tempests on that moor, that it had at last gathered a wind\nof its own, which got up now and then, tumbled itself about, and lay\ndown again.\n\nCurdie had been so eager to get on that he had eaten nothing since his\nbreakfast. But he had had plenty of water, for many little streams had\ncrossed his path. He now opened the wallet his mother had given him, and\nbegan to eat his supper. The sun was setting. A few clouds had gathered\nabout the west, but there was not a single cloud anywhere else to be\nseen.\n\nNow Curdie did not know that this was a part of the country very hard to\nget through. Nobody lived there, though many had tried to build in it.\nSome died very soon. Some rushed out of it. Those who stayed longest\nwent raving mad, and died a terrible death. Such as walked straight on,\nand did not spend a night there, got through well, and were nothing the\nworse. But those who slept even a single night in it were sure to meet\nwith something they could never forget, and which often left a mark\neverybody could read. And that old hawthorn might have been enough for a\nwarning--it looked so like a human being dried up and distorted with age\nand suffering, with cares instead of loves, and things instead of\nthoughts. Both it and the heath around it, which stretched on all sides\nas far as he could see, were so withered that it was impossible to say\nwhether they were alive or not.\n\nAnd while Curdie ate there came a change. Clouds had gathered over his\nhead, and seemed drifting about in every direction, as if not\n\"shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind,\" but hunted in all directions\nby wolfish flaws across the plains of the sky. The sun was going down in\na storm of lurid crimson, and out of the west came a wind that felt red\nand hot the one moment, and cold and pale the other. And very strangely\nit sung in the dreary old hawthorn tree, and very cheerily it blew about\nCurdie, now making him creep close up to the tree for shelter from its\nshivery cold, now fan himself with his cap, it was so sultry and\nstifling. It seemed to come from the death-bed of the sun, dying in\nfever and ague.\n\nAnd as he gazed at the sun, now on the verge of the horizon, very large\nand very red and very dull--for though the clouds had broken away a\ndusty fog was spread all over him--Curdie saw something strange appear\nagainst him, moving about like a fly over his burning face. It looked as\nif it were coming out of his hot furnace-heart, and was a living\ncreature of some kind surely; but its shape was very uncertain, because\nthe dazzle of the light all around it melted its outlines. It was\ngrowing larger, it must be approaching! It grew so rapidly that by the\ntime the sun was half down its head reached the top of his arch, and\npresently nothing but its legs were to be seen, crossing and recrossing\nthe face of the vanishing disc. When the sun was down he could see\nnothing of it more, but in a moment he heard its feet galloping over the\ndry crackling heather, and seeming to come straight for him. He stood\nup, lifted his pickaxe, and threw the hammer end over his shoulder: he\nwas going to have a fight for his life! And now it appeared again,\nvague, yet very awful, in the dim twilight the sun had left behind him.\nBut just before it reached him, down from its four long legs it dropped\nflat on the ground, and came crawling towards him, wagging a huge tail\nas it came.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nLINA.\n\n\nIt was Lina. All at once Curdie recognised her--the frightful creature\nhe had seen at the princess's. He dropped his pickaxe, and held out his\nhand. She crept nearer and nearer, and laid her chin in his palm, and he\npatted her ugly head. Then she crept away behind the tree, and lay down,\npanting hard. Curdie did not much like the idea of her being behind him.\nHorrible as she was to look at, she seemed to his mind more horrible\nwhen he was not looking at her. But he remembered the child's hand, and\nnever thought of driving her away. Now and then he gave a glance behind\nhim, and there she lay flat, with her eyes closed and her terrible teeth\ngleaming between her two huge fore-paws.\n\nAfter his supper and his long day's journey it was no wonder Curdie\nshould now be sleepy. Since the sun set the air had been warm and\npleasant. He lay down under the tree, closed his eyes, and thought to\nsleep. He found himself mistaken however. But although he could not\nsleep, he was yet aware of resting delightfully. Presently he heard a\nsweet sound of singing somewhere, such as he had never heard before--a\nsinging as of curious birds far off, which drew nearer and nearer. At\nlength he heard their wings, and, opening his eyes, saw a number of very\nlarge birds, as it seemed, alighting around him, still singing. It was\nstrange to hear song from the throats of such big birds. And still\nsinging, with large and round but not the less bird-like voices, they\nbegan to weave a strange dance about him, moving their wings in time\nwith their legs. But the dance seemed somehow to be troubled and broken,\nand to return upon itself in an eddy, in place of sweeping smoothly on.\nAnd he soon learned, in the low short growls behind him, the cause of\nthe imperfection: they wanted to dance all round the tree, but Lina\nwould not permit them to come on her side.\n\nNow Curdie liked the birds, and did not altogether _like_ Lina. But\nneither, nor both together, made a _reason_ for driving away the\nprincess's creature. Doubtless she _had been_ a goblins' creature, but\nthe last time he saw her was in the king's house and the dove-tower, and\nat the old princess's feet. So he left her to do as she would, and the\ndance of the birds continued only a semicircle, troubled at the edges,\nand returning upon itself. But their song and their motions,\nnevertheless, and the waving of their wings, began at length to make him\nvery sleepy. All the time he had kept doubting every now and then\nwhether they could really be birds, and the sleepier he got, the more he\nimagined them something else, but he suspected no harm. Suddenly, just\nas he was sinking beneath the waves of slumber, he awoke in fierce pain.\nThe birds were upon him--all over him--and had begun to tear him with\nbeaks and claws. He had but time, however, to feel that he could not\nmove under their weight, when they set up a hideous screaming, and\nscattered like a cloud. Lina was amongst them, snapping and striking\nwith her paws, while her tail knocked them over and over. But they flew\nup, gathered, and descended on her in a swarm, perching upon every part\nof her body, so that he could see only a huge misshapen mass, which\nseemed to go rolling away into the darkness. He got up and tried to\nfollow, but could see nothing, and after wandering about hither and\nthither for some time, found himself again beside the hawthorn. He\nfeared greatly that the birds had been too much for Lina, and had torn\nher to pieces. In a little while, however, she came limping back, and\nlay down in her old place. Curdie also lay down, but, from the pain of\nhis wounds, there was no sleep for him. When the light came he found\nhis clothes a good deal torn and his skin as well, but gladly wondered\nwhy the wicked birds had not at once attacked his eyes. Then he turned\nlooking for Lina. She rose and crept to him. But she was in far worse\nplight than he--plucked and gashed and torn with the beaks and claws of\nthe birds, especially about the bare part of her neck, so that she was\npitiful to see. And those worst wounds she could not reach to lick.\n\n\"Poor Lina!\" said Curdie; \"you got all those helping me.\"\n\nShe wagged her tail, and made it clear she understood him. Then it\nflashed upon Curdie's mind that perhaps this was the companion the\nprincess had promised him. For the princess did so many things\ndifferently from what anybody looked for! Lina was no beauty certainly,\nbut already, the first night, she had saved his life.\n\n\"Come along, Lina,\" he said; \"we want water.\"\n\nShe put her nose to the earth, and after snuffing for a moment, darted\noff in a straight line. Curdie followed. The ground was so uneven, that\nafter losing sight of her many times, at last he seemed to have lost her\naltogether. In a few minutes, however, he came upon her waiting for him.\nInstantly she darted off again. After he had lost and found her again\nmany times, he found her the last time lying beside a great stone. As\nsoon as he came up she began scratching at it with her paws. When he had\nraised it an inch or two, she shoved in first her nose and then her\nteeth, and lifted with all the might of her strong neck.\n\nWhen at length between them they got it up, there was a beautiful little\nwell. He filled his cap with the clearest and sweetest water, and drank.\nThen he gave to Lina, and she drank plentifully. Next he washed her\nwounds very carefully. And as he did so, he noted how much the bareness\nof her neck added to the strange repulsiveness of her appearance. Then\nhe bethought him of the goatskin wallet his mother had given him, and\ntaking it from his shoulders, tried whether it would do to make a collar\nof for the poor animal. He found there was just enough, and the hair so\nsimilar in colour to Lina's, that no one could suspect it of having\ngrown somewhere else. He took his knife, ripped up the seams of the\nwallet, and began trying the skin to her neck. It was plain she\nunderstood perfectly what he wished, for she endeavoured to hold her\nneck conveniently, turning it this way and that while he contrived, with\nhis rather scanty material, to make the collar fit. As his mother had\ntaken care to provide him with needles and thread, he soon had a nice\ngorget ready for her. He laced it on with one of his boot-laces, which\nits long hair covered. Poor Lina looked much better in it. Nor could any\none have called it a piece of finery. If ever green eyes with a yellow\nlight in them looked grateful, hers did.\n\nAs they had no longer any bag to carry them in, Curdie and Lina now ate\nwhat was left of the provisions. Then they set out again upon their\njourney. For seven days it lasted. They met with various adventures, and\nin all of them Lina proved so helpful, and so ready to risk her life for\nthe sake of her companion, that Curdie grew not merely very fond but\nvery trustful of her, and her ugliness, which at first only moved his\npity, now actually increased his affection for her. One day, looking at\nher stretched on the grass before him, he said,--\n\n\"Oh, Lina! if the princess would but burn you in her fire of roses!\"\n\nShe looked up at him, gave a mournful whine like a dog, and laid her\nhead on his feet. What or how much he could not tell, but clearly she\nhad gathered something from his words.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nMORE CREATURES.\n\n\nOne day from morning till night they had been passing through a forest.\nAs soon as the sun was down Curdie began to be aware that there were\nmore in it than themselves. First he saw only the swift rush of a figure\nacross the trees at some distance. Then he saw another and then another\nat shorter intervals. Then he saw others both further off and nearer. At\nlast, missing Lina and looking about after her, he saw an appearance\nalmost as marvellous as herself steal up to her, and begin conversing\nwith her after some beast fashion which evidently she understood.\n\nPresently what seemed a quarrel arose between them, and stranger noises\nfollowed, mingled with growling. At length it came to a fight, which had\nnot lasted long, however, before the creature of the wood threw itself\nupon its back, and held up its paws to Lina. She instantly walked on,\nand the creature got up and followed her. They had not gone far before\nanother strange animal appeared, approaching Lina, when precisely the\nsame thing was repeated, the vanquished animal rising and following with\nthe former. Again, and yet again and again, a fresh animal came up,\nseemed to be reasoned and certainly was fought with and overcome by\nLina, until at last, before they were out of the wood, she was followed\nby forty-nine of the most grotesquely ugly, the most extravagantly\nabnormal animals imagination can conceive. To describe them were a\nhopeless task. I knew a boy who used to make animals out of heather\nroots. Wherever he could find four legs, he was pretty sure to find a\nhead and a tail. His beasts were a most comic menagerie, and right\nfruitful of laughter. But they were not so grotesque and extravagant as\nLina and her followers. One of them, for instance, was like a boa\nconstrictor walking on four little stumpy legs near its tail. About the\nsame distance from its head were two little wings, which it was for ever\nfluttering as if trying to fly with them. Curdie thought it fancied it\ndid fly with them, when it was merely plodding on busily with its four\nlittle stumps. How it managed to keep up he could not think, till once\nwhen he missed it from the group: the same moment he caught sight of\nsomething at a distance plunging at an awful serpentine rate through\nthe trees, and presently, from behind a huge ash, this same creature\nfell again into the group, quietly waddling along on its four stumps.\nWatching it after this, he saw that, when it was not able to keep up any\nlonger, and they had all got a little space ahead, it shot into the wood\naway from the route, and made a great round, serpenting along in huge\nbillows of motion, devouring the ground, undulating awfully, galloping\nas if it were all legs together, and its four stumps nowhere. In this\nmad fashion it shot ahead, and, a few minutes after, toddled in again\namongst the rest, walking peacefully and somewhat painfully on its few\nfours.\n\nFrom the time it takes to describe one of them it will be readily seen\nthat it would hardly do to attempt a description of each of the\nforty-nine. They were not a goodly company, but well worth contemplating\nnevertheless; and Curdie had been too long used to the goblins'\ncreatures in the mines and on the mountain, to feel the least\nuncomfortable at being followed by such a herd. On the contrary the\nmarvellous vagaries of shape they manifested amused him greatly, and\nshortened the journey much. Before they were all gathered, however, it\nhad got so dark that he could see some of them only a part at a time,\nand every now and then, as the company wandered on, he would be startled\nby some extraordinary limb or feature, undreamed of by him before,\nthrusting itself out of the darkness into the range of his ken.\nProbably there were some of his old acquaintances among them, although\nsuch had been the conditions of semi-darkness in which alone he had ever\nseen any of them, that it was not likely he would be able to identify\nany of them.\n\nOn they marched solemnly, almost in silence, for either with feet or\nvoice the creatures seldom made any noise. By the time they reached the\noutside of the wood it was morning twilight. Into the open trooped the\nstrange torrent of deformity, each one following Lina. Suddenly she\nstopped, turned towards them, and said something which they understood,\nalthough to Curdie's ear the sounds she made seemed to have no\narticulation. Instantly they all turned, and vanished in the forest, and\nLina alone came trotting lithely and clumsily after her master.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nTHE BAKER'S WIFE.\n\n\nThey were now passing through a lovely country of hill and dale and\nrushing stream. The hills were abrupt, with broken chasms for\nwater-courses, and deep little valleys full of trees. But now and then\nthey came to a larger valley, with a fine river, whose level banks and\nthe adjacent meadows were dotted all over with red and white kine, while\non the fields above, that sloped a little to the foot of the hills, grew\noats and barley and wheat, and on the sides of the hills themselves\nvines hung and chestnuts rose. They came at last to a broad, beautiful\nriver, up which they must go to arrive at the city of Gwyntystorm, where\nthe king had his court. As they went the valley narrowed, and then the\nriver, but still it was wide enough for large boats. After this, while\nthe river kept its size, the banks narrowed, until there was only room\nfor a road between the river and the great cliffs that overhung it. At\nlast river and road took a sudden turn, and lo! a great rock in the\nriver, which dividing flowed around it, and on the top of the rock the\ncity, with lofty walls and towers and battlements, and above the city\nthe palace of the king, built like a strong castle. But the\nfortifications had long been neglected, for the whole country was now\nunder one king, and all men said there was no more need for weapons or\nwalls. No man pretended to love his neighbour, but every one said he\nknew that peace and quiet behaviour was the best thing for himself, and\nthat, he said, was quite as useful, and a great deal more reasonable.\nThe city was prosperous and rich, and if anybody was not comfortable,\neverybody else said he ought to be.\n\nWhen Curdie got up opposite the mighty rock, which sparkled all over\nwith crystals, he found a narrow bridge, defended by gates and\nportcullis and towers with loopholes. But the gates stood wide open, and\nwere dropping from their great hinges; the portcullis was eaten away\nwith rust, and clung to the grooves evidently immovable; while the\nloopholed towers had neither floor nor roof, and their tops were fast\nfilling up their interiors. Curdie thought it a pity, if only for their\nold story, that they should be thus neglected. But everybody in the city\nregarded these signs of decay as the best proof of the prosperity of the\nplace. Commerce and self-interest, they said, had got the better of\nviolence, and the troubles of the past were whelmed in the riches that\nflowed in at their open gates. Indeed there was one sect of philosophers\nin it which taught that it would be better to forget all the past\nhistory of the city, were it not that its former imperfections taught\nits present inhabitants how superior they and their times were, and\nenabled them to glory over their ancestors. There were even certain\nquacks in the city who advertised pills for enabling people to think\nwell of themselves, and some few bought of them, but most laughed, and\nsaid, with evident truth, that they did not require them. Indeed, the\ngeneral theme of discourse when they met was, how much wiser they were\nthan their fathers.\n\nCurdie crossed the river, and began to ascend the winding road that led\nup to the city. They met a good many idlers, and all stared at them. It\nwas no wonder they should stare, but there was an unfriendliness in\ntheir looks which Curdie did not like. No one, however, offered them any\nmolestation: Lina did not invite liberties. After a long ascent, they\nreached the principal gate of the city and entered.\n\nThe street was very steep, ascending towards the palace, which rose in\ngreat strength above all the houses. Just as they entered, a baker,\nwhose shop was a few doors inside the gate, came out in his white apron,\nand ran to the shop of his friend the barber on the opposite side of\nthe way. But as he ran he stumbled and fell heavily. Curdie hastened to\nhelp him up, and found he had bruised his forehead badly. He swore\ngrievously at the stone for tripping him up, declaring it was the third\ntime he had fallen over it within the last month; and saying what was\nthe king about that he allowed such a stone to stick up for ever on the\nmain street of his royal residence of Gwyntystorm! What was a king for\nif he would not take care of his people's heads! And he stroked his\nforehead tenderly.\n\n\"Was it your head or your feet that ought to bear the blame of your\nfall?\" asked Curdie.\n\n\"Why, you booby of a miner! my feet, of course,\" answered the baker.\n\n\"Nay, then,\" said Curdie, \"the king can't be to blame.\"\n\n\"Oh, I see!\" said the baker. \"You're laying a trap for me. Of course, if\nyou come to that, it was my head that ought to have looked after my\nfeet. But it is the king's part to look after us all, and have his\nstreets smooth.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't see,\" said Curdie, \"why the king should take care of the\nbaker, when the baker's head won't take care of the baker's feet.\"\n\n\"Who are you to make game of the king's baker?\" cried the man in a\nrage.\n\nBut, instead of answering, Curdie went up to the bump on the street\nwhich had repeated itself on the baker's head, and turning the hammer\nend of his mattock, struck it such a blow that it flew wide in pieces.\nBlow after blow he struck, until he had levelled it with the street.\n\nBut out flew the barber upon him in a rage.\n\n\"What do you break my window for, you rascal, with your pickaxe?\"\n\n\"I am very sorry,\" said Curdie. \"It must have been a bit of stone that\nflew from my mattock. I couldn't help it, you know.\"\n\n\"Couldn't help it! A fine story! What do you go breaking the rock\nfor--the very rock upon which the city stands?\"\n\n\"Look at your friend's forehead,\" said Curdie. \"See what a lump he has\ngot on it with falling over that same stone.\"\n\n\"What's that to my window?\" cried the barber. \"His forehead can mend\nitself; my poor window can't.\"\n\n\"But he's the king's baker,\" said Curdie, more and more surprised at the\nman's anger.\n\n\"What's that to me? This is a free city. Every man here takes care of\nhimself, and the king takes care of us all. I'll have the price of my\nwindow out of you, or the exchequer shall pay for it.\"\n\nSomething caught Curdie's eye. He stooped, picked up a piece of the\nstone he had just broken, and put it in his pocket.\n\n\"I suppose you are going to break another of my windows with that\nstone!\" said the barber.\n\n\"Oh no,\" said Curdie. \"I didn't mean to break your window, and I\ncertainly won't break another.\"\n\n\"Give me that stone,\" said the barber.\n\nCurdie gave it to him, and the barber threw it over the city wall.\n\n\"I thought you wanted the stone,\" said Curdie.\n\n\"No, you fool!\" answered the barber. \"What should I want with a stone?\"\n\nCurdie stooped and picked up another.\n\n\"Give me that stone,\" said the barber.\n\n\"No,\" answered Curdie. \"You have just told me you don't want a stone,\nand I do.\"\n\nThe barber took Curdie by the collar.\n\n\"Come, now! you pay me for that window.\"\n\n\"How much?\" asked Curdie.\n\nThe barber said, \"A crown.\" But the baker, annoyed at the heartlessness\nof the barber, in thinking more of his broken window than the bump on\nhis friend's forehead, interfered.\n\n\"No, no,\" he said to Curdie; \"don't you pay any such sum. A little pane\nlike that cost only a quarter.\"\n\n\"Well, to be certain,\" said Curdie, \"I'll give him a half.\" For he\ndoubted the baker as well as the barber. \"Perhaps one day, if he finds\nhe has asked too much, he will bring me the difference.\"\n\n\"Ha! ha!\" laughed the barber. \"A fool and his money are soon parted.\"\n\nBut as he took the coin from Curdie's hand he grasped it in affected\nreconciliation and real satisfaction. In Curdie's, his was the cold\nsmooth leathery palm of a monkey. He looked up, almost expecting to see\nhim pop the money in his cheek; but he had not yet got so far as that,\nthough he was well on the road to it: then he would have no other\npocket.\n\n\"I'm glad that stone is gone, anyhow,\" said the baker. \"It was the bane\nof my life. I had no idea how easy it was to remove it. Give me your\npickaxe, young miner, and I will show you how a baker can make the\nstones fly.\"\n\nHe caught the tool out of Curdie's hand, and flew at one of the\nfoundation stones of the gateway. But he jarred his arm terribly,\nscarcely chipped the stone, dropped the mattock with a cry of pain, and\nran into his own shop. Curdie picked up his implement, and looking after\nthe baker, saw bread in the window, and followed him in. But the baker,\nashamed of himself, and thinking he was coming to laugh at him, popped\nout of the back door, and when Curdie entered, the baker's wife came\nfrom the bakehouse to serve him. Curdie requested to know the price of a\ncertain good-sized loaf.\n\nNow the baker's wife had been watching what had passed since first her\nhusband ran out of the shop, and she liked the look of Curdie. Also she\nwas more honest than her husband. Casting a glance to the back door, she\nreplied,--\n\n\"That is not the best bread. I will sell you a loaf of what we bake for\nourselves.\" And when she had spoken she laid a finger on her lips. \"Take\ncare of yourself in this place, my son,\" she added. \"They do not love\nstrangers. I was once a stranger here, and I know what I say.\" Then\nfancying she heard her husband,--\"That is a strange animal you have,\"\nshe said, in a louder voice.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Curdie. \"She is no beauty, but she is very good, and we\nlove each other. Don't we, Lina?\"\n\nLina looked up and whined. Curdie threw her the half of his loaf, which\nshe ate while her master and the baker's wife talked a little. Then the\nbaker's wife gave them some water, and Curdie having paid for his loaf,\nhe and Lina went up the street together.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nTHE DOGS OF GWYNTYSTORM.\n\n\nThe steep street led them straight up to a large market-place, with\nbutchers' shops, about which were many dogs. The moment they caught\nsight of Lina, one and all they came rushing down upon her, giving her\nno chance of explaining herself. When Curdie saw the dogs coming he\nheaved up his mattock over his shoulder, and was ready, if they would\nhave it so. Seeing him thus prepared to defend his follower, a great\nugly bull-dog flew at him. With the first blow Curdie struck him through\nthe brain, and the brute fell dead at his feet. But he could not at once\nrecover his weapon, which stuck in the skull of his foe, and a huge\nmastiff, seeing him thus hampered, flew at him next. Now Lina, who had\nshown herself so brave upon the road thither, had grown shy upon\nentering the city, and kept always at Curdie's heel. But it was her\nturn now. The moment she saw her master in danger she seemed to go mad\nwith rage. As the mastiff jumped at Curdie's throat, Lina flew at his,\nseized him with her tremendous jaws, gave one roaring grind, and he lay\nbeside the bull-dog with his neck broken. They were the best dogs in the\nmarket, after the judgment of the butchers of Gwyntystorm. Down came\ntheir masters, knife in hand.\n\nCurdie drew himself up fearlessly, mattock on shoulder, and awaited\ntheir coming, while at his heel his awful attendant showed not only her\noutside fringe of icicle-teeth, but a double row of right serviceable\nfangs she wore inside her mouth, and her green eyes flashed yellow as\ngold. The butchers not liking the look either of them or of the dogs at\ntheir feet, drew back, and began to remonstrate in the manner of\noutraged men.\n\n\"Stranger,\" said the first, \"that bull-dog is mine.\"\n\n\"Take him, then,\" said Curdie, indignant.\n\n\"You've killed him!\"\n\n\"Yes--else he would have killed me.\"\n\n\"That's no business of mine.\"\n\n\"No?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"That makes it the more mine, then.\"\n\n\"This sort of thing won't do, you know,\" said the other butcher.\n\n\"That's true,\" said Curdie.\n\n\"That's my mastiff,\" said the butcher.\n\n\"And as he ought to be,\" said Curdie.\n\n\"Your brute shall be burnt alive for it,\" said the butcher.\n\n\"Not yet,\" answered Curdie. \"We have done no wrong. We were walking\nquietly up your street, when your dogs flew at us. If you don't teach\nyour dogs how to treat strangers, you must take the consequences.\"\n\n\"They treat them quite properly,\" said the butcher. \"What right has any\none to bring an abomination like that into our city? The horror is\nenough to make an idiot of every child in the place.\"\n\n\"We are both subjects of the king, and my poor animal can't help her\nlooks. How would you like to be served like that because you were ugly?\nShe's not a bit fonder of her looks than you are--only what can she do\nto change them?\"\n\n\"I'll do to change them,\" said the fellow.\n\nThereupon the butchers brandished their long knives and advanced,\nkeeping their eyes upon Lina.\n\n\"Don't be afraid, Lina,\" cried Curdie. \"I'll kill one--you kill the\nother.\"\n\nLina gave a howl that might have terrified an army, and crouched ready\nto spring. The butchers turned and ran.\n\nBy this time a great crowd had gathered behind the butchers, and in it a\nnumber of boys returning from school, who began to stone the strangers.\nIt was a way they had with man or beast they did not expect to make\nanything by. One of the stones struck Lina; she caught it in her teeth\nand crunched it that it fell in gravel from her mouth. Some of the\nforemost of the crowd saw this, and it terrified them. They drew back;\nthe rest took fright from their retreat; the panic spread; and at last\nthe crowd scattered in all directions. They ran, and cried out, and said\nthe devil and his dam were come to Gwyntystorm. So Curdie and Lina were\nleft standing unmolested in the market-place. But the terror of them\nspread throughout the city, and everybody began to shut and lock his\ndoor, so that by the time the setting sun shone down the street, there\nwas not a shop left open, for fear of the devil and his horrible dam.\nBut all the upper windows within sight of them were crowded with heads\nwatching them where they stood lonely in the deserted market-place.\n\nCurdie looked carefully all round, but could not see one open door. He\ncaught sight of the sign of an inn however, and laying down his mattock,\nand telling Lina to take care of it, walked up to the door of it and\nknocked. But the people in the house, instead of opening the door, threw\nthings at him from the windows. They would not listen to a word he\nsaid, but sent him back to Lina with the blood running down his face.\nWhen Lina saw that, she leaped up in a fury and was rushing at the\nhouse, into which she would certainly have broken; but Curdie called\nher, and made her lie down beside him while he bethought him what next\nhe should do.\n\n\"Lina,\" he said, \"the people keep their gates open, but their houses and\ntheir hearts shut.\"\n\nAs if she knew it was her presence that had brought this trouble upon\nhim, she rose, and went round and round him, purring like a tigress, and\nrubbing herself against his legs.\n\nNow there was one little thatched house that stood squeezed in between\ntwo tall gables, and the sides of the two great houses shot out\nprojecting windows that nearly met across the roof of the little one, so\nthat it lay in the street like a doll's house. In this house lived a\npoor old woman, with a grandchild. And because she never gossiped or\nquarrelled, or chaffered in the market, but went without what she could\nnot afford, the people called her a witch, and would have done her many\nan ill turn if they had not been afraid of her. Now while Curdie was\nlooking in another direction the door opened, and out came a little\ndark-haired, black-eyed, gipsy-looking child, and toddled across the\nmarket-place towards the outcasts. The moment they saw her coming, Lina\nlay down flat on the road, and with her two huge fore-paws covered her\nmouth, while Curdie went to meet her, holding out his arms. The little\none came straight to him, and held up her mouth to be kissed. Then she\ntook him by the hand, and drew him towards the house, and Curdie yielded\nto the silent invitation. But when Lina rose to follow, the child shrunk\nfrom her, frightened a little. Curdie took her up, and holding her on\none arm, patted Lina with the other hand. Then the child wanted also to\npat doggy, as she called her by a right bountiful stretch of courtesy,\nand having once patted her, nothing would serve but Curdie must let her\nhave a ride on doggy. So he set her on Lina's back, holding her hand,\nand she rode home in merry triumph, all unconscious of the hundreds of\neyes staring at her foolhardiness from the windows about the\nmarket-place, or the murmur of deep disapproval that rose from as many\nlips. At the door stood the grandmother to receive them. She caught the\nchild to her bosom with delight at her courage, welcomed Curdie, and\nshowed no dread of Lina. Many were the significant nods exchanged, and\nmany a one said to another that the devil and the witch were old\nfriends. But the woman was only a wise woman, who having seen how Curdie\nand Lina behaved to each other, judged from that what sort they were,\nand so made them welcome to her house. She was not like her\nfellow-townspeople, for that they were strangers recommended them to\nher.\n\nThe moment her door was shut, the other doors began to open, and soon\nthere appeared little groups about here and there a threshold, while a\nfew of the more courageous ventured out upon the square--all ready to\nmake for their houses again, however, upon the least sign of movement in\nthe little thatched one.\n\nThe baker and the barber had joined one of these groups, and were busily\nwagging their tongues against Curdie and his horrible beast.\n\n\"He can't be honest,\" said the barber; \"for he paid me double the worth\nof the pane he broke in my window.\"\n\nAnd then he told them how Curdie broke his window by breaking a stone in\nthe street with his hammer. There the baker struck in.\n\n\"Now that was the stone,\" said he, \"over which I had fallen three times\nwithin the last month: could it be by fair means he broke that to pieces\nat the first blow? Just to make up my mind on that point I tried his own\nhammer against a stone in the gate; it nearly broke both my arms, and\nloosened half the teeth in my head!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nDERBA AND BARBARA.\n\n\nMeantime the wanderers were hospitably entertained by the old woman and\nher grandchild, and they were all very comfortable and happy together.\nLittle Barbara sat upon Curdie's knee, and he told her stories about the\nmines and his adventures in them. But he never mentioned the king or the\nprincess, for all that story was hard to believe. And he told her about\nhis mother and his father, and how good they were. And Derba sat and\nlistened. At last little Barbara fell asleep in Curdie's arms, and her\ngrandmother carried her to bed.\n\nIt was a poor little house, and Derba gave up her own room to Curdie,\nbecause he was honest and talked wisely. Curdie saw how it was, and\nbegged her to allow him to lie on the floor, but she would not hear of\nit.\n\nIn the night he was waked by Lina pulling at him. As soon as he spoke\nto her she ceased, and Curdie, listening, thought he heard some one\ntrying to get in. He rose, took his mattock, and went about the house,\nlistening and watching; but although he heard noises now at one place,\nnow at another, he could not think what they meant, for no one appeared.\nCertainly, considering how she had frightened them all in the day, it\nwas not likely any one would attack Lina at night. By-and-by the noises\nceased, and Curdie went back to his bed, and slept undisturbed.\n\nIn the morning, however, Derba came to him in great agitation, and said\nthey had fastened up the door, so that she could not get out. Curdie\nrose immediately and went with her: they found that not only the door,\nbut every window in the house was so secured on the outside that it was\nimpossible to open one of them without using great force. Poor Derba\nlooked anxiously in Curdie's face. He broke out laughing.\n\n\"They are much mistaken,\" he said, \"if they fancy they could keep Lina\nand a miner in any house in Gwyntystorm--even if they built up doors and\nwindows.\"\n\nWith that he shouldered his mattock. But Derba begged him not to make a\nhole in her house just yet. She had plenty for breakfast, she said, and\nbefore it was time for dinner they would know what the people meant by\nit.\n\nAnd indeed they did. For within an hour appeared one of the chief\nmagistrates of the city, accompanied by a score of soldiers with drawn\nswords, and followed by a great multitude of the people, requiring the\nminer and his brute to yield themselves, the one that he might be tried\nfor the disturbance he had occasioned and the injury he had committed,\nthe other that she might be roasted alive for her part in killing two\nvaluable and harmless animals belonging to worthy citizens. The summons\nwas preceded and followed by flourish of trumpet, and was read with\nevery formality by the city marshal himself.\n\nThe moment he ended, Lina ran into the little passage, and stood\nopposite the door.\n\n\"I surrender,\" cried Curdie.\n\n\"Then tie up your brute, and give her here.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" cried Curdie through the door. \"I surrender; but I'm not going\nto do your hangman's work. If you want my dog, you must take her.\"\n\n\"Then we shall set the house on fire, and burn witch and all.\"\n\n\"It will go hard with us but we shall kill a few dozen of you first,\"\ncried Curdie. \"We're not the least afraid of you.\"\n\nWith that Curdie turned to Derba, and said:--\n\n\"Don't be frightened. I have a strong feeling that all will be well.\nSurely no trouble will come to you for being good to strangers.\"\n\n\"But the poor dog!\" said Derba.\n\nNow Curdie and Lina understood each other more than a little by this\ntime, and not only had he seen that she understood the proclamation, but\nwhen she looked up at him after it was read, it was with such a grin,\nand such a yellow flash, that he saw also she was determined to take\ncare of herself.\n\n\"The dog will probably give you reason to think a little more of her ere\nlong,\" he answered. \"But now,\" he went on, \"I fear I must hurt your\nhouse a little. I have great confidence, however, that I shall be able\nto make up to you for it one day.\"\n\n\"Never mind the house, if only you can get safe off,\" she answered. \"I\ndon't think they will hurt this precious lamb,\" she added, clasping\nlittle Barbara to her bosom. \"For myself, it is all one; I am ready for\nanything.\"\n\n\"It is but a little hole for Lina I want to make,\" said Curdie. \"She can\ncreep through a much smaller one than you would think.\"\n\nAgain he took his mattock, and went to the back wall.\n\n\"They won't burn the house,\" he said to himself. \"There is too good a\none on each side of it.\"\n\nThe tumult had kept increasing every moment, and the city marshal had\nbeen shouting, but Curdie had not listened to him. When now they heard\nthe blows of his mattock, there went up a great cry, and the people\ntaunted the soldiers that they were afraid of a dog and his miner. The\nsoldiers therefore made a rush at the door, and cut its fastenings.\n\nThe moment they opened it, out leaped Lina, with a roar so unnaturally\nhorrible that the sword-arms of the soldiers dropped by their sides,\nparalysed with the terror of that cry; the crowd fled in every\ndirection, shrieking and yelling with mortal dismay; and without even\nknocking down with her tail, not to say biting a man of them with her\npulverizing jaws, Lina vanished--no one knew whither, for not one of the\ncrowd had had courage to look upon her.\n\nThe moment she was gone, Curdie advanced and gave himself up. The\nsoldiers were so filled with fear, shame, and chagrin, that they were\nready to kill him on the spot. But he stood quietly facing them, with\nhis mattock on his shoulder; and the magistrate wishing to examine him,\nand the people to see him made an example of, the soldiers had to\ncontent themselves with taking him. Partly for derision, partly to hurt\nhim, they laid his mattock against his back, and tied his arms to it.\n\nThey led him up a very steep street, and up another still, all the crowd\nfollowing. The king's palace-castle rose towering above them; but they\nstopped before they reached it, at a low-browed door in a great, dull,\nheavy-looking building.\n\nThe city marshal opened it with a key which hung at his girdle, and\nordered Curdie to enter. The place within was dark as night, and while\nhe was feeling his way with his feet, the marshal gave him a rough push.\nHe fell, and rolled once or twice over, unable to help himself because\nhis hands were tied behind him.\n\nIt was the hour of the magistrate's second and more important breakfast,\nand until that was over he never found himself capable of attending to a\ncase with concentration sufficient to the distinguishing of the side\nupon which his own advantage lay; and hence was this respite for Curdie,\nwith time to collect his thoughts. But indeed he had very few to\ncollect, for all he had to do, so far as he could see, was to wait for\nwhat would come next. Neither had he much power to collect them, for he\nwas a good deal shaken.\n\nIn a few minutes he discovered, to his great relief, that, from the\nprojection of the pick-end of his mattock beyond his body, the fall had\nloosened the ropes tied round it. He got one hand disengaged, and then\nthe other; and presently stood free, with his good mattock once more in\nright serviceable relation to his arms and legs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\nTHE MATTOCK.\n\n\nWhile the magistrate reinvigorated his selfishness with a greedy\nbreakfast, Curdie found doing nothing in the dark rather wearisome work.\nIt was useless attempting to think what he should do next, seeing the\ncircumstances in which he was presently to find himself were altogether\nunknown to him. So he began to think about his father and mother in\ntheir little cottage home, high in the clear air of the open\nmountain-side, and the thought, instead of making his dungeon gloomier\nby the contrast, made a light in his soul that destroyed the power of\ndarkness and captivity. But he was at length startled from his waking\ndream by a swell in the noise outside. All the time there had been a few\nof the more idle of the inhabitants about the door, but they had been\nrather quiet. Now, however, the sounds of feet and voices began to grow,\nand grew so rapidly that it was plain a multitude was gathering. For\nthe people of Gwyntystorm always gave themselves an hour of pleasure\nafter their second breakfast, and what greater pleasure could they have\nthan to see a stranger abused by the officers of justice? The noise grew\ntill it was like the roaring of the sea, and that roaring went on a long\ntime, for the magistrate, being a great man, liked to know that he was\nwaited for: it added to the enjoyment of his breakfast, and, indeed,\nenabled him to eat a little more after he had thought his powers\nexhausted. But at length, in the waves of the human noises rose a bigger\nwave, and by the running and shouting and outcry, Curdie learned that\nthe magistrate was approaching.\n\nPresently came the sound of the great rusty key in the lock, which\nyielded with groaning reluctance; the door was thrown back, the light\nrushed in, and with it came the voice of the city marshal, calling upon\nCurdie, by many legal epithets opprobrious, to come forth and be tried\nfor his life, inasmuch as he had raised a tumult in his majesty's city\nof Gwyntystorm, troubled the hearts of the king's baker and barber, and\nslain the faithful dogs of his majesty's well-beloved butchers.\n\nHe was still reading, and Curdie was still seated in the brown twilight\nof the vault, not listening, but pondering with himself how this king\nthe city marshal talked of could be the same with the majesty he had\nseen ride away on his grand white horse, with the Princess Irene on a\ncushion before him, when a scream of agonized terror arose on the\nfarthest skirt of the crowd, and, swifter than flood or flame, the\nhorror spread shrieking. In a moment the air was filled with hideous\nhowling, cries of unspeakable dismay, and the multitudinous noise of\nrunning feet. The next moment, in at the door of the vault bounded Lina,\nher two green eyes flaming yellow as sunflowers, and seeming to light up\nthe dungeon. With one spring she threw herself at Curdie's feet, and\nlaid her head upon them panting. Then came a rush of two or three\nsoldiers darkening the doorway, but it was only to lay hold of the key,\npull the door to, and lock it; so that once more Curdie and Lina were\nprisoners together.\n\nFor a few moments Lina lay panting hard: it is breathless work leaping\nand roaring both at once, and that in a way to scatter thousands of\npeople. Then she jumped up, and began snuffing about all over the place;\nand Curdie saw what he had never seen before--two faint spots of light\ncast from her eyes upon the ground, one on each side of her snuffing\nnose. He got out his tinder-box--a miner is never without one--and\nlighted a precious bit of candle he carried in a division of it--just\nfor a moment, for he must not waste it.\n\nThe light revealed a vault without any window or other opening than the\ndoor. It was very old and much neglected. The mortar had vanished from\nbetween the stones, and it was half filled with a heap of all sorts of\nrubbish, beaten down in the middle, but looser at the sides; it sloped\nfrom the door to the foot of the opposite wall: evidently for a long\ntime the vault had been left open, and every sort of refuse thrown into\nit. A single minute served for the survey, so little was there to note.\n\nMeantime, down in the angle between the back wall and the base of the\nheap Lina was scratching furiously with all the eighteen great strong\nclaws of her mighty feet.\n\n\"Ah, ha!\" said Curdie to himself, catching sight of her, \"if only they\nwill leave us long enough to ourselves!\"\n\nWith that he ran to the door, to see if there was any fastening on the\ninside. There was none: in all its long history it never had had one.\nBut a few blows of the right sort, now from the one, now from the other\nend of his mattock, were as good as any bolt, for they so ruined the\nlock that no key could ever turn in it again. Those who heard them\nfancied he was trying to get out, and laughed spitefully. As soon as he\nhad done, he extinguished his candle, and went down to Lina.\n\nShe had reached the hard rock which formed the floor of the dungeon, and\nwas now clearing away the earth a little wider. Presently she looked up\nin his face and whined, as much as to say, \"My paws are not hard enough\nto get any further.\"\n\n\"Then get out of my way, Lina,\" said Curdie, \"and mind you keep your\neyes shining, for fear I should hit you.\"\n\nSo saying, he heaved his mattock, and assailed with the hammer end of it\nthe spot she had cleared.\n\nThe rock was very hard, but when it did break it broke in good-sized\npieces. Now with hammer, now with pick, he worked till he was weary,\nthen rested, and then set to again. He could not tell how the day went,\nas he had no light but the lamping of Lina's eyes. The darkness hampered\nhim greatly, for he would not let Lina come close enough to give him all\nthe light she could, lest he should strike her. So he had, every now and\nthen, to feel with his hands to know how he was getting on, and to\ndiscover in what direction to strike: the exact spot was a mere\nimagination.\n\nHe was getting very tired and hungry, and beginning to lose heart a\nlittle, when out of the ground, as if he had struck a spring of it,\nburst a dull, gleamy, lead-coloured light, and the next moment he heard\na hollow splash and echo. A piece of rock had fallen out of the floor,\nand dropped into water beneath. Already Lina, who had been lying a few\nyards off all the time he worked, was on her feet and peering through\nthe hole. Curdie got down on his hands and knees, and looked. They were\nover what seemed a natural cave in the rock, to which apparently the\nriver had access, for, at a great distance below, a faint light was\ngleaming upon water. If they could but reach it, they might get out; but\neven if it was deep enough, the height was very dangerous. The first\nthing, whatever might follow, was to make the hole larger. It was\ncomparatively easy to break away the sides of it, and in the course of\nanother hour he had it large enough to get through.\n\nAnd now he must reconnoitre. He took the rope they had tied him\nwith--for Curdie's hindrances were always his furtherance--and fastened\none end of it by a slip-knot round the handle of his pickaxe, then\ndropped the other end through, and laid the pickaxe so that, when he was\nthrough himself, and hanging on to the edge, he could place it across\nthe hole to support him on the rope. This done, he took the rope in his\nhands, and, beginning to descend, found himself in a narrow cleft\nwidening into a cave. His rope was not very long, and would not do much\nto lessen the force of his fall--he thought with himself--if he should\nhave to drop into the water; but he was not more than a couple of yards\nbelow the dungeon when he spied an opening on the opposite side of the\ncleft: it might be but a shallow hole, or it might lead them out. He\ndropped himself a little below its level, gave the rope a swing by\npushing his feet against the side of the cleft, and so penduled himself\ninto it. Then he laid a stone on the end of the rope that it should not\nforsake him, called to Lina, whose yellow eyes were gleaming over the\nmattock-grating above, to watch there till he returned, and went\ncautiously in.\n\nIt proved a passage, level for some distance, then sloping gently up. He\nadvanced carefully, feeling his way as he went. At length he was stopped\nby a door--a small door, studded with iron. But the wood was in places\nso much decayed that some of the bolts had dropped out, and he felt sure\nof being able to open it. He returned, therefore, to fetch Lina and his\nmattock. Arrived at the cleft, his strong miner arms bore him swiftly up\nalong the rope and through the hole into the dungeon. There he undid the\nrope from his mattock, and making Lina take the end of it in her teeth,\nand get through the hole, he lowered her--it was all he could do, she\nwas so heavy. When she came opposite the passage, with a slight push of\nher tail she shot herself into it, and let go the rope, which Curdie\ndrew up. Then he lighted his candle and searching in the rubbish found a\nbit of iron to take the place of his pickaxe across the hole. Then he\nsearched again in the rubbish, and found half an old shutter. This he\npropped up leaning a little over the hole, with a bit of stick, and\nheaped against the back of it a quantity of the loosened earth. Next he\ntied his mattock to the end of the rope, dropped it, and let it hang.\nLast, he got through the hole himself, and pulled away the propping\nstick, so that the shutter fell over the hole with a quantity of earth\non the top of it. A few motions of hand over hand, and he swung himself\nand his mattock into the passage beside Lina. There he secured the end\nof the rope, and they went on together to the door.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nTHE WINE-CELLAR.\n\n\nHe lighted his candle and examined it. Decayed and broken as it was, it\nwas strongly secured in its place by hinges on the one side, and either\nlock or bolt, he could not tell which, on the other. A brief use of his\npocket-knife was enough to make room for his hand and arm to get\nthrough, and then he found a great iron bolt--but so rusty that he could\nnot move it. Lina whimpered. He took his knife again, made the hole\nbigger, and stood back. In she shot her small head and long neck, seized\nthe bolt with her teeth, and dragged it grating and complaining back. A\npush then opened the door. It was at the foot of a short flight of\nsteps. They ascended, and at the top Curdie found himself in a space\nwhich, from the echo to his stamp, appeared of some size, though of what\nsort he could not at first tell, for his hands, feeling about, came upon\nnothing. Presently, however, they fell on a great thing: it was a\nwine-cask.\n\n[Illustration: \"_Curdie was just setting out to explore the place when\nhe heard steps coming down a stair._\"]\n\nHe was just setting out to explore the place by a thorough palpation,\nwhen he heard steps coming down a stair. He stood still, not knowing\nwhether the door would open an inch from his nose or twenty yards behind\nhis back. It did neither. He heard the key turn in the lock, and a\nstream of light shot in, ruining the darkness, about fifteen yards away\non his right.\n\nA man carrying a candle in one hand and a large silver flagon in the\nother, entered, and came towards him. The light revealed a row of huge\nwine-casks, that stretched away into the darkness of the other end of\nthe long vault. Curdie retreated into the recess of the stair, and\npeeping round the corner of it, watched him, thinking what he could do\nto prevent him from locking them in. He came on and on, until Curdie\nfeared he would pass the recess and see them. He was just preparing to\nrush out, and master him before he should give alarm, not in the least\nknowing what he should do next, when, to his relief, the man stopped at\nthe third cask from where he stood. He set down his light on the top of\nit, removed what seemed a large vent-peg, and poured into the cask a\nquantity of something from the flagon. Then he turned to the next cask,\ndrew some wine, rinsed the flagon, threw the wine away, drew and rinsed\nand threw away again, then drew and drank, draining to the bottom. Last\nof all, he filled the flagon from the cask he had first visited,\nreplaced then the vent-peg, took up his candle, and turned towards the\ndoor.\n\n\"There is something wrong here!\" thought Curdie.\n\n\"Speak to him, Lina,\" he whispered.\n\nThe sudden howl she gave made Curdie himself start and tremble for a\nmoment. As to the man, he answered Lina's with another horrible howl,\nforced from him by the convulsive shudder of every muscle of his body,\nthen reeled gasping to and fro, and dropped his candle. But just as\nCurdie expected to see him fall dead he recovered himself, and flew to\nthe door, through which he darted, leaving it open behind him. The\nmoment he ran, Curdie stepped out, picked up the candle still alight,\nsped after him to the door, drew out the key, and then returned to the\nstair and waited. In a few minutes he heard the sound of many feet and\nvoices. Instantly he turned the tap of the cask from which the man had\nbeen drinking, set the candle beside it on the floor, went down the\nsteps and out of the little door, followed by Lina, and closed it behind\nthem.\n\nThrough the hole in it he could see a little, and hear all. He could see\nhow the light of many candles filled the place, and could hear how some\ntwo dozen feet ran hither and thither through the echoing cellar; he\ncould hear the clash of iron, probably spits and pokers, now and then;\nand at last heard how, finding nothing remarkable except the best wine\nrunning to waste, they all turned on the butler, and accused him of\nhaving fooled them with a drunken dream. He did his best to defend\nhimself, appealing to the evidence of their own senses that he was as\nsober as they were. They replied that a fright was no less a fright that\nthe cause was imaginary, and a dream no less a dream that the fright had\nwaked him from it. When he discovered, and triumphantly adduced as\ncorroboration, that the key was gone from the door, they said it merely\nshowed how drunk he had been--either that or how frightened, for he had\ncertainly dropped it. In vain he protested that he had never taken it\nout of the lock--that he never did when he went in, and certainly had\nnot this time stopped to do so when he came out; they asked him why he\nhad to go to the cellar at such a time of the day, and said it was\nbecause he had already drunk all the wine that was left from dinner. He\nsaid if he had dropped the key, the key was to be found, and they must\nhelp him to find it. They told him they wouldn't move a peg for him. He\ndeclared, with much language, he would have them all turned out of the\nking's service. They said they would swear he was drunk. And so positive\nwere they about it, that at last the butler himself began to think\nwhether it was possible they could be in the right. For he knew that\nsometimes when he had been drunk he fancied things had taken place\nwhich he found afterwards could not have happened. Certain of his\nfellow-servants, however, had all the time a doubt whether the cellar\ngoblin had not appeared to him, or at least roared at him, to protect\nthe wine. In any case nobody wanted to find the key for him; nothing\ncould please them better than that the door of the wine-cellar should\nnever more be locked. By degrees the hubbub died away, and they\ndeparted, not even pulling to the door, for there was neither handle nor\nlatch to it.\n\nAs soon as they were gone, Curdie returned, knowing now that they were\nin the wine-cellar of the palace, as, indeed, he had suspected. Finding\na pool of wine in a hollow of the floor, Lina lapped it up eagerly: she\nhad had no breakfast, and was now very thirsty as well as hungry. Her\nmaster was in a similar plight, for he had but just begun to eat when\nthe magistrate arrived with the soldiers. If only they were all in bed,\nhe thought, that he might find his way to the larder! For he said to\nhimself that, as he was sent there by the young princess's\ngreat-great-grandmother to serve her or her father in some way, surely\nhe must have a right to his food in the palace, without which he could\ndo nothing. He would go at once and reconnoitre.\n\nSo he crept up the stair that led from the cellar. At the top was a\ndoor, opening on a long passage, dimly lighted by a lamp. He told Lina\nto lie down upon the stair while he went on. At the end of the passage\nhe found a door ajar, and, peeping through, saw right into a great stone\nhall, where a huge fire was blazing, and through which men in the king's\nlivery were constantly coming and going. Some also in the same livery\nwere lounging about the fire. He noted that their colours were the same\nwith those he himself, as king's miner, wore; but from what he had seen\nand heard of the habits of the place, he could not hope they would treat\nhim the better for that.\n\nThe one interesting thing at the moment, however, was the plentiful\nsupper with which the table was spread. It was something at least to\nstand in sight of food, and he was unwilling to turn his back on the\nprospect so long as a share in it was not absolutely hopeless. Peeping\nthus, he soon made up his mind that if at any moment the hall should be\nempty, he would at that moment rush in and attempt to carry off a dish.\nThat he might lose no time by indecision, he selected a large pie upon\nwhich to pounce instantaneously. But after he had watched for some\nminutes, it did not seem at all likely the chance would arrive before\nsupper-time, and he was just about to turn away and rejoin Lina, when he\nsaw that there was not a person in the place. Curdie never made up his\nmind and then hesitated. He darted in, seized the pie, and bore it,\nswiftly and noiselessly, to the cellar stair.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\nTHE KING'S KITCHEN.\n\n\nBack to the cellar Curdie and Lina sped with their booty, where, seated\non the steps, Curdie lighted his bit of candle for a moment. A very\nlittle bit it was now, but they did not waste much of it in examination\nof the pie; that they effected by a more summary process. Curdie thought\nit the nicest food he had ever tasted, and between them they soon ate it\nup. Then Curdie would have thrown the dish along with the bones into the\nwater, that there might be no traces of them; but he thought of his\nmother, and hid it instead; and the very next minute they wanted it to\ndraw some wine into. He was careful it should be from the cask of which\nhe had seen the butler drink. Then they sat down again upon the steps,\nand waited until the house should be quiet. For he was there to do\nsomething, and if it did not come to him in the cellar, he must go to\nmeet it in other places. Therefore, lest he should fall asleep, he set\nthe end of the helve of his mattock on the ground, and seated himself on\nthe cross part, leaning against the wall, so that as long as he kept\nawake he should rest, but the moment he began to fall asleep he must\nfall awake instead. He quite expected some of the servants would visit\nthe cellar again that night, but whether it was that they were afraid of\neach other, or believed more of the butler's story than they had chosen\nto allow, not one of them appeared.\n\nWhen at length he thought he might venture, he shouldered his mattock\nand crept up the stair. The lamp was out in the passage, but he could\nnot miss his way to the servants' hall. Trusting to Lina's quickness in\nconcealing herself, he took her with him.\n\nWhen they reached the hall they found it quiet and nearly dark. The last\nof the great fire was glowing red, but giving little light. Curdie stood\nand warmed himself for a few moments: miner as he was, he had found the\ncellar cold to sit in doing nothing; and standing thus he thought of\nlooking if there were any bits of candle about. There were many\ncandlesticks on the supper-table, but to his disappointment and\nindignation their candles seemed to have been all left to burn out, and\nsome of them, indeed, he found still hot in the neck.\n\nPresently, one after another, he came upon seven men fast asleep, most\nof them upon tables, one in a chair, and one on the floor. They seemed,\nfrom their shape and colour, to have eaten and drunk so much that they\nmight be burned alive without waking. He grasped the hand of each in\nsuccession, and found two ox-hoofs, three pig-hoofs, one concerning\nwhich he could not be sure whether it was the hoof of a donkey or a\npony, and one dog's paw. \"A nice set of people to be about a king!\"\nthought Curdie to himself, and turned again to his candle hunt. He did\nat last find two or three little pieces, and stowed them away in his\npockets.\n\nThey now left the hall by another door, and entered a short passage,\nwhich led them to the huge kitchen, vaulted, and black with smoke. There\ntoo the fire was still burning, so that he was able to see a little of\nthe state of things in this quarter also. The place was dirty and\ndisorderly. In a recess, on a heap of brushwood, lay a kitchenmaid, with\na table-cover around her, and a skillet in her hand: evidently she too\nhad been drinking. In another corner lay a page, and Curdie noted how\nlike his dress was to his own. In the cinders before the hearth were\nhuddled three dogs and five cats, all fast asleep, while the rats were\nrunning about the floor. Curdie's heart ached to think of the lovely\nchild-princess living over such a sty. The mine was a paradise to a\npalace with such servants in it.\n\nLeaving the kitchen, he got into the region of the sculleries. There\nhorrible smells were wandering about, like evil spirits that come forth\nwith the darkness. He lighted a candle--but only to see ugly sights.\nEverywhere was filth and disorder. Mangy turn-spit dogs were lying\nabout, and gray rats were gnawing at refuse in the sinks. It was like a\nhideous dream. He felt as if he should never get out of it, and longed\nfor one glimpse of his mother's poor little kitchen, so clean and bright\nand airy. Turning from it at last in miserable disgust, he almost ran\nback through the kitchen, re-entered the hall, and crossed it to another\ndoor.\n\nIt opened upon a wider passage, leading to an arch in a stately\ncorridor, all its length lighted by lamps in niches. At the end of it\nwas a large and beautiful hall, with great pillars. There sat three men\nin the royal livery, fast asleep, each in a great arm-chair, with his\nfeet on a huge footstool. They looked like fools dreaming themselves\nkings; and Lina looked as if she longed to throttle them. At one side of\nthe hall was the grand staircase, and they went up.\n\nEverything that now met Curdie's eyes was rich--not glorious like the\nsplendours of the mountain cavern, but rich and soft--except where, now\nand then, some rough old rib of the ancient fortress came through, hard\nand discoloured. Now some dark bare arch of stone, now some rugged and\nblackened pillar, now some huge beam, brown with the smoke and dust of\ncenturies, looked like a thistle in the midst of daisies, or a rock in a\nsmooth lawn.\n\nThey wandered about a good while, again and again finding themselves\nwhere they had been before. Gradually, however, Curdie was gaining some\nidea of the place. By-and-by Lina began to look frightened, and as they\nwent on Curdie saw that she looked more and more frightened. Now, by\nthis time he had come to understand that what made her look frightened\nwas always the fear of frightening, and he therefore concluded they must\nbe drawing nigh to somebody. At last, in a gorgeously-painted gallery,\nhe saw a curtain of crimson, and on the curtain a royal crown wrought in\nsilks and stones. He felt sure this must be the king's chamber, and it\nwas here he was wanted; or, if it was not the place he was bound for,\nsomething would meet him and turn him aside; for he had come to think\nthat so long as a man wants to do right he may go where he can: when he\ncan go no further, then it is not the way. \"Only,\" said his father, in\nassenting to the theory, \"he must really want to do right, and not\nmerely fancy he does. He must want it with his heart and will, and not\nwith his rag of a tongue.\"\n\nSo he gently lifted the corner of the curtain, and there behind it was a\nhalf-open door. He entered, and the moment he was in, Lina stretched\nherself along the threshold between the curtain and the door.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\nTHE KING'S CHAMBER.\n\n\nHe found himself in a large room, dimly lighted by a silver lamp that\nhung from the ceiling. Far at the other end was a great bed, surrounded\nwith dark heavy curtains. He went softly towards it, his heart beating\nfast. It was a dreadful thing to be alone in the king's chamber at the\ndead of night. To gain courage he had to remind himself of the beautiful\nprincess who had sent him. But when he was about halfway to the bed, a\nfigure appeared from the farther side of it, and came towards him, with\na hand raised warningly. He stood still. The light was dim, and he could\ndistinguish little more than the outline of a young girl. But though the\nform he saw was much taller than the princess he remembered, he never\ndoubted it was she. For one thing, he knew that most girls would have\nbeen frightened to see him there in the dead of the night, but like a\ntrue princess, and the princess he used to know, she walked straight on\nto meet him. As she came she lowered the hand she had lifted, and laid\nthe forefinger of it upon her lips. Nearer and nearer, quite near,\nclose up to him she came, then stopped, and stood a moment looking at\nhim.\n\n\"You are Curdie,\" she said.\n\n\"And you are the Princess Irene,\" he returned.\n\n\"Then we know each other still,\" she said, with a sad smile of pleasure.\n\"You will help me.\"\n\n\"That I will,\" answered Curdie. He did not say, \"If I can;\" for he knew\nthat what he was sent to do, that he could do. \"May I kiss your hand,\nlittle princess?\"\n\nShe was only between nine and ten, though indeed she looked several\nyears older, and her eyes almost those of a grown woman, for she had had\nterrible trouble of late.\n\nShe held out her hand.\n\n\"I am not the _little_ princess any more. I have grown up since I saw\nyou last, Mr. Miner.\"\n\nThe smile which accompanied the words had in it a strange mixture of\nplayfulness and sadness.\n\n\"So I see, Miss Princess,\" returned Curdie; \"and therefore, being more\nof a princess, you are the more my princess. Here I am, sent by your\ngreat-great-grandmother, to be your servant.--May I ask why you are up\nso late, princess?\"\n\n\"Because my father wakes _so_ frightened, and I don't know what he\n_would_ do if he didn't find me by his bedside. There! he's waking now.\"\n\nShe darted off to the side of the bed she had come from. Curdie stood\nwhere he was.\n\nA voice altogether unlike what he remembered of the mighty, noble king\non his white horse came from the bed, thin, feeble, hollow, and husky,\nand in tone like that of a petulant child:--\n\n\"I will not, I will not. I am a king, and I _will_ be a king. I hate you\nand despise you, and you shall not torture me!\"\n\n\"Never mind them, father dear,\" said the princess. \"I am here, and they\nshan't touch you. They dare not, you know, so long as you defy them.\"\n\n\"They want my crown, darling; and I can't give them my crown, can I? for\nwhat is a king without his crown?\"\n\n\"They shall never have your crown, my king,\" said Irene. \"Here it\nis--all safe, you see. I am watching it for you.\"\n\nCurdie drew near the bed on the other side. There lay the grand old\nking--he looked grand still, and twenty years older. His body was\npillowed high; his beard descended long and white over the crimson\ncoverlid; and his crown, its diamonds and emeralds gleaming in the\ntwilight of the curtains, lay in front of him, his long, thin old hands\nfolded round the rigol, and the ends of his beard straying among the\nlovely stones. His face was like that of a man who had died fighting\nnobly; but one thing made it dreadful: his eyes, while they moved about\nas if searching in this direction and in that, looked more dead than his\nface. He saw neither his daughter nor his crown: it was the voice of the\none and the touch of the other that comforted him. He kept murmuring\nwhat seemed words, but was unintelligible to Curdie, although, to judge\nfrom the look of Irene's face, she learned and concluded from it.\n\nBy degrees his voice sank away and the murmuring ceased, although still\nhis lips moved. Thus lay the old king on his bed, slumbering with his\ncrown between his hands; on one side of him stood a lovely little\nmaiden, with blue eyes, and brown hair going a little back from her\ntemples, as if blown by a wind that no one felt but herself; and on the\nother a stalwart young miner, with his mattock over his shoulder.\nStranger sight still was Lina lying along the threshold--only nobody saw\nher just then.\n\nA moment more and the king's lips ceased to move. His breathing had\ngrown regular and quiet. The princess gave a sigh of relief, and came\nround to Curdie.\n\n\"We can talk a little now,\" she said, leading him towards the middle of\nthe room. \"My father will sleep now till the doctor wakes him to give\nhim his medicine. It is not really medicine, though, but wine. Nothing\nbut that, the doctor says, could have kept him so long alive. He always\ncomes in the middle of the night to give it him with his own hands. But\nit makes me cry to see him waked up when so nicely asleep.\"\n\n\"What sort of man is your doctor?\" asked Curdie.\n\n\"Oh, such a dear, good, kind gentleman!\" replied the princess. \"He\nspeaks so softly, and is so sorry for his dear king! He will be here\npresently, and you shall see for yourself. You will like him very much.\"\n\n\"Has your king-father been long ill?\" asked Curdie.\n\n\"A whole year now,\" she replied. \"Did you not know? That's how your\nmother never got the red petticoat my father promised her. The lord\nchancellor told me that not only Gwyntystorm but the whole land was\nmourning over the illness of the good man.\"\n\nNow Curdie himself had not heard a word of his majesty's illness, and\nhad no ground for believing that a single soul in any place he had\nvisited on his journey had heard of it. Moreover, although mention had\nbeen made of his majesty again and again in his hearing since he came to\nGwyntystorm, never once had he heard an allusion to the state of his\nhealth. And now it dawned upon him also that he had never heard the\nleast expression of love to him. But just for the time he thought it\nbetter to say nothing on either point.\n\n\"Does the king wander like this every night?\" he asked.\n\n\"Every night,\" answered Irene, shaking her head mournfully. \"That is why\nI never go to bed at night. He is better during the day--a little, and\nthen I sleep--in the dressing-room there, to be with him in a moment if\nhe should call me. It is _so_ sad he should have only me and not my\nmamma! A princess is nothing to a queen!\"\n\n\"I wish he would like me,\" said Curdie, \"for then I might watch by him\nat night, and let you go to bed, princess.\"\n\n\"Don't you know then?\" returned Irene, in wonder. \"How was it you\ncame?--Ah! you said my grandmother sent you. But I thought you knew that\nhe wanted you.\"\n\nAnd again she opened wide her blue stars.\n\n\"Not I,\" said Curdie, also bewildered, but very glad.\n\n\"He used to be constantly saying--he was not so ill then as he is\nnow--that he wished he had you about him.\"\n\n\"And I never to know it!\" said Curdie, with displeasure.\n\n\"The master of the horse told papa's own secretary that he had written\nto the miner-general to find you and send you up; but the miner-general\nwrote back to the master of the horse, and he told the secretary, and\nthe secretary told my father, that they had searched every mine in the\nkingdom and could hear nothing of you. My father gave a great sigh, and\nsaid he feared the goblins had got you after all, and your father and\nmother were dead of grief. And he has never mentioned you since, except\nwhen wandering. I cried very much. But one of my grandmother's pigeons\nwith its white wing flashed a message to me through the window one day,\nand then I knew that my Curdie wasn't eaten by the goblins, for my\ngrandmother wouldn't have taken care of him one time to let him be eaten\nthe next. Where were you, Curdie, that they couldn't find you?\"\n\n\"We will talk about that another time, when we are not expecting the\ndoctor,\" said Curdie.\n\nAs he spoke, his eyes fell upon something shining on the table under the\nlamp. His heart gave a great throb, and he went nearer.--Yes, there\ncould be no doubt;--it was the same flagon that the butler had filled in\nthe wine-cellar.\n\n\"It looks worse and worse!\" he said to himself, and went back to Irene,\nwhere she stood half dreaming.\n\n\"When will the doctor be here?\" he asked once more--this time hurriedly.\n\nThe question was answered--not by the princess, but by something which\nthat instant tumbled heavily into the room. Curdie flew towards it in\nvague terror about Lina.\n\nOn the floor lay a little round man, puffing and blowing, and uttering\nincoherent language. Curdie thought of his mattock, and ran and laid it\naside.\n\n\"Oh, dear Dr. Kelman!\" cried the princess, running up and taking hold of\nhis arm; \"I am _so_ sorry!\" She pulled and pulled, but might almost as\nwell have tried to set up a cannon-ball. \"I hope you have not hurt\nyourself?\"\n\n\"Not at all, not at all,\" said the doctor, trying to smile and to rise\nboth at once, but finding it impossible to do either.\n\n\"If he slept on the floor he would be late for breakfast,\" said Curdie\nto himself, and held out his hand to help him.\n\nBut when he took hold of it, Curdie very nearly let him fall again, for\nwhat he held was not even a foot: it was the belly of a creeping thing.\nHe managed, however, to hold both his peace and his grasp, and pulled\nthe doctor roughly on his legs--such as they were.\n\n\"Your royal highness has rather a thick mat at the door,\" said the\ndoctor, patting his palms together. \"I hope my awkwardness may not have\nstartled his majesty.\"\n\nWhile he talked Curdie went to the door: Lina was not there.\n\nThe doctor approached the bed.\n\n\"And how has my beloved king slept to-night?\" he asked.\n\n\"No better,\" answered Irene, with a mournful shake of her head.\n\n\"Ah, that is very well!\" returned the doctor, his fall seeming to have\nmuddled either his words or his meaning. \"We must give him his wine, and\nthen he will be better still.\"\n\nCurdie darted at the flagon, and lifted it high, as if he had expected\nto find it full, but had found it empty.\n\n\"That stupid butler! I heard them say he was drunk!\" he cried in a loud\nwhisper, and was gliding from the room.\n\n\"Come here with that flagon, you! page!\" cried the doctor.\n\nCurdie came a few steps towards him with the flagon dangling from his\nhand, heedless of the gushes that fell noiseless on the thick carpet.\n\n\"Are you aware, young man,\" said the doctor, \"that it is not every wine\ncan do his majesty the benefit I intend he should derive from my\nprescription?\"\n\n\"Quite aware, sir,\" answered Curdie. \"The wine for his majesty's use is\nin the third cask from the corner.\"\n\n\"Fly, then,\" said the doctor, looking satisfied.\n\nCurdie stopped outside the curtain and blew an audible breath--no more:\nup came Lina noiseless as a shadow. He showed her the flagon.\n\n\"The cellar, Lina: go,\" he said.\n\nShe galloped away on her soft feet, and Curdie had indeed to fly to keep\nup with her. Not once did she make even a dubious turn. From the king's\ngorgeous chamber to the cold cellar they shot. Curdie dashed the wine\ndown the back stair, rinsed the flagon out as he had seen the butler do,\nfilled it from the cask of which he had seen the butler drink, and\nhastened with it up again to the king's room.\n\nThe little doctor took it, poured out a full glass, smelt, but did not\ntaste it, and set it down. Then he leaned over the bed, shouted in the\nking's ear, blew upon his eyes, and pinched his arm: Curdie thought he\nsaw him run something bright into it. At last the king half woke. The\ndoctor seized the glass, raised his head, poured the wine down his\nthroat, and let his head fall back on the pillow again. Tenderly wiping\nhis beard, and bidding the princess good-night in paternal tones, he\nthen took his leave. Curdie would gladly have driven his pick into his\nhead, but that was not in his commission, and he let him go.\n\nThe little round man looked very carefully to his feet as he crossed the\nthreshold.\n\n\"That attentive fellow of a page has removed the mat,\" he said to\nhimself, as he walked along the corridor. \"I must remember him.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\nCOUNTER-PLOTTING.\n\n\nCurdie was already sufficiently enlightened as to how things were going,\nto see that he must have the princess of one mind with him, and they\nmust work together. It was clear that amongst those about the king there\nwas a plot against him: for one thing, they had agreed in a lie\nconcerning himself; and it was plain also that the doctor was working\nout a design against the health and reason of his majesty, rendering the\nquestion of his life a matter of little moment. It was in itself\nsufficient to justify the worst fears, that the people outside the\npalace were ignorant of his majesty's condition: he believed those\ninside it also--the butler excepted--were ignorant of it as well.\nDoubtless his majesty's councillors desired to alienate the hearts of\nhis subjects from their sovereign. Curdie's idea was that they intended\nto kill the king, marry the princess to one of themselves, and found a\nnew dynasty; but whatever their purpose, there was treason in the palace\nof the worst sort: they were making and keeping the king incapable, in\norder to effect that purpose. The first thing to be seen to therefore\nwas, that his majesty should neither eat morsel nor drink drop of\nanything prepared for him in the palace. Could this have been managed\nwithout the princess, Curdie would have preferred leaving her in\nignorance of the horrors from which he sought to deliver her. He feared\nalso the danger of her knowledge betraying itself to the evil eyes about\nher; but it must be risked--and she had always been a wise child.\n\nAnother thing was clear to him--that with such traitors no terms of\nhonour were either binding or possible, and that, short of lying, he\nmight use any means to foil them. And he could not doubt that the old\nprincess had sent him expressly to frustrate their plans.\n\nWhile he stood thinking thus with himself, the princess was earnestly\nwatching the king, with looks of childish love and womanly tenderness\nthat went to Curdie's heart. Now and then with a great fan of peacock\nfeathers she would fan him very softly; now and then, seeing a cloud\nbegin to gather upon the sky of his sleeping face, she would climb upon\nthe bed, and bending to his ear whisper into it, then draw back and\nwatch again--generally to see the cloud disperse. In his deepest\nslumber, the soul of the king lay open to the voice of his child, and\nthat voice had power either to change the aspect of his visions, or,\nwhich was better still, to breathe hope into his heart, and courage to\nendure them.\n\nCurdie came near, and softly called her.\n\n\"I can't leave papa just yet,\" she returned, in a low voice.\n\n\"I will wait,\" said Curdie; \"but I want very much to say something.\"\n\nIn a few minutes she came to him where he stood under the lamp.\n\n\"Well, Curdie, what is it?\" she said.\n\n\"Princess,\" he replied, \"I want to tell you that I have found why your\ngrandmother sent me.\"\n\n\"Come this way, then,\" she answered, \"where I can see the face of my\nking.\"\n\nCurdie placed a chair for her in the spot she chose, where she would be\nnear enough to mark any slightest change on her father's countenance,\nyet where their low-voiced talk would not disturb him. There he sat down\nbeside her and told her all the story--how her grandmother had sent her\ngood pigeon for him, and how she had instructed him, and sent him there\nwithout telling him what he had to do. Then he told her what he had\ndiscovered of the state of things generally in Gwyntystorm, and\nspecially what he had heard and seen in the palace that night.\n\n\"Things are in a bad state enough,\" he said in conclusion;--\"lying and\nselfishness and inhospitality and dishonesty everywhere; and to crown\nall, they speak with disrespect of the good king, and not a man of them\nknows he is ill.\"\n\n\"You frighten me dreadfully,\" said Irene, trembling.\n\n\"You must be brave for your king's sake,\" said Curdie.\n\n\"Indeed I will,\" she replied, and turned a long loving look upon the\nbeautiful face of her father. \"But what _is_ to be done? And how _am_ I\nto believe such horrible things of Dr. Kelman?\"\n\n\"My dear princess,\" replied Curdie, \"you know nothing of him but his\nface and his tongue, and they are both false. Either you must beware of\nhim, or you must doubt your grandmother and me; for I tell you, by the\ngift she gave me of testing hands, that this man is a snake. That round\nbody he shows is but the case of a serpent. Perhaps the creature lies\nthere, as in its nest, coiled round and round inside.\"\n\n\"Horrible!\" said Irene.\n\n\"Horrible indeed; but we must not try to get rid of horrible things by\nrefusing to look at them, and saying they are not there. Is not your\nbeautiful father sleeping better since he had the wine?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Does he always sleep better after having it?\"\n\nShe reflected an instant.\n\n\"No; always worse--till to-night,\" she answered.\n\n\"Then remember that was the wine I got him--not what the butler drew.\nNothing that passes through any hand in the house except yours or mine\nmust henceforth, till he is well, reach his majesty's lips.\"\n\n\"But how, dear Curdie?\" said the princess, almost crying.\n\n\"That we must contrive,\" answered Curdie. \"I know how to take care of\nthe wine; but for his food--now we must think.\"\n\n\"He takes hardly any,\" said the princess, with a pathetic shake of her\nlittle head which Curdie had almost learned to look for.\n\n\"The more need,\" he replied, \"there should be no poison in it.\" Irene\nshuddered. \"As soon as he has honest food he will begin to grow better.\nAnd you must be just as careful with yourself, princess,\" Curdie went\non, \"for you don't know when they may begin to poison you too.\"\n\n\"There's no fear of me; don't talk about me,\" said Irene. \"The good\nfood!--how are we to get it, Curdie? That is the whole question.\"\n\n\"I am thinking hard,\" answered Curdie. \"The good food? Let me see--let\nme see!--Such servants as I saw below are sure to have the best of\neverything for themselves: I will go and see what I can find on their\nsupper-table.\"\n\n\"The chancellor sleeps in the house, and he and the master of the king's\nhorse always have their supper together in a room off the great hall, to\nthe right as you go down the stair,\" said Irene. \"I would go with you,\nbut I dare not leave my father. Alas! he scarcely ever takes more than a\nmouthful. I can't think how he lives! And the very thing he would like,\nand often asks for--a bit of bread--I can hardly ever get for him: Dr.\nKelman has forbidden it, and says it is nothing less than poison to\nhim.\"\n\n\"Bread at least he _shall_ have,\" said Curdie; \"and that, with the\nhonest wine, will do as well as anything, I do believe. I will go at\nonce and look for some. But I want you to see Lina first, and know her,\nlest, coming upon her by accident at any time, you should be\nfrightened.\"\n\n\"I should like much to see her,\" said the princess.\n\nWarning her not to be startled by her ugliness, he went to the door and\ncalled her.\n\nShe entered, creeping with downcast head, and dragging her tail over the\nfloor behind her. Curdie watched the princess as the frightful creature\ncame nearer and nearer. One shudder went from head to foot of her, and\nnext instant she stepped to meet her. Lina dropped flat on the floor,\nand covered her face with her two big paws. It went to the heart of the\nprincess: in a moment she was on her knees beside her, stroking her ugly\nhead, and patting her all over.\n\n\"Good dog! Dear ugly dog!\" she said.\n\nLina whimpered.\n\n\"I believe,\" said Curdie, \"from what your grandmother told me, that Lina\nis a woman, and that she was naughty, but is now growing good.\"\n\nLina had lifted her head while Irene was caressing her; now she dropped\nit again between her paws; but the princess took it in her hands, and\nkissed the forehead betwixt the gold-green eyes.\n\n\"Shall I take her with me or leave her?\" asked Curdie.\n\n\"Leave her, poor dear,\" said Irene, and Curdie, knowing the way now,\nwent without her.\n\nHe took his way first to the room the princess had spoken of, and there\nalso were the remains of supper; but neither there nor in the kitchen\ncould he find a scrap of plain wholesome-looking bread. So he returned\nand told her that as soon as it was light he would go into the city for\nsome, and asked her for a handkerchief to tie it in. If he could not\nbring it himself, he would send it by Lina, who could keep out of sight\nbetter than he, and as soon as all was quiet at night he would come to\nher again. He also asked her to tell the king that he was in the house.\n\nHis hope lay in the fact that bakers everywhere go to work early. But it\nwas yet much too early. So he persuaded the princess to lie down,\npromising to call her if the king should stir.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\nTHE LOAF.\n\n\nHis majesty slept very quietly. The dawn had grown almost day, and still\nCurdie lingered, unwilling to disturb the princess.\n\nAt last, however, he called her, and she was in the room in a moment.\nShe had slept, she said, and felt quite fresh. Delighted to find her\nfather still asleep, and so peacefully, she pushed her chair close to\nthe bed, and sat down with her hands in her lap.\n\nCurdie got his mattock from where he had hidden it behind a great\nmirror, and went to the cellar, followed by Lina. They took some\nbreakfast with them as they passed through the hall, and as soon as they\nhad eaten it went out the back way.\n\nAt the mouth of the passage Curdie seized the rope, drew himself up,\npushed away the shutter, and entered the dungeon. Then he swung the end\nof the rope to Lina, and she caught it in her teeth. When her master\nsaid, \"Now, Lina!\" she gave a great spring, and he ran away with the end\nof the rope as fast as ever he could. And such a spring had she made,\nthat by the time he had to bear her weight she was within a few feet of\nthe hole. The instant she got a paw through, she was all through.\n\nApparently their enemies were waiting till hunger should have cowed\nthem, for there was no sign of any attempt having been made to open the\ndoor. A blow or two of Curdie's mattock drove the shattered lock clean\nfrom it, and telling Lina to wait there till he came back, and let no\none in, he walked out into the silent street, and drew the door to\nbehind him. He could hardly believe it was not yet a whole day since he\nhad been thrown in there with his hands tied at his back.\n\nDown the town he went, walking in the middle of the street, that, if any\none saw him, he might see he was not afraid, and hesitate to rouse an\nattack on him. As to the dogs, ever since the death of their two\ncompanions, a shadow that looked like a mattock was enough to make them\nscamper. As soon as he reached the archway of the city gate he turned to\nreconnoitre the baker's shop, and perceiving no sign of movement, waited\nthere watching for the first.\n\nAfter about an hour, the door opened, and the baker's man appeared with\na pail in his hand. He went to a pump that stood in the street, and\nhaving filled his pail returned with it into the shop. Curdie stole\nafter him, found the door on the latch, opened it very gently, peeped\nin, saw nobody, and entered. Remembering perfectly from what shelf the\nbaker's wife had taken the loaf she said was the best, and seeing just\none upon it, he seized it, laid the price of it on the counter, and sped\nsoftly out, and up the street. Once more in the dungeon beside Lina, his\nfirst thought was to fasten up the door again, which would have been\neasy, so many iron fragments of all sorts and sizes lay about; but he\nbethought himself that if he left it as it was, and they came to find\nhim, they would conclude at once that they had made their escape by it,\nand would look no farther so as to discover the hole. He therefore\nmerely pushed the door close and left it. Then once more carefully\narranging the earth behind the shutter, so that it should again fall\nwith it, he returned to the cellar.\n\nAnd now he had to convey the loaf to the princess. If he could venture\nto take it himself, well; if not, he would send Lina. He crept to the\ndoor of the servants' hall, and found the sleepers beginning to stir.\nOne said it was time to go to bed; another, that he would go to the\ncellar instead, and have a mug of wine to waken him up; while a third\nchallenged a fourth to give him his revenge at some game or other.\n\n\"Oh, hang your losses!\" answered his companion; \"you'll soon pick up\ntwice as much about the house, if you but keep your eyes open.\"\n\nPerceiving there would be risk in attempting to pass through, and\nreflecting that the porters in the great hall would probably be awake\nalso, Curdie went back to the cellar, took Irene's handkerchief with the\nloaf in it, tied it round Lina's neck, and told her to take it to the\nprincess.\n\nUsing every shadow and every shelter, Lina slid through the servants\nlike a shapeless terror through a guilty mind, and so, by corridor and\ngreat hall, up the stair to the king's chamber.\n\nIrene trembled a little when she saw her glide soundless in across the\nsilent dusk of the morning, that filtered through the heavy drapery of\nthe windows, but she recovered herself at once when she saw the bundle\nabout her neck, for it both assured her of Curdie's safety, and gave her\nhope of her father's. She untied it with joy, and Lina stole away,\nsilent as she had come. Her joy was the greater that the king had woke\nup a little while before, and expressed a desire for food--not that he\nfelt exactly hungry, he said, and yet he wanted something. If only he\nmight have a piece of nice fresh bread! Irene had no knife, but with\neager hands she broke a great piece from the loaf, and poured out a full\nglass of wine. The king ate and drank, enjoyed the bread and the wine\nmuch, and instantly fell asleep again.\n\nIt was hours before the lazy people brought their breakfast. When it\ncame, Irene crumbled a little about, threw some into the fire-place, and\nmanaged to make the tray look just as usual.\n\nIn the meantime, down below in the cellar, Curdie was lying in the\nhollow between the upper sides of two of the great casks, the warmest\nplace he could find. Lina was watching. She lay at his feet, across the\ntwo casks, and did her best so to arrange her huge tail that it should\nbe a warm coverlid for her master.\n\nBy-and-by Dr. Kelman called to see his patient; and now that Irene's\neyes were opened, she saw clearly enough that he was both annoyed and\npuzzled at finding his majesty rather better. He pretended however to\ncongratulate him, saying he believed he was quite fit to see the lord\nchamberlain: he wanted his signature to something important; only he\nmust not strain his mind to understand it, whatever it might be: if his\nmajesty did, he would not be answerable for the consequences. The king\nsaid he would see the lord chamberlain, and the doctor went. Then Irene\ngave him more bread and wine, and the king ate and drank, and smiled a\nfeeble smile, the first real one she had seen for many a day. He said he\nfelt much better, and would soon be able to take matters into his own\nhands again. He had a strange miserable feeling, he said, that things\nwere going terribly wrong, although he could not tell how. Then the\nprincess told him that Curdie was come, and that at night, when all was\nquiet, for nobody in the palace must know, he would pay his majesty a\nvisit. Her great-great-grandmother had sent him, she said. The king\nlooked strangely upon her, but, the strange look passed into a smile\nclearer than the first, and Irene's heart throbbed with delight.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\nTHE LORD CHAMBERLAIN.\n\n\nAt noon the lord chamberlain appeared. With a long, low bow, and paper\nin hand, he stepped softly into the room. Greeting his majesty with\nevery appearance of the profoundest respect, and congratulating him on\nthe evident progress he had made, he declared himself sorry to trouble\nhim, but there were certain papers, he said, which required his\nsignature--and therewith drew nearer to the king, who lay looking at him\ndoubtfully. He was a lean, long, yellow man, with a small head, bald\nover the top, and tufted at the back and about the ears. He had a very\nthin, prominent, hooked nose, and a quantity of loose skin under his\nchin and about the throat, which came craning up out of his neckcloth.\nHis eyes were very small, sharp, and glittering, and looked black as\njet. He had hardly enough of a mouth to make a smile with. His left hand\nheld the paper, and the long, skinny fingers of his right a pen just\ndipped in ink.\n\nBut the king, who for weeks had scarcely known what he did, was to-day\nso much himself as to be aware that he was not quite himself; and the\nmoment he saw the paper, he resolved that he would not sign without\nunderstanding and approving of it. He requested the lord chamberlain\ntherefore to read it. His lordship commenced at once but the\ndifficulties he seemed to encounter, and the fits of stammering that\nseized him, roused the king's suspicion tenfold. He called the princess.\n\n\"I trouble his lordship too much,\" he said to her: \"you can read print\nwell, my child--let me hear how you can read writing. Take that paper\nfrom his lordship's hand, and read it to me from beginning to end, while\nmy lord drinks a glass of my favourite wine, and watches for your\nblunders.\"\n\n\"Pardon me, your majesty,\" said the lord chamberlain, with as much of a\nsmile as he was able to extemporize, \"but it were a thousand pities to\nput the attainments of her royal highness to a test altogether too\nsevere. Your majesty can scarcely with justice expect the very organs of\nher speech to prove capable of compassing words so long, and to her so\nunintelligible.\"\n\n\"I think much of my little princess and her capabilities,\" returned the\nking, more and more aroused. \"Pray, my lord, permit her to try.\"\n\n\"Consider, your majesty: the thing would be altogether without\nprecedent. It would be to make sport of statecraft,\" said the lord\nchamberlain.\n\n\"Perhaps you are right, my lord,\" answered the king with more meaning\nthan he intended should be manifest while to his growing joy he felt new\nlife and power throbbing in heart and brain. \"So this morning we shall\nread no farther. I am indeed ill able for business of such weight.\"\n\n\"Will your majesty please sign your royal name here?\" said the lord\nchamberlain, preferring the request as a matter of course, and\napproaching with the feather end of the pen pointed to a spot where was\na great red seal.\n\n\"Not to-day, my lord,\" replied the king.\n\n\"It is of the greatest importance, your majesty,\" softly insisted the\nother.\n\n\"I descried no such importance in it,\" said the king.\n\n\"Your majesty heard but a part.\"\n\n\"And I can hear no more to-day.\"\n\n\"I trust your majesty has ground enough, in a case of necessity like the\npresent, to sign upon the representation of his loyal subject and\nchamberlain?--Or shall I call the lord chancellor?\" he added, rising.\n\n\"There is no need. I have the very highest opinion of your judgment, my\nlord,\" answered the king; \"--that is, with respect to means: we _might_\ndiffer as to ends.\"\n\nThe lord chamberlain made yet further attempts at persuasion; but they\ngrew feebler and feebler, and he was at last compelled to retire without\nhaving gained his object. And well might his annoyance be keen! For that\npaper was the king's will, drawn up by the attorney-general; nor until\nthey had the king's signature to it was there much use in venturing\nfarther. But his worst sense of discomfiture arose from finding the king\nwith so much capacity left, for the doctor had pledged himself so to\nweaken his brain that he should be as a child in their hands, incapable\nof refusing anything requested of him: his lordship began to doubt the\ndoctor's fidelity to the conspiracy.\n\nThe princess was in high delight. She had not for weeks heard so many\nwords, not to say words of such strength and reason, from her father's\nlips: day by day he had been growing weaker and more lethargic. He was\nso much exhausted however after this effort, that he asked for another\npiece of bread and more wine, and fell fast asleep the moment he had\ntaken them.\n\nThe lord chamberlain sent in a rage for Dr. Kelman. He came, and while\nprofessing himself unable to understand the symptoms described by his\nlordship, yet pledged himself again that on the morrow the king should\ndo whatever was required of him.\n\nThe day went on. When his majesty was awake, the princess read to\nhim--one story-book after another; and whatever she read, the king\nlistened as if he had never heard anything so good before, making out in\nit the wisest meanings. Every now and then he asked for a piece of bread\nand a little wine, and every time he ate and drank he slept, and every\ntime he woke he seemed better than the last time. The princess bearing\nher part, the loaf was eaten up and the flagon emptied before night. The\nbutler took the flagon away, and brought it back filled to the brim, but\nboth were thirsty as well as hungry when Curdie came again.\n\nMeantime he and Lina, watching and waking alternately, had plenty of\nsleep. In the afternoon, peeping from the recess, they saw several of\nthe servants enter hurriedly, one after the other, draw wine, drink it,\nand steal out; but their business was to take care of the king, not of\nhis cellar, and they let them drink. Also, when the butler came to fill\nthe flagon, they restrained themselves, for the villain's fate was not\nyet ready for him. He looked terribly frightened, and had brought with\nhim a large candle and a small terrier--which latter indeed threatened\nto be troublesome, for he went roving and sniffing about until he came\nto the recess where they were. But as soon as he showed himself, Lina\nopened her jaws so wide, and glared at him so horribly, that, without\neven uttering a whimper, he tucked his tail between his legs and ran to\nhis master. He was drawing the wicked wine at the moment, and did not\nsee him, else he would doubtless have run too.\n\nWhen supper-time approached, Curdie took his place at the door into the\nservants' hall; but after a long hour's vain watch, he began to fear he\nshould get nothing: there was so much idling about, as well as coming\nand going. It was hard to bear--chiefly from the attractions of a\nsplendid loaf, just fresh out of the oven, which he longed to secure for\nthe king and princess. At length his chance did arrive: he pounced upon\nthe loaf and carried it away, and soon after got hold of a pie.\n\nThis time, however, both loaf and pie were missed. The cook was called.\nHe declared he had provided both. One of themselves, he said, must have\ncarried them away for some friend outside the palace. Then a housemaid,\nwho had not long been one of them, said she had seen some one like a\npage running in the direction of the cellar with something in his hands.\nInstantly all turned upon the pages, accusing them, one after another.\nAll denied, but nobody believed one of them: where there is no truth\nthere can be no faith.\n\nTo the cellar they all set out to look for the missing pie and loaf.\nLina heard them coming, as well she might, for they were talking and\nquarrelling loud, and gave her master warning. They snatched up\neverything, and got all signs of their presence out at the back door\nbefore the servants entered. When they found nothing, they all turned on\nthe chambermaid, and accused her, not only of lying against the pages,\nbut of having taken the things herself. Their language and behaviour so\ndisgusted Curdie, who could hear a great part of what passed, and he saw\nthe danger of discovery now so much increased, that he began to devise\nhow best at once to rid the palace of the whole pack of them. That\nhowever, would be small gain so long as the treacherous officers of\nstate continued in it. They must be first dealt with. A thought came to\nhim, and the longer he looked at it the better he liked it.\n\nAs soon as the servants were gone, quarrelling and accusing all the way,\nthey returned and finished their supper. Then Curdie, who had long been\nsatisfied that Lina understood almost every word he said, communicated\nhis plan to her, and knew by the wagging of her tail and the flashing of\nher eyes that she comprehended it. Until they had the king safe through\nthe worst part of the night, however, nothing could be done.\n\nThey had now merely to go on waiting where they were till the household\nshould be asleep. This waiting and waiting was much the hardest thing\nCurdie had to do in the whole affair. He took his mattock, and going\nagain into the long passage, lighted a candle-end, and proceeded to\nexamine the rock on all sides. But this was not merely to pass the\ntime: he had a reason for it. When he broke the stone in the street,\nover which the baker fell, its appearance led him to pocket a fragment\nfor further examination; and since then he had satisfied himself that it\nwas the kind of stone in which gold is found, and that the yellow\nparticles in it were pure metal. If such stone existed here in any\nplenty, he could soon make the king rich, and independent of his\nill-conditioned subjects. He was therefore now bent on an examination of\nthe rock; nor had he been at it long before he was persuaded that there\nwere large quantities of gold in the half-crystalline white stone, with\nits veins of opaque white and of green, of which the rock, so far as he\nhad been able to inspect it, seemed almost entirely to consist. Every\npiece he broke was spotted with particles and little lumps of a lovely\ngreenish yellow--and that was gold. Hitherto he had worked only in\nsilver, but he had read, and heard talk, and knew therefore about gold.\nAs soon as he had got the king free of rogues and villains, he would\nhave all the best and most honest miners, with his father at the head of\nthem, to work this rock for the king.\n\nIt was a great delight to him to use his mattock once more. The time\nwent quickly, and when he left the passage to go to the king's chamber,\nhe had already a good heap of fragments behind the broken door.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\nDR. KELMAN.\n\n\nAs soon as he had reason to hope the way was clear, Curdie ventured\nsoftly into the hall, with Lina behind him. There was no one asleep on\nthe bench or floor, but by the fading fire sat a girl weeping. It was\nthe same who had seen him carrying off the food, and had been so hardly\nused for saying so. She opened her eyes when he appeared, but did not\nseem frightened at him.\n\n\"I know why you weep,\" said Curdie; \"and I am sorry for you.\"\n\n\"It _is_ hard not to be believed just _because_ one speaks the truth,\"\nsaid the girl, \"but that seems reason enough with some people. My mother\ntaught me to speak the truth, and took such pains with me that I should\nfind it hard to tell a lie, though I could invent many a story these\nservants would believe at once; for the truth is a strange thing here,\nand they don't know it when they see it. Show it them, and they all\nstare as if it were a wicked lie, and that with the lie yet warm that\nhas just left their own mouths!--You are a stranger,\" she said, and\nburst out weeping afresh, \"but the stranger you are to such a place and\nsuch people the better!\"\n\n\"I am the person,\" said Curdie, \"whom you saw carrying the things from\nthe supper-table.\" He showed her the loaf. \"If you can trust, as well as\nspeak the truth, I will trust you.--Can you trust me?\"\n\nShe looked at him steadily for a moment.\n\n\"I can,\" she answered.\n\n\"One thing more,\" said Curdie: \"have you courage as well as faith?\"\n\n\"I think so.\"\n\n\"Look my dog in the face and don't cry out.--Come here, Lina.\"\n\nLina obeyed. The girl looked at her, and laid her hand on her head.\n\n\"Now I know you are a true woman,\" said Curdie. \"--I am come to set\nthings right in this house. Not one of the servants knows I am here.\nWill you tell them to-morrow morning, that, if they do not alter their\nways, and give over drinking, and lying, and stealing, and unkindness,\nthey shall every one of them be driven from the palace?\"\n\n\"They will not believe me.\"\n\n\"Most likely; but will you give them the chance?\"\n\n\"I will.\"\n\n\"Then I will be your friend. Wait here till I come again.\"\n\nShe looked him once more in the face, and sat down.\n\nWhen he reached the royal chamber, he found his majesty awake, and very\nanxiously expecting him. He received him with the utmost kindness, and\nat once as it were put himself in his hands by telling him all he knew\nconcerning the state he was in. His voice was feeble, but his eye was\nclear, and although now and then his words and thoughts seemed to\nwander, Curdie could not be certain that the cause of their not being\nintelligible to him did not lie in himself. The king told him that for\nsome years, ever since his queen's death, he had been losing heart over\nthe wickedness of his people. He had tried hard to make them good, but\nthey got worse and worse. Evil teachers, unknown to him, had crept into\nthe schools; there was a general decay of truth and right principle at\nleast in the city; and as that set the example to the nation, it must\nspread. The main cause of his illness was the despondency with which the\ndegeneration of his people affected him. He could not sleep, and had\nterrible dreams; while, to his unspeakable shame and distress, he\ndoubted almost everybody. He had striven against his suspicion, but in\nvain, and his heart was sore, for his courtiers and councillors were\nreally kind; only he could not think why none of their ladies came near\nhis princess. The whole country was discontented, he heard, and there\nwere signs of gathering storm outside as well as inside his borders. The\nmaster of the horse gave him sad news of the insubordination of the\narmy; and his great white horse was dead, they told him; and his sword\nhad lost its temper: it bent double the last time he tried it!--only\nperhaps that was in a dream; and they could not find his shield; and one\nof his spurs had lost the rowel. Thus the poor king went wandering in a\nmaze of sorrows, some of which were purely imaginary, while others were\ntruer than he understood. He told how thieves came at night and tried to\ntake his crown, so that he never dared let it out of his hands even when\nhe slept; and how, every night, an evil demon in the shape of his\nphysician came and poured poison down his throat. He knew it to be\npoison, he said, somehow, although it tasted like wine.\n\nHere he stopped, faint with the unusual exertion of talking. Curdie\nseized the flagon, and ran to the wine-cellar.\n\nIn the servants' hall the girl still sat by the fire, waiting for him.\nAs he returned he told her to follow him, and left her at the chamber\ndoor till he should rejoin her.\n\n[Illustration: _Curdie brings wine to the king._]\n\nWhen the king had had a little wine, he informed him that he had already\ndiscovered certain of his majesty's enemies, and one of the worst of\nthem was the doctor, for it was no other demon than the doctor himself\nwho had been coming every night, and giving him a slow poison.\n\n\"So!\" said the king. \"Then I have not been suspicious enough, for I\nthought it was but a dream! Is it possible Kelman can be such a wretch?\nWho then am I to trust?\"\n\n\"Not one in the house, except the princess and myself,\" said Curdie.\n\n\"I will not go to sleep,\" said the king.\n\n\"That would be as bad as taking the poison,\" said Curdie. \"No, no, sire;\nyou must show your confidence by leaving all the watching to me, and\ndoing all the sleeping your majesty can.\"\n\nThe king smiled a contented smile, turned on his side, and was presently\nfast asleep. Then Curdie persuaded the princess also to go to sleep, and\ntelling Lina to watch, went to the housemaid. He asked her if she could\ninform him which of the council slept in the palace, and show him their\nrooms. She knew every one of them, she said, and took him the round of\nall their doors, telling him which slept in each room. He then dismissed\nher, and returning to the king's chamber, seated himself behind a\ncurtain at the head of the bed, on the side farthest from the king. He\ntold Lina to get under the bed, and make no noise.\n\nAbout one o'clock the doctor came stealing in. He looked round for the\nprincess, and seeing no one, smiled with satisfaction as he approached\nthe wine where it stood under the lamp. Having partly filled a glass, he\ntook from his pocket a small phial, and filled up the glass from it. The\nlight fell upon his face from above, and Curdie saw the snake in it\nplainly visible. He had never beheld such an evil countenance: the man\nhated the king, and delighted in doing him wrong.\n\nWith the glass in his hand, he drew near the bed, set it down, and began\nhis usual rude rousing of his majesty. Not at once succeeding, he took a\nlancet from his pocket, and was parting its cover with an involuntary\nhiss of hate between his closed teeth, when Curdie stooped and whispered\nto Lina, \"Take him by the leg, Lina.\" She darted noiselessly upon him.\nWith a face of horrible consternation, he gave his leg one tug to free\nit; the next instant Curdie heard the one scrunch with which she crushed\nthe bone like a stick of celery. He tumbled on the floor with a yell.\n\n\"Drag him out, Lina,\" said Curdie.\n\nLina took him by the collar, and dragged him out. Her master followed to\ndirect her, and they left him lying across the lord chamberlain's\ndoor, where he gave another horrible yell, and fainted.\n\n[Illustration: \"_Lina darted noiselessly upon him._\"]\n\nThe king had waked at his first cry, and by the time Curdie re-entered\nhe had got at his sword where it hung from the centre of the tester, had\ndrawn it, and was trying to get out of bed. But when Curdie told him all\nwas well, he lay down again as quietly as a child comforted by his\nmother from a troubled dream. Curdie went to the door to watch.\n\nThe doctor's yells had roused many, but not one had yet ventured to\nappear. Bells were rung violently, but none were answered; and in a\nminute or two Curdie had what he was watching for. The door of the lord\nchamberlain's room opened, and, pale with hideous terror, his lordship\npeeped out. Seeing no one, he advanced to step into the corridor, and\ntumbled over the doctor. Curdie ran up, and held out his hand. He\nreceived in it the claw of a bird of prey--vulture or eagle, he could\nnot tell which.\n\nHis lordship, as soon as he was on his legs, taking him for one of the\npages, abused him heartily for not coming sooner, and threatened him\nwith dismissal from the king's service for cowardice and neglect. He\nbegan indeed what bade fair to be a sermon on the duties of a page, but\ncatching sight of the man who lay at his door, and seeing it was the\ndoctor, he fell out upon Curdie afresh for standing there doing\nnothing, and ordered him to fetch immediate assistance. Curdie left him,\nbut slipped into the king's chamber, closed and locked the door, and\nleft the rascals to look after each other. Ere long he heard hurrying\nfootsteps, and for a few minutes there was a great muffled tumult of\nscuffling feet, low voices, and deep groanings; then all was still\nagain.\n\nIrene slept through the whole--so confidently did she rest, knowing\nCurdie was in her father's room watching over him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\nTHE PROPHECY.\n\n\nCurdie sat and watched every motion of the sleeping king. All the night,\nto his ear, the palace lay as quiet as a nursery of healthful children.\nAt sunrise he called the princess.\n\n\"How has his Majesty slept?\" were her first words as she entered the\nroom.\n\n\"Quite quietly,\" answered Curdie; \"that is, since the doctor was got rid\nof.\"\n\n\"How did you manage that?\" inquired Irene; and Curdie had to tell all\nabout it.\n\n\"How terrible!\" she said. \"Did it not startle the king dreadfully?\"\n\n\"It did rather. I found him getting out of bed, sword in hand.\"\n\n\"The brave old man!\" cried the princess.\n\n\"Not so old!\" said Curdie, \"--as you will soon see. He went off again\nin a minute or so; but for a little while he was restless, and once when\nhe lifted his hand it came down on the spikes of his crown, and he half\nwaked.\"\n\n\"But where _is_ the crown?\" cried Irene, in sudden terror.\n\n\"I stroked his hands,\" answered Curdie, \"and took the crown from them;\nand ever since he has slept quietly, and again and again smiled in his\nsleep.\"\n\n\"I have never seen him do that,\" said the princess. \"But what have you\ndone with the crown, Curdie?\"\n\n\"Look,\" said Curdie, moving away from the bedside.\n\nIrene followed him--and there, in the middle of the floor, she saw a\nstrange sight. Lina lay at full length, fast asleep, her tail stretched\nout straight behind her and her fore-legs before her: between the two\npaws meeting in front of it, her nose just touching it behind, glowed\nand flashed the crown, like a nest for the humming-birds of heaven.\n\nIrene gazed, and looked up with a smile.\n\n\"But what if the thief were to come, and she not to wake?\" she said.\n\"Shall I try her?\" And as she spoke she stooped towards the crown.\n\n\"No, no, no!\" cried Curdie, terrified. \"She would frighten you out of\nyour wits. I would do it to show you, but she would wake your father.\nYou have no conception with what a roar she would spring at my throat.\nBut you shall see how lightly she wakes the moment I speak to\nher.--Lina!\"\n\nShe was on her feet the same instant, with her great tail sticking out\nstraight behind her, just as it had been lying.\n\n\"Good dog!\" said the princess, and patted her head. Lina wagged her tail\nsolemnly, like the boom of an anchored sloop. Irene took the crown, and\nlaid it where the king would see it when he woke.\n\n\"Now, princess,\" said Curdie, \"I must leave you for a few minutes. You\nmust bolt the door, please, and not open it to any one.\"\n\nAway to the cellar he went with Lina, taking care, as they passed\nthrough the servants' hall, to get her a good breakfast. In about one\nminute she had eaten what he gave her, and looked up in his face: it was\nnot more she wanted, but work. So out of the cellar they went through\nthe passage, and Curdie into the dungeon, where he pulled up Lina,\nopened the door, let her out, and shut it again behind her. As he\nreached the door of the king's chamber, Lina was flying out of the gate\nof Gwyntystorm as fast as her mighty legs could carry her.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"What's come to the wench?\" growled the men-servants one to another,\nwhen the chambermaid appeared among them the next morning. There was\nsomething in her face which they could not understand, and did not\nlike.\n\n\"Are we all dirt?\" they said. \"What are you thinking about? Have you\nseen yourself in the glass this morning, miss?\"\n\nShe made no answer.\n\n\"Do you want to be treated as you deserve, or will you speak, you\nhussy?\" said the first woman-cook. \"I would fain know what right _you_\nhave to put on a face like that!\"\n\n\"You won't believe me,\" said the girl.\n\n\"Of course not. What is it?\"\n\n\"I must tell you, whether you believe me or not,\" she said.\n\n\"Of course you must.\"\n\n\"It is this, then: if you do not repent of your bad ways, you are all\ngoing to be punished--all turned out of the palace together.\"\n\n\"A mighty punishment!\" said the butler. \"A good riddance, say I, of the\ntrouble of keeping minxes like you in order! And why, pray, should we be\nturned out? What have I to repent of now, your holiness?\"\n\n\"That you know best yourself,\" said the girl.\n\n\"A pretty piece of insolence! How should _I_ know, forsooth, what a\nmenial like you has got against me! There _are_ people in this\nhouse--oh! I'm not blind to their ways! but every one for himself, say\nI!--Pray, Miss Judgment, who gave you such an impertinent message to his\nmajesty's household?\"\n\n\"One who is come to set things right in the king's house.\"\n\n\"Right, indeed!\" cried the butler; but that moment the thought came back\nto him of the roar he had heard in the cellar, and he turned pale and\nwas silent.\n\nThe steward took it up next.\n\n\"And pray, pretty prophetess,\" he said, attempting to chuck her under\nthe chin, \"what have _I_ got to repent of?\"\n\n\"That you know best yourself,\" said the girl. \"You have but to look into\nyour books or your heart.\"\n\n\"Can you tell _me_, then, what I have to repent of?\" said the groom of\nthe chambers.\n\n\"That you know best yourself,\" said the girl once more. \"The person who\ntold me to tell you said the servants of this house had to repent of\nthieving, and lying, and unkindness, and drinking; and they will be made\nto repent of them one way, if they don't do it of themselves another.\"\n\nThen arose a great hubbub; for by this time all the servants in the\nhouse were gathered about her, and all talked together, in towering\nindignation.\n\n\"Thieving, indeed!\" cried one. \"A pretty word in a house where\neverything is left lying about in a shameless way, tempting poor\ninnocent girls!--a house where nobody cares for anything, or has the\nleast respect to the value of property!\"\n\n\"I suppose you envy me this brooch of mine,\" said another. \"There was\njust a half-sheet of note-paper about it, not a scrap more, in a drawer\nthat's always open in the writing-table in the study! What sort of a\nplace is that for a jewel? Can you call it stealing to take a thing from\nsuch a place as that? Nobody cared a straw about it. It might as well\nhave been in the dust-hole! If it had been locked up--then, to be sure!\"\n\n\"Drinking!\" said the chief porter, with a husky laugh. \"And who wouldn't\ndrink when he had a chance? Or who would repent it, except that the\ndrink was gone? Tell me that, Miss Innocence.\"\n\n\"Lying!\" said a great, coarse footman. \"I suppose you mean when I told\nyou yesterday you were a pretty girl when you didn't pout? Lying,\nindeed! Tell us something worth repenting of! Lying is the way of\nGwyntystorm. You should have heard Jabez lying to the cook last night!\nHe wanted a sweetbread for his pup, and pretended it was for the\nprincess! Ha! ha! ha!\"\n\n\"Unkindness! I wonder who's unkind! Going and listening to any stranger\nagainst her fellow-servants, and then bringing back his wicked words to\ntrouble them!\" said the oldest and worst of the housemaids. \"--One of\nourselves, too!--Come, you hypocrite! this is all an invention of yours\nand your young man's, to take your revenge of us because we found you\nout in a lie last night. Tell true now:--wasn't it the same that stole\nthe loaf and the pie that sent you with the impudent message?\"\n\nAs she said this, she stepped up to the housemaid and gave her, instead\nof time to answer, a box on the ear that almost threw her down; and\nwhoever could get at her began to push and hustle and pinch and punch\nher.\n\n\"You invite your fate,\" she said quietly.\n\nThey fell furiously upon her, drove her from the hall with kicks and\nblows, hustled her along the passage, and threw her down the stair to\nthe wine-cellar, then locked the door at the top of it, and went back to\ntheir breakfast.\n\nIn the meantime the king and the princess had had their bread and wine,\nand the princess, with Curdie's help, had made the room as tidy as she\ncould--they were terribly neglected by the servants. And now Curdie set\nhimself to interest and amuse the king, and prevent him from thinking\ntoo much, in order that he might the sooner think the better. Presently,\nat his majesty's request, he began from the beginning, and told\neverything he could recall of his life, about his father and mother and\ntheir cottage on the mountain, of the inside of the mountain and the\nwork there, about the goblins and his adventures with them. When he came\nto finding the princess and her nurse overtaken by the twilight on the\nmountain, Irene took up her share of the tale, and told all about\nherself to that point, and then Curdie took it up again; and so they\nwent on, each fitting in the part that the other did not know, thus\nkeeping the hoop of the story running straight; and the king listened\nwith wondering and delighted ears, astonished to find what he could so\nill comprehend, yet fitting so well together from the lips of two\nnarrators. At last, with the mission given him by the wonderful princess\nand his consequent adventures, Curdie brought up the whole tale to the\npresent moment. Then a silence fell, and Irene and Curdie thought the\nking was asleep. But he was far from it; he was thinking about many\nthings. After a long pause he said:--\n\n\"Now at last, my children, I am compelled to believe many things I could\nnot and do not yet understand--things I used to hear, and sometimes see,\nas often as I visited my mother's home. Once, for instance, I heard my\nmother say to her father--speaking of me--'He is a good, honest boy, but\nhe will be an old man before he understands;' and my grandfather\nanswered, 'Keep up your heart, child: my mother will look after him.' I\nthought often of their words, and the many strange things besides I both\nheard and saw in that house; but by degrees, because I could not\nunderstand them, I gave up thinking of them. And indeed I had almost\nforgotten them, when you, my child, talking that day about the Queen\nIrene and her pigeons, and what you had seen in her garret, brought them\nall back to my mind in a vague mass. But now they keep coming back to\nme, one by one, every one for itself; and I shall just hold my peace,\nand lie here quite still, and think about them all till I get well\nagain.\"\n\nWhat he meant they could not quite understand, but they saw plainly that\nalready he was better.\n\n\"Put away my crown,\" he said. \"I am tired of seeing it, and have no more\nany fear of its safety.\"\n\nThey put it away together, withdrew from the bedside, and left him in\npeace.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\n\nTHE AVENGERS.\n\n\nThere was nothing now to be dreaded from Dr. Kelman, but it made Curdie\nanxious, as the evening drew near, to think that not a soul belonging to\nthe court had been to visit the king, or ask how he did, that day. He\nfeared, in some shape or other, a more determined assault. He had\nprovided himself a place in the room, to which he might retreat upon\napproach, and whence he could watch; but not once had he had to betake\nhimself to it.\n\nTowards night the king fell asleep. Curdie thought more and more\nuneasily of the moment when he must again leave them for a little while.\nDeeper and deeper fell the shadows. No one came to light the lamp. The\nprincess drew her chair close to Curdie: she would rather it were not so\ndark, she said. She was afraid of something--she could not tell what;\nnor could she give any reason for her fear but that all was so\ndreadfully still. When it had been dark about an hour, Curdie thought\nLina might be returned; and reflected that the sooner he went the less\ndanger was there of any assault while he was away. There was more risk\nof his own presence being discovered, no doubt, but things were now\ndrawing to a crisis, and it must be run. So, telling the princess to\nlock all the doors of the bedchamber, and let no one in, he took his\nmattock, and with here a run, and there a halt under cover, gained the\ndoor at the head of the cellar-stair in safety. To his surprise he found\nit locked, and the key was gone. There was no time for deliberation. He\nfelt where the lock was, and dealt it a tremendous blow with his\nmattock. It needed but a second to dash the door open. Some one laid a\nhand on his arm.\n\n\"Who is it?\" said Curdie.\n\n\"I told you they wouldn't believe me, sir,\" said the housemaid. \"I have\nbeen here all day.\"\n\nHe took her hand, and said, \"You are a good, brave girl. Now come with\nme, lest your enemies imprison you again.\"\n\nHe took her to the cellar, locked the door, lighted a bit of candle,\ngave her a little wine, told her to wait there till he came, and went\nout the back way.\n\nSwiftly he swung himself up into the dungeon. Lina had done her part.\nThe place was swarming with creatures--animal forms wilder and more\ngrotesque than ever ramped in nightmare dream. Close by the hole,\nwaiting his coming, her green eyes piercing the gulf below, Lina had but\njust laid herself down when he appeared. All about the vault and up the\nslope of the rubbish-heap lay and stood and squatted the forty-nine\nwhose friendship Lina had conquered in the wood. They all came crowding\nabout Curdie.\n\nHe must get them into the cellar as quickly as ever he could. But when\nhe looked at the size of some of them, he feared it would be a long\nbusiness to enlarge the hole sufficiently to let them through. At it he\nrushed, hitting vigorously at its edge with his mattock. At the very\nfirst blow came a splash from the water beneath, but ere he could heave\na third, a creature like a tapir, only that the grasping point of its\nproboscis was hard as the steel of Curdie's hammer, pushed him gently\naside, making room for another creature, with a head like a great club,\nwhich it began banging upon the floor with terrible force and noise.\nAfter about a minute of this battery, the tapir came up again, shoved\nClubhead aside, and putting its own head into the hole began gnawing at\nthe sides of it with the finger of its nose, in such a fashion that the\nfragments fell in a continuous gravelly shower into the water. In a few\nminutes the opening was large enough for the biggest creature amongst\nthem to get through it.\n\nNext came the difficulty of letting them down: some were quite light,\nbut the half of them were too heavy for the rope, not to say for his\narms. The creatures themselves seemed to be puzzling where or how they\nwere to go. One after another of them came up, looked down through the\nhole, and drew back. Curdie thought if he let Lina down, perhaps that\nwould suggest something; possibly they did not see the opening on the\nother side. He did so, and Lina stood lighting up the entrance of the\npassage with her gleaming eyes. One by one the creatures looked down\nagain, and one by one they drew back, each standing aside to glance at\nthe next, as if to say, _Now you have a look_. At last it came to the\nturn of the serpent with the long body, the four short legs behind, and\nthe little wings before. No sooner had he poked his head through than he\npoked it farther through--and farther, and farther yet, until there was\nlittle more than his legs left in the dungeon. By that time he had got\nhis head and neck well into the passage beside Lina. Then his legs gave\na great waddle and spring, and he tumbled himself, far as there was\nbetwixt them, heels over head into the passage.\n\n\"That is all very well for you, Mr. Legserpent!\" thought Curdie to\nhimself; \"but what is to be done with the rest?\"\n\nHe had hardly time to think it however, before the creature's head\nappeared again through the floor. He caught hold of the bar of iron to\nwhich Curdie's rope was tied, and settling it securely across the\nnarrowest part of the irregular opening, held fast to it with his teeth.\nIt was plain to Curdie, from the universal hardness amongst them, that\nthey must all, at one time or another, have been creatures of the mines.\n\nHe saw at once what this one was after. He had planted his feet firmly\nupon the floor of the passage, and stretched his long body up and across\nthe chasm to serve as a bridge for the rest. He mounted instantly upon\nhis neck, threw his arms round him as far as they would go, and slid\ndown in ease and safety, the bridge just bending a little as his weight\nglided over it. But he thought some of the creatures would try his\nteeth.\n\nOne by one the oddities followed, and slid down in safety. When they\nseemed to be all landed, he counted them: there were but forty-eight. Up\nthe rope again he went, and found one which had been afraid to trust\nhimself to the bridge, and no wonder! for he had neither legs nor head\nnor arms nor tail: he was just a round thing, about a foot in diameter,\nwith a nose and mouth and eyes on one side of the ball. He had made his\njourney by rolling as swiftly as the fleetest of them could run. The\nback of the legserpent not being flat, he could not quite trust himself\nto roll straight and not drop into the gulf. Curdie took him in his\narms, and the moment he looked down through the hole, the bridge made\nitself again, and he slid into the passage in safety, with Ballbody in\nhis bosom.\n\nHe ran first to the cellar, to warn the girl not to be frightened at the\navengers of wickedness. Then he called to Lina to bring in her friends.\n\nOne after another they came trooping in, till the cellar seemed full of\nthem. The housemaid regarded them without fear.\n\n\"Sir,\" she said, \"there is one of the pages I don't take to be a bad\nfellow.\"\n\n\"Then keep him near you,\" said Curdie. \"And now can you show me a way to\nthe king's chamber not through the servants' hall?\"\n\n\"There is a way through the chamber of the colonel of the guard,\" she\nanswered, \"but he is ill, and in bed.\"\n\n\"Take me that way,\" said Curdie.\n\nBy many ups and downs and windings and turnings she brought him to a\ndimly-lighted room, where lay an elderly man asleep. His arm was outside\nthe coverlid, and Curdie gave his hand a hurried grasp as he went by.\nHis heart beat for joy, for he had found a good, honest human hand.\n\n\"I suppose that is why he is ill,\" he said to himself.\n\nIt was now close upon supper-time, and when the girl stopped at the door\nof the king's chamber, he told her to go and give the servants one\nwarning more.\n\n\"Say the messenger sent you,\" he said. \"I will be with you very soon.\"\n\nThe king was still asleep. Curdie talked to the princess for a few\nminutes, told her not to be frightened whatever noises she heard, only\nto keep her door locked till he came, and left her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n\nTHE VENGEANCE.\n\n\nBy the time the girl reached the servants' hall they were seated at\nsupper. A loud, confused exclamation arose when she entered. No one made\nroom for her; all stared with unfriendly eyes. A page, who entered the\nnext minute by another door, came to her side.\n\n\"Where do _you_ come from, hussy?\" shouted the butler, and knocked his\nfist on the table with a loud clang.\n\nHe had gone to fetch wine, had found the stair door broken open and the\ncellar-door locked, and had turned and fled. Amongst his fellows,\nhowever, he had now regained what courage could be called his.\n\n\"From the cellar,\" she replied. \"The messenger broke open the door, and\nsent me to you again.\"\n\n\"The messenger! Pooh! What messenger?\"\n\n\"The same who sent me before to tell you to repent.\"\n\n\"What! will you go fooling it still? Haven't you had enough of it?\"\ncried the butler in a rage, and starting to his feet, drew near\nthreateningly.\n\n\"I must do as I am told,\" said the girl.\n\n\"Then why _don't_ you do as _I_ tell you, and hold your tongue?\" said\nthe butler. \"Who wants your preachments? If anybody here has anything to\nrepent of, isn't that enough--and more than enough for him--but you must\ncome bothering about, and stirring up, till not a drop of quiet will\nsettle inside him? You come along with me, young woman; we'll see if we\ncan't find a lock somewhere in the house that'll hold you in!\"\n\n\"Hands off, Mr. Butler!\" said the page, and stepped between.\n\n\"Oh, ho!\" cried the butler, and pointed his fat finger at him. \"That's\nyou, is it, my fine fellow? So it's you that's up to her tricks, is it?\"\n\nThe youth did not answer, only stood with flashing eyes fixed on him,\nuntil, growing angrier and angrier, but not daring a step nearer, he\nburst out with rude but quavering authority,--\n\n\"Leave the house, both of you! Be off, or I'll have Mr. Steward to talk\nto you. Threaten your masters, indeed! Out of the house with you, and\nshow us the way you tell us of!\"\n\nTwo or three of the footmen got up and ranged themselves behind the\nbutler.\n\n\"Don't say _I_ threaten you, Mr. Butler,\" expostulated the girl from\nbehind the page. \"The messenger said I was to tell you again, and give\nyou one chance more.\"\n\n\"Did the _messenger_ mention me in particular?\" asked the butler,\nlooking the page unsteadily in the face.\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered the girl.\n\n\"I thought not! I should like to hear him!\"\n\n\"Then hear him now,\" said Curdie, who that moment entered at the\nopposite corner of the hall. \"I speak of the butler in particular when I\nsay that I know more evil of him than of any of the rest. He will not\nlet either his own conscience or my messenger speak to him: I therefore\nnow speak myself. I proclaim him a villain, and a traitor to his majesty\nthe king.--But what better is any one of you who cares only for himself,\neats, drinks, takes good money, and gives vile service in return,\nstealing and wasting the king's property, and making of the palace,\nwhich ought to be an example of order and sobriety, a disgrace to the\ncountry?\"\n\nFor a moment all stood astonished into silence by this bold speech\nfrom a stranger. True, they saw by his mattock over his shoulder\nthat he was nothing but a miner boy, yet for a moment the truth told\nnotwithstanding. Then a great roaring laugh burst from the biggest of\nthe footmen as he came shouldering his way through the crowd towards\nCurdie.\n\n\"Yes, I'm right,\" he cried; \"I thought as much! This _messenger_,\nforsooth, is nothing but a gallows-bird--a fellow the city marshal was\ngoing to hang, but unfortunately put it off till he should be starved\nenough to save rope and be throttled with a pack-thread. He broke\nprison, and here he is preaching!\"\n\nAs he spoke, he stretched out his great hand to lay hold of him. Curdie\ncaught it in his left hand, and heaved his mattock with the other.\nFinding, however, nothing worse than an ox-hoof, he restrained himself,\nstepped back a pace or two, shifted his mattock to his left hand, and\nstruck him a little smart blow on the shoulder. His arm dropped by his\nside, he gave a roar, and drew back.\n\nHis fellows came crowding upon Curdie. Some called to the dogs; others\nswore; the women screamed; the footmen and pages got round him in a\nhalf-circle, which he kept from closing by swinging his mattock, and\nhere and there threatening a blow.\n\n\"Whoever confesses to having done anything wrong in this house, however\nsmall, however great, and means to do better, let him come to this\ncorner of the room,\" he cried.\n\nNone moved but the page, who went towards him skirting the wall. When\nthey caught sight of him, the crowd broke into a hiss of derision.\n\n\"There! see! Look at the sinner! He confesses! actually confesses! Come,\nwhat is it you stole? The barefaced hypocrite! There's your sort to set\nup for reproving other people! Where's the other now?\"\n\nBut the maid had left the room, and they let the page pass, for he\nlooked dangerous to stop. Curdie had just put him betwixt him and the\nwall, behind the door, when in rushed the butler with the huge kitchen\npoker, the point of which he had blown red-hot in the fire, followed by\nthe cook with his longest spit. Through the crowd, which scattered right\nand left before them, they came down upon Curdie. Uttering a shrill\nwhistle, he caught the poker a blow with his mattock, knocking the point\nto the ground, while the page behind him started forward, and seizing\nthe point of the spit, held on to it with both hands, the cook kicking\nhim furiously.\n\nEre the butler could raise the poker again, or the cook recover the\nspit, with a roar to terrify the dead, Lina dashed into the room, her\neyes flaming like candles. She went straight at the butler. He was down\nin a moment, and she on the top of him, wagging her tail over him like a\nlioness.\n\n\"Don't kill him, Lina,\" said Curdie.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Miner!\" cried the butler.\n\n\"Put your foot on his mouth, Lina,\" said Curdie. \"The truth Fear tells\nis not much better than her lies.\"\n\nThe rest of the creatures now came stalking, rolling, leaping, gliding,\nhobbling into the room, and each as he came took the next place along\nthe wall, until, solemn and grotesque, all stood ranged, awaiting\norders.\n\nAnd now some of the culprits were stealing to the doors nearest them.\nCurdie whispered the two creatures next him. Off went Ballbody, rolling\nand bounding through the crowd like a spent cannon shot, and when the\nforemost reached the door to the corridor, there he lay at the foot of\nit grinning; to the other door scuttled a scorpion, as big as a huge\ncrab. The rest stood so still that some began to think they were only\nboys dressed up to look awful; they persuaded themselves they were only\nanother part of the housemaid and page's vengeful contrivance, and their\nevil spirits began to rise again. Meantime Curdie had, with a second\nsharp blow from the hammer of his mattock, disabled the cook, so that he\nyielded the spit with a groan. He now turned to the avengers.\n\n\"Go at them,\" he said.\n\nThe whole nine-and-forty obeyed at once, each for himself, and after his\nown fashion. A scene of confusion and terror followed. The crowd\nscattered like a dance of flies. The creatures had been instructed not\nto hurt much, but to hunt incessantly, until every one had rushed\nfrom the house. The women shrieked, and ran hither and thither through\nthe hall, pursued each by her own horror, and snapped at by every other\nin passing. If one threw herself down in hysterical despair, she was\ninstantly poked or clawed or nibbled up again. Though they were quite as\nfrightened at first, the men did not run so fast; and by-and-by some of\nthem, finding they were only glared at, and followed, and pushed, began\nto summon up courage once more, and with courage came impudence. The\ntapir had the big footman in charge: the fellow stood stock-still, and\nlet the beast come up to him, then put out his finger and playfully\npatted his nose. The tapir gave the nose a little twist, and the finger\nlay on the floor. Then indeed the footman ran, and did more than run,\nbut nobody heeded his cries. Gradually the avengers grew more severe,\nand the terrors of the imagination were fast yielding to those of\nsensuous experience, when a page, perceiving one of the doors no longer\nguarded, sprang at it, and ran out. Another and another followed. Not a\nbeast went after, until, one by one, they were every one gone from the\nhall, and the whole menie in the kitchen. There they were beginning to\ncongratulate themselves that all was over, when in came the creatures\ntrooping after them, and the second act of their terror and pain began.\nThey were flung about in all directions; their clothes were torn from\nthem; they were pinched and scratched any and everywhere; Ballbody kept\nrolling up them and over them, confining his attentions to no one in\nparticular; the scorpion kept grabbing at their legs with his huge\npincers; a three-foot centipede kept screwing up their bodies, nipping\nas he went; varied as numerous were their woes. Nor was it long before\nthe last of them had fled from the kitchen to the sculleries. But\nthither also they were followed, and there again they were hunted about.\nThey were bespattered with the dirt of their own neglect; they were\nsoused in the stinking water that had boiled greens; they were smeared\nwith rancid dripping; their faces were rubbed in maggots: I dare not\ntell all that was done to them. At last they got the door into a\nback-yard open, and rushed out. Then first they knew that the wind was\nhowling and the rain falling in sheets. But there was no rest for them\neven there. Thither also were they followed by the inexorable avengers,\nand the only door here was a door out of the palace: out every soul of\nthem was driven, and left, some standing, some lying, some crawling, to\nthe farther buffeting of the waterspouts and whirlwinds ranging every\nstreet of the city. The door was flung to behind them, and they heard it\nlocked and bolted and barred against them.\n\n[Illustration: \"_A scene of confusion and terror followed: the crowd\nscattered like a dance of flies._\"]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\n\nMORE VENGEANCE.\n\n\nAs soon as they were gone, Curdie brought the creatures back to the\nservants' hall, and told them to eat up everything on the table. It\n_was_ a sight to see them all standing round it--except such as had to\nget upon it--eating and drinking, each after its fashion, without a\nsmile, or a word, or a glance of fellowship in the act. A very few\nmoments served to make everything eatable vanish, and then Curdie\nrequested them to clean the house, and the page who stood by to assist\nthem.\n\nEvery one set about it except Ballbody: he could do nothing at cleaning,\nfor the more he rolled, the more he spread the dirt. Curdie was curious\nto know what he had been, and how he had come to be such as he was; but\nhe could only conjecture that he was a gluttonous alderman whom nature\nhad treated homeopathically.\n\nAnd now there was such a cleaning and clearing out of neglected places,\nsuch a burying and burning of refuse, such a rinsing of jugs, such a\nswilling of sinks, and such a flushing of drains, as would have\ndelighted the eyes of all true housekeepers and lovers of cleanliness\ngenerally.\n\nCurdie meantime was with the king, telling him all he had done. They had\nheard a little noise, but not much, for he had told the avengers to\nrepress outcry as much as possible; and they had seen to it that the\nmore any one cried out the more he had to cry out upon, while the\npatient ones they scarcely hurt at all.\n\nHaving promised his majesty and her royal highness a good breakfast,\nCurdie now went to finish the business. The courtiers must be dealt\nwith. A few who were the worst, and the leaders of the rest, must be\nmade examples of; the others should be driven from their beds to the\nstreet.\n\nHe found the chiefs of the conspiracy holding a final consultation in\nthe smaller room off the hall. These were the lord chamberlain, the\nattorney-general, the master of the horse, and the king's private\nsecretary: the lord chancellor and the rest, as foolish as faithless,\nwere but the tools of these.\n\nThe housemaid had shown him a little closet, opening from a passage\nbehind, where he could overhear all that passed in that room; and now\nCurdie heard enough to understand that they had determined, in the dead\nof that night, rather in the deepest dark before the morning, to bring a\ncertain company of soldiers into the palace, make away with the king,\nsecure the princess, announce the sudden death of his majesty, read as\nhis the will they had drawn up, and proceed to govern the country at\ntheir ease, and with results: they would at once levy severer taxes, and\npick a quarrel with the most powerful of their neighbours. Everything\nsettled, they agreed to retire, and have a few hours' quiet sleep\nfirst--all but the secretary, who was to sit up and call them at the\nproper moment. Curdie stole away, allowed them half an hour to get to\nbed, and then set about completing his purgation of the palace.\n\nFirst he called Lina, and opened the door of the room where the\nsecretary sat. She crept in, and laid herself down against it. When the\nsecretary, rising to stretch his legs, caught sight of her eyes, he\nstood frozen with terror. She made neither motion nor sound. Gathering\ncourage, and taking the thing for a spectral illusion, he made a step\nforward. She showed her other teeth, with a growl neither more than\naudible nor less than horrible. The secretary sank fainting into a\nchair. He was not a brave man, and besides, his conscience had gone over\nto the enemy, and was sitting against the door by Lina.\n\nTo the lord chamberlain's door next, Curdie conducted the legserpent,\nand let him in.\n\nNow his lordship had had a bedstead made for himself, sweetly fashioned\nof rods of silver gilt: upon it the legserpent found him asleep, and\nunder it he crept. But out he came on the other side, and crept over it\nnext, and again under it, and so over it, under it, over it, five or six\ntimes, every time leaving a coil of himself behind him, until he had\nsoftly folded all his length about the lord chamberlain and his bed.\nThis done, he set up his head, looking down with curved neck right over\nhis lordship's, and began to hiss in his face. He woke in terror\nunspeakable, and would have started up; but the moment he moved, the\nlegserpent drew his coils closer, and closer still, and drew and drew\nuntil the quaking traitor heard the joints of his bedstead grinding and\ngnarring. Presently he persuaded himself that it was only a horrid\nnightmare, and began to struggle with all his strength to throw it off.\nThereupon the legserpent gave his hooked nose such a bite, that his\nteeth met through it--but it was hardly thicker than the bowl of a\nspoon; and then the vulture knew that he was in the grasp of his enemy\nthe snake, and yielded. As soon as he was quiet the legserpent began to\nuntwist and retwist, to uncoil and recoil himself, swinging and swaying,\nknotting and relaxing himself with strangest curves and convolutions,\nalways, however, leaving at least one coil around his victim. At last he\nundid himself entirely, and crept from the bed. Then first the lord\nchamberlain discovered that his tormentor had bent and twisted the\nbedstead, legs and canopy and all, so about him, that he was shut in a\nsilver cage out of which it was impossible for him to find a way. Once\nmore, thinking his enemy was gone, he began to shout for help. But the\ninstant he opened his mouth his keeper darted at him and bit him, and\nafter three or four such essays, with like result, he lay still.\n\nThe master of the horse Curdie gave in charge to the tapir. When the\nsoldier saw him enter--for he was not yet asleep--he sprang from his\nbed, and flew at him with his sword. But the creature's hide was\ninvulnerable to his blows, and he pecked at his legs with his proboscis\nuntil he jumped into bed again, groaning, and covered himself up; after\nwhich the tapir contented himself with now and then paying a visit to\nhis toes.\n\nFor the attorney-general, Curdie led to his door a huge spider, about\ntwo feet long in the body, which, having made an excellent supper, was\nfull of webbing. The attorney-general had not gone to bed, but sat in a\nchair asleep before a great mirror. He had been trying the effect of a\ndiamond star which he had that morning taken from the jewel-room. When\nhe woke he fancied himself paralysed; every limb, every finger even, was\nmotionless: coils and coils of broad spider-ribbon bandaged his members\nto his body, and all to the chair. In the glass he saw himself wound\nabout, under and over and around, with slavery infinite. On a footstool\na yard off sat the spider glaring at him.\n\nClubhead had mounted guard over the butler, where he lay tied hand and\nfoot under the third cask. From that cask he had seen the wine run into\na great bath, and therein he expected to be drowned. The doctor, with\nhis crushed leg, needed no one to guard him.\n\nAnd now Curdie proceeded to the expulsion of the rest. Great men or\nunderlings, he treated them all alike. From room to room over the house\nhe went, and sleeping or waking took the man by the hand. Such was the\nstate to which a year of wicked rule had reduced the moral condition of\nthe court, that in it all he found but three with human hands. The\npossessors of these he allowed to dress themselves and depart in peace.\nWhen they perceived his mission, and how he was backed, they yielded\nwithout dispute.\n\nThen commenced a general hunt, to clear the house of the vermin. Out of\ntheir beds in their night-clothing, out of their rooms, gorgeous\nchambers or garret nooks, the creatures hunted them. Not one was allowed\nto escape. Tumult and noise there was little, for the fear was too\ndeadly for outcry. Ferreting them out everywhere, following them\nupstairs and downstairs, yielding no instant of repose except upon the\nway out, the avengers persecuted the miscreants, until the last of them\nwas shivering outside the palace gates, with hardly sense enough left to\nknow where to turn.\n\nWhen they set out to look for shelter, they found every inn full of the\nservants expelled before them, and not one would yield his place to a\nsuperior suddenly levelled with himself. Most houses refused to admit\nthem on the ground of the wickedness that must have drawn on them such a\npunishment; and not a few would have been left in the streets all night,\nhad not Derba, roused by the vain entreaties at the doors on each side\nof her cottage, opened hers, and given up everything to them. The lord\nchancellor was only too glad to share a mattress with a stable-boy, and\nsteal his bare feet under his jacket.\n\nIn the morning Curdie appeared, and the outcasts were in terror,\nthinking he had come after them again. But he took no notice of them:\nhis object was to request Derba to go to the palace: the king required\nher services. She needed take no trouble about her cottage, he said; the\npalace was henceforward her home: she was the king's chastelaine over\nmen and maidens of his household. And this very morning she must cook\nhis majesty a nice breakfast.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\n\nTHE PREACHER.\n\n\nVarious reports went undulating through the city as to the nature of\nwhat had taken place in the palace. The people gathered, and stared at\nthe house, eyeing it as if it had sprung up in the night. But it looked\nsedate enough, remaining closed and silent, like a house that was dead.\nThey saw no one come out or go in. Smoke rose from a chimney or two;\nthere was hardly another sign of life. It was not for some little time\ngenerally understood that the highest officers of the crown as well as\nthe lowest menials of the palace had been dismissed in disgrace: for who\nwas to recognise a lord chancellor in his night-shirt? and what lord\nchancellor would, so attired in the street, proclaim his rank and office\naloud? Before it was day most of the courtiers crept down to the river,\nhired boats, and betook themselves to their homes or their friends in\nthe country. It was assumed in the city that the domestics had been\ndischarged upon a sudden discovery of general and unpardonable\npeculation; for, almost everybody being guilty of it himself, petty\ndishonesty was the crime most easily credited and least easily passed\nover in Gwyntystorm.\n\nNow that same day was Religion day, and not a few of the clergy, always\nglad to seize on any passing event to give interest to the dull and\nmonotonic grind of their intellectual machines, made this remarkable one\nthe ground of discourse to their congregations. More especially than the\nrest, the first priest of the great temple where was the royal pew,\njudged himself, from his relation to the palace, called upon to \"improve\nthe occasion,\"--for they talked ever about improvement at Gwyntystorm,\nall the time they were going downhill with a rush.\n\nThe book which had, of late years, come to be considered the most\nsacred, was called The Book of Nations, and consisted of proverbs, and\nhistory traced through custom: from it the first priest chose his text;\nand his text was, _Honesty is the best Policy_. He was considered a very\neloquent man, but I can offer only a few of the larger bones of his\nsermon. The main proof of the verity of their religion, he said, was,\nthat things always went well with those who professed it; and its first\nfundamental principle, grounded in inborn invariable instinct, was,\nthat every One should take care of that One. This was the first duty of\nMan. If every one would but obey this law, number one, then would every\none be perfectly cared for--one being always equal to one. But the\nfaculty of care was in excess of need, and all that overflowed, and\nwould otherwise run to waste, ought to be gently turned in the direction\nof one's neighbour, seeing that this also wrought for the fulfilling of\nthe law, inasmuch as the reaction of excess so directed was upon the\ndirector of the same, to the comfort, that is, and well-being of the\noriginal self. To be just and friendly was to build the warmest and\nsafest of all nests, and to be kind and loving was to line it with the\nsoftest of all furs and feathers, for the one precious, comfort-loving\nself there to lie, revelling in downiest bliss. One of the laws\ntherefore most binding upon men because of its relation to the first and\ngreatest of all duties, was embodied in the Proverb he had just read;\nand what stronger proof of its wisdom and truth could they desire than\nthe sudden and complete vengeance which had fallen upon those worse than\nordinary sinners who had offended against the king's majesty by\nforgetting that _Honesty is the best Policy_?\n\nAt this point of the discourse the head of the legserpent rose from the\nfloor of the temple, towering above the pulpit, above the priest, then\ncurving downwards, with open mouth slowly descended upon him. Horror\nfroze the sermon-pump. He stared upwards aghast. The great teeth of the\nanimal closed upon a mouthful of the sacred vestments, and slowly he\nlifted the preacher from the pulpit, like a handful of linen from a\nwash-tub, and, on his four solemn stumps, bore him out of the temple,\ndangling aloft from his jaws. At the back of it he dropped him into the\ndust-hole amongst the remnants of a library whose age had destroyed its\nvalue in the eyes of the chapter. They found him burrowing in it, a\nlunatic henceforth--whose madness presented the peculiar feature, that\nin its paroxysms he jabbered sense.\n\nBone-freezing horror pervaded Gwyntystorm. If their best and wisest were\ntreated with such contempt, what might not the rest of them look for?\nAlas for their city! their grandly respectable city! their loftily\nreasonable city! Where it was all to end, the Convenient alone could\ntell!\n\nBut something must be done. Hastily assembling, the priests chose a new\nfirst priest, and in full conclave unanimously declared and accepted,\nthat the king in his retirement had, through the practice of the\nblackest magic, turned the palace into a nest of demons in the midst of\nthem. A grand exorcism was therefore indispensable.\n\nIn the meantime the fact came out that the greater part of the courtiers\nhad been dismissed as well as the servants, and this fact swelled the\nhope of the Party of Decency, as they called themselves. Upon it they\nproceeded to act, and strengthened themselves on all sides.\n\nThe action of the king's body-guard remained for a time uncertain. But\nwhen at length its officers were satisfied that both the master of the\nhorse and their colonel were missing, they placed themselves under the\norders of the first priest.\n\nEveryone dated the culmination of the evil from the visit of the miner\nand his mongrel; and the butchers vowed, if they could but get hold of\nthem again, they would roast both of them alive. At once they formed\nthemselves into a regiment, and put their dogs in training for attack.\n\nIncessant was the talk, innumerable were the suggestions, and great was\nthe deliberation. The general consent, however, was that as soon as the\npriests should have expelled the demons, they would depose the king,\nand, attired in all his regal insignia, shut him in a cage for public\nshow; then choose governors, with the lord chancellor at their head,\nwhose first duty should be to remit every possible tax; and the\nmagistrates, by the mouth of the city marshal, required all able-bodied\ncitizens, in order to do their part towards the carrying out of these\nand a multitude of other reforms, to be ready to take arms at the first\nsummons.\n\nThings needful were prepared as speedily as possible, and a mighty\nceremony, in the temple, in the market-place, and in front of the\npalace, was performed for the expulsion of the demons. This over, the\nleaders retired to arrange an attack upon the palace.\n\nBut that night events occurred which, proving the failure of their\nfirst, induced the abandonment of their second intent. Certain of the\nprowling order of the community, whose numbers had of late been steadily\non the increase, reported frightful things. Demons of indescribable\nugliness had been espied careering through the midnight streets and\ncourts. A citizen--some said in the very act of house-breaking, but no\none cared to look into trifles at such a crisis--had been seized from\nbehind, he could not see by what, and soused in the river. A well-known\nreceiver of stolen goods had had his shop broken open, and when he came\ndown in the morning had found everything in ruin on the pavement. The\nwooden image of justice over the door of the city marshal had had the\narm that held the sword _bitten_ off. The gluttonous magistrate had been\npulled from his bed in the dark, by beings of which he could see nothing\nbut the flaming eyes, and treated to a bath of the turtle soup that had\nbeen left simmering by the side of the kitchen fire. Having poured it\nover him, they put him again into his bed, where he soon learned how a\nmummy must feel in its cerements. Worst of all, in the market-place was\nfixed up a paper, with the king's own signature, to the effect that\nwhoever henceforth should show inhospitality to strangers, and should be\nconvicted of the same, should be instantly expelled the city; while a\nsecond, in the butchers' quarter, ordained that any dog which\nhenceforward should attack a stranger should be immediately destroyed.\nIt was plain, said the butchers, that the clergy were of no use; _they_\ncould not exorcise demons! That afternoon, catching sight of a poor old\nfellow in rags and tatters, quietly walking up the street, they hounded\ntheir dogs upon him, and had it not been that the door of Derba's\ncottage was standing open, and was near enough for him to dart in and\nshut it ere they reached him, he would have been torn in pieces.\n\nAnd thus things went on for some days.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.\n\nBARBARA.\n\n\nIn the meantime, with Derba to minister to his wants, with Curdie to\nprotect him, and Irene to nurse him, the king was getting rapidly\nstronger. Good food was what he most wanted, and of that, at least of\ncertain kinds of it, there was plentiful store in the palace. Everywhere\nsince the cleansing of the lower regions of it, the air was clean and\nsweet, and under the honest hands of the one housemaid the king's\nchamber became a pleasure to his eyes. With such changes it was no\nwonder if his heart grew lighter as well as his brain clearer.\n\nBut still evil dreams came and troubled him, the lingering result of the\nwicked medicines the doctor had given him. Every night, sometimes twice\nor thrice, he would wake up in terror, and it would be minutes ere he\ncould come to himself. The consequence was that he was always worse in\nthe morning, and had loss to make up during the day. This retarded his\nrecovery greatly. While he slept, Irene or Curdie, one or the other,\nmust still be always by his side.\n\nOne night, when it was Curdie's turn with the king, he heard a cry\nsomewhere in the house, and as there was no other child, concluded,\nnotwithstanding the distance of her grandmother's room, that it must be\nBarbara. Fearing something might be wrong, and noting the king's sleep\nmore quiet than usual, he ran to see. He found the child in the middle\nof the floor, weeping bitterly, and Derba slumbering peacefully in bed.\nThe instant she saw him the night-lost thing ceased her crying, smiled,\nand stretched out her arms to him. Unwilling to wake the old woman, who\nhad been working hard all day, he took the child, and carried her with\nhim. She clung to him so, pressing her tear-wet radiant face against\nhis, that her little arms threatened to choke him. When he re-entered\nthe chamber, he found the king sitting up in bed, fighting the phantoms\nof some hideous dream. Generally upon such occasions, although he saw\nhis watcher, he could not dissociate him from the dream, and went raving\non. But the moment his eyes fell upon little Barbara, whom he had never\nseen before, his soul came into them with a rush, and a smile like the\ndawn of an eternal day overspread his countenance: the dream was\nnowhere, and the child was in his heart. He stretched out his arms to\nher, the child stretched out hers to him, and in five minutes they were\nboth asleep, each in the other's embrace. From that night Barbara had a\ncrib in the king's chamber, and as often as he woke, Irene or Curdie,\nwhichever was watching, took the sleeping child and laid her in his\narms, upon which, invariably and instantly, the dream would vanish. A\ngreat part of the day too she would be playing on or about the king's\nbed; and it was a delight to the heart of the princess to see her\namusing herself with the crown, now sitting upon it, now rolling it\nhither and thither about the room like a hoop. Her grandmother entering\nonce while she was pretending to make porridge in it, held up her hands\nin horror-struck amazement; but the king would not allow her to\ninterfere, for the king was now Barbara's playmate, and his crown their\nplaything.\n\nThe colonel of the guard also was growing better. Curdie went often to\nsee him. They were soon friends, for the best people understand each\nother the easiest, and the grim old warrior loved the miner boy as if he\nwere at once his son and his angel. He was very anxious about his\nregiment. He said the officers were mostly honest men, he believed, but\nhow they might be doing without him, or what they might resolve, in\nignorance of the real state of affairs, and exposed to every\nmisrepresentation, who could tell? Curdie proposed that he should send\nfor the major, offering to be the messenger. The colonel agreed, and\nCurdie went--not without his mattock, because of the dogs.\n\nBut the officers had been told by the master of the horse that their\ncolonel was dead, and although they were amazed he should be buried\nwithout the attendance of his regiment, they never doubted the\ninformation. The handwriting itself of their colonel was insufficient,\ncounteracted by the fresh reports daily current, to destroy the lie. The\nmajor regarded the letter as a trap for the next officer in command, and\nsent his orderly to arrest the messenger. But Curdie had had the wisdom\nnot to wait for an answer.\n\nThe king's enemies said that he had first poisoned the good colonel of\nthe guard, and then murdered the master of the horse, and other faithful\ncouncillors; and that his oldest and most attached domestics had but\nescaped from the palace with their lives--nor all of them, for the\nbutler was missing. Mad or wicked, he was not only unfit to rule any\nlonger, but worse than unfit to have in his power and under his\ninfluence the young princess, only hope of Gwyntystorm and the kingdom.\n\nThe moment the lord chancellor reached his house in the country and had\ngot himself clothed, he began to devise how yet to destroy his master;\nand the very next morning set out for the neighbouring kingdom of\nBorsagrass, to invite invasion, and offer a compact with its monarch.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX.\n\nPETER.\n\n\nAt the cottage on the mountain everything for a time went on just as\nbefore. It was indeed dull without Curdie, but as often as they looked\nat the emerald it was gloriously green, and with nothing to fear or\nregret, and everything to hope, they required little comforting. One\nmorning, however, at last, Peter, who had been consulting the gem,\nrather now from habit than anxiety, as a farmer his barometer in\nundoubtful weather, turned suddenly to his wife, the stone in his hand,\nand held it up with a look of ghastly dismay.\n\n\"Why, that's never the emerald!\" said Joan.\n\n\"It is,\" answered Peter; \"but it were small blame to any one that took\nit for a bit of bottle glass!\"\n\nFor, all save one spot right in the centre, of intensest and most\nbrilliant green, it looked as if the colour had been burnt out of it.\n\n\"Run, run, Peter!\" cried his wife. \"Run and tell the old princess. It\nmay not be too late. The boy must be lying at death's door.\"\n\nWithout a word Peter caught up his mattock, darted from the cottage, and\nwas at the bottom of the hill in less time than he usually took to get\nhalfway.\n\nThe door of the king's house stood open; he rushed in and up the stair.\nBut after wandering about in vain for an hour, opening door after door,\nand finding no way farther up, the heart of the old man had well-nigh\nfailed him. Empty rooms, empty rooms!--desertion and desolation\neverywhere.\n\nAt last he did come upon the door to the tower-stair. Up he darted.\nArrived at the top, he found three doors, and, one after the other,\nknocked at them all. But there was neither voice nor hearing. Urged by\nhis faith and his dread, slowly, hesitatingly, he opened one. It\nrevealed a bare garret-room, nothing in it but one chair and one\nspinning-wheel. He closed it, and opened the next--to start back in\nterror, for he saw nothing but a great gulf, a moonless night, full of\nstars, and, for all the stars, dark, dark!--a fathomless abyss. He\nopened the third door, and a rush like the tide of a living sea invaded\nhis ears. Multitudinous wings flapped and flashed in the sun, and, like\nthe ascending column from a volcano, white birds innumerable shot into\nthe air, darkening the day with the shadow of their cloud, and then,\nwith a sharp sweep, as if bent sideways by a sudden wind, flew\nnorthward, swiftly away, and vanished. The place felt like a tomb. There\nseemed no breath of life left in it. Despair laid hold upon him; he\nrushed down thundering with heavy feet. Out upon him darted the\nhousekeeper like an ogress-spider, and after her came her men; but Peter\nrushed past them, heedless and careless--for had not the princess mocked\nhim?--and sped along the road to Gwyntystorm. What help lay in a miner's\nmattock, a man's arm, a father's heart, he would bear to his boy.\n\nJoan sat up all night waiting his return, hoping and hoping. The\nmountain was very still, and the sky was clear; but all night long the\nminer sped northwards, and the heart of his wife was troubled.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI.\n\nTHE SACRIFICE.\n\n\nThings in the palace were in a strange condition: the king playing with\na child and dreaming wise dreams, waited upon by a little princess with\nthe heart of a queen, and a youth from the mines, who went nowhere, not\neven into the king's chamber, without his mattock on his shoulder and a\nhorrible animal at his heels; in a room near by the colonel of his\nguard, also in bed, without a soldier to obey him; in six other rooms,\nfar apart, six miscreants, each watched by a beast-gaoler; ministers to\nthem all, an old woman, a young woman, and a page; and in the\nwine-cellar, forty-three animals, creatures more grotesque than ever\nbrain of man invented. None dared approach its gates, and seldom one\nissued from them.\n\nAll the dwellers in the city were united in enmity to the palace. It\nswarmed with evil spirits, they said, whereas the evil spirits were in\nthe city, unsuspected. One consequence of their presence was that, when\nthe rumour came that a great army was on the march against Gwyntystorm,\ninstead of rushing to their defences, to make new gates, free\nportcullises and drawbridges, and bar the river, each and all flew first\nto their treasures, burying them in their cellars and gardens, and\nhiding them behind stones in their chimneys; and, next to rebellion,\nsigning an invitation to his majesty of Borsagrass to enter at their\nopen gates, destroy their king, and annex their country to his own.\n\nThe straits of isolation were soon found in the palace: its invalids\nwere requiring stronger food, and what was to be done? for if the\nbutchers sent meat to the palace, was it not likely enough to be\npoisoned? Curdie said to Derba he would think of some plan before\nmorning.\n\nBut that same night, as soon as it was dark, Lina came to her master,\nand let him understand she wanted to go out. He unlocked a little\nprivate postern for her, left it so that she could push it open when she\nreturned, and told the crocodile to stretch himself across it inside.\nBefore midnight she came back with a young deer.\n\nEarly the next morning the legserpent crept out of the wine-cellar,\nthrough the broken door behind, shot into the river, and soon appeared\nin the kitchen with a splendid sturgeon. Every night Lina went out\nhunting, and every morning Legserpent went out fishing, and both\ninvalids and household had plenty to eat. As to news, the page, in plain\nclothes, would now and then venture out into the market-place, and\ngather some.\n\nOne night he came back with the report that the army of the king of\nBorsagrass had crossed the border. Two days after, he brought the news\nthat the enemy was now but twenty miles from Gwyntystorm.\n\nThe colonel of the guard rose, and began furbishing his armour--but gave\nit over to the page, and staggered across to the barracks, which were in\nthe next street. The sentry took him for a ghost or worse, ran into the\nguard-room, bolted the door, and stopped his ears. The poor colonel, who\nwas yet hardly able to stand, crawled back despairing.\n\nFor Curdie, he had already, as soon as the first rumour reached him,\nresolved, if no other instructions came, and the king continued unable\nto give orders, to call Lina and the creatures, and march to meet the\nenemy. If he died, he died for the right, and there was a right end of\nit. He had no preparations to make, except a good sleep.\n\nHe asked the king to let the housemaid take his place by his majesty\nthat night, and went and lay down on the floor of the corridor, no\nfarther off than a whisper would reach from the door of the chamber.\nThere, with an old mantle of the king's thrown over him, he was soon\nfast asleep.\n\nSomewhere about the middle of the night, he woke suddenly, started to\nhis feet, and rubbed his eyes. He could not tell what had waked him. But\ncould he be awake, or was he not dreaming? The curtain of the king's\ndoor, a dull red ever before, was glowing a gorgeous, a radiant purple;\nand the crown wrought upon it in silks and gems was flashing as if it\nburned! What could it mean? Was the king's chamber on fire? He darted to\nthe door and lifted the curtain. Glorious terrible sight!\n\nA long and broad marble table, that stood at one end of the room, had\nbeen drawn into the middle of it, and thereon burned a great fire, of a\nsort that Curdie knew--a fire of glowing, flaming roses, red and white.\nIn the midst of the roses lay the king, moaning, but motionless. Every\nrose that fell from the table to the floor, some one, whom Curdie could\nnot plainly see for the brightness, lifted and laid burning upon the\nking's face, until at length his face too was covered with the live\nroses, and he lay all within the fire, moaning still, with now and then\na shuddering sob. And the shape that Curdie saw and could not see, wept\nover the king as he lay in the fire, and often she hid her face in\nhandfuls of her shadowy hair, and from her hair the water of her\nweeping dropped like sunset rain in the light of the roses. At last\nshe lifted a great armful of her hair, and shook it over the fire, and\nthe drops fell from it in showers, and they did not hiss in the flames,\nbut there arose instead as it were the sound of running brooks. And the\nglow of the red fire died away, and the glow of the white fire grew\ngray, and the light was gone, and on the table all was black--except the\nface of the king, which shone from under the burnt roses like a diamond\nin the ashes of a furnace.\n\n[Illustration: \"_In the midst of the roses lay the king, moaning, but\nmotionless._\"]\n\nThen Curdie, no longer dazzled, saw and knew the old princess. The room\nwas lighted with the splendour of her face, of her blue eyes, of her\nsapphire crown. Her golden hair went streaming out from her through the\nair till it went off in mist and light. She was large and strong as a\nTitaness. She stooped over the table-altar, put her mighty arms under\nthe living sacrifice, lifted the king, as if he were but a little child,\nto her bosom, walked with him up the floor, and laid him in his bed.\nThen darkness fell.\n\nThe miner-boy turned silent away, and laid himself down again in the\ncorridor. An absolute joy filled his heart, his bosom, his head, his\nwhole body. All was safe; all was well. With the helve of his mattock\ntight in his grasp, he sank into a dreamless sleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII.\n\nTHE KING'S ARMY.\n\n\nHe woke like a giant refreshed with wine.\n\nWhen he went into the king's chamber, the housemaid sat where he had\nleft her, and everything in the room was as it had been the night\nbefore, save that a heavenly odour of roses filled the air of it. He\nwent up to the bed. The king opened his eyes, and the soul of perfect\nhealth shone out of them. Nor was Curdie amazed in his delight.\n\n\"Is it not time to rise, Curdie?\" said the king.\n\n\"It is, your majesty. To-day we must be doing,\" answered Curdie.\n\n\"What must we be doing to-day, Curdie?\"\n\n\"Fighting, sire.\"\n\n\"Then fetch me my armour--that of plated steel, in the chest there. You\nwill find the underclothing with it.\"\n\nAs he spoke, he reached out his hand for his sword, which hung in the\nbed before him, drew it, and examined the blade.\n\n\"A little rusty!\" he said, \"but the edge is there. We shall polish it\nourselves to-day--not on the wheel. Curdie, my son, I wake from a\ntroubled dream. A glorious torture has ended it, and I live. I know not\nwell how things are, but thou shalt explain them to me as I get on my\narmour.--No, I need no bath. I am clean.--Call the colonel of the\nguard.\"\n\nIn complete steel the old man stepped into the chamber. He knew it not,\nbut the old princess had passed through his room in the night.\n\n\"Why, Sir Bronzebeard!\" said the king, \"you are dressed before me! Thou\nneedest no valet, old man, when there is battle in the wind!\"\n\n\"Battle, sire!\" returned the colonel. \"--Where then are our soldiers?\"\n\n\"Why, there, and here,\" answered the king, pointing to the colonel\nfirst, and then to himself. \"Where else, man?--The enemy will be upon us\nere sunset, if we be not upon him ere noon. What other thing was in thy\nbrave brain when thou didst don thine armour, friend?\"\n\n\"Your majesty's orders, sire,\" answered Sir Bronzebeard.\n\nThe king smiled and turned to Curdie.\n\n\"And what was in thine, Curdie--for thy first word was of battle?\"\n\n\"See, your majesty,\" answered Curdie; \"I have polished my mattock. If\nyour majesty had not taken the command, I would have met the enemy at\nthe head of my beasts, and died in comfort, or done better.\"\n\n\"Brave boy!\" said the king. \"He who takes his life in his hand is the\nonly soldier. Thou shalt head thy beasts to-day.--Sir Bronzebeard, wilt\nthou die with me if need be?\"\n\n\"Seven times, my king,\" said the colonel.\n\n\"Then shall we win this battle!\" said the king. \"--Curdie, go and bind\nsecurely the six, that we lose not their guards.--Canst thou find us a\nhorse, think'st thou, Sir Bronzebeard? Alas! they told us our white\ncharger was dead.\"\n\n\"I will go and fright the varletry with my presence, and secure, I\ntrust, a horse for your majesty, and one for myself.\"\n\n\"And look you, brother!\" said the king; \"bring one for my miner boy too,\nand a sober old charger for the princess, for she too must go to the\nbattle, and conquer with us.\"\n\n\"Pardon me, sire,\" said Curdie; \"a miner can fight best on foot. I might\nsmite my horse dead under me with a missed blow. And besides, I must be\nnear my beasts.\"\n\n\"As you will,\" said the king. \"--Three horses then, Sir Bronzebeard.\"\n\nThe colonel departed, doubting sorely in his heart how to accoutre and\nlead from the barrack stables three horses, in the teeth of his revolted\nregiment.\n\nIn the hall he met the housemaid.\n\n\"Can you lead a horse?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Are you willing to die for the king?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Can you do as you are bid?\"\n\n\"I can keep on trying, sir.\"\n\n\"Come, then. Were I not a man I would be a woman such as thou.\"\n\nWhen they entered the barrack-yard, the soldiers scattered like autumn\nleaves before a blast of winter. They went into the stable\nunchallenged--and lo! in a stall, before the colonel's eyes, stood the\nking's white charger, with the royal saddle and bridle hung high beside\nhim!\n\n\"Traitorous thieves!\" muttered the old man in his beard, and went along\nthe stalls, looking for his own black charger. Having found him, he\nreturned to saddle first the king's. But the maid had already the\nsaddle upon him, and so girt that the colonel could thrust no\nfinger-tip between girth and skin. He left her to finish what she had so\nwell begun, and went and graithed his own. He then chose for the\nprincess a great red horse, twenty years old, which he knew to possess\nevery equine virtue. This and his own he led to the palace, and the maid\nled the king's.\n\nThe king and Curdie stood in the court, the king in full armour of\nsilvered steel, with a circlet of rubies and diamonds round his helmet.\nHe almost leaped for joy when he saw his great white charger come in,\ngentle as a child to the hand of the housemaid. But when the horse saw\nhis master in his armour, he reared and bounded in jubilation, yet did\nnot break from the hand that held him. Then out came the princess\nattired and ready, with a hunting-knife her father had given her by her\nside. They brought her mother's saddle, splendent with gems and gold,\nset it on the great red horse, and lifted her to it. But the saddle was\nso big, and the horse so tall, that the child found no comfort in them.\n\n\"Please, king papa,\" she said, \"can I not have my white pony?\"\n\n\"I did not think of him, little one,\" said the king. \"Where is he?\"\n\n\"In the stable,\" answered the maid. \"I found him half-starved, the only\nhorse within the gates, the day after the servants were driven out. He\nhas been well fed since.\"\n\n\"Go and fetch him,\" said the king.\n\nAs the maid appeared with the pony, from a side door came Lina and the\nforty-nine, following Curdie.\n\n\"I will go with Curdie and the Uglies,\" cried the princess; and as soon\nas she was mounted she got into the middle of the pack.\n\nSo out they set, the strangest force that ever went against an enemy.\nThe king in silver armour sat stately on his white steed, with the\nstones flashing on his helmet; beside him the grim old colonel, armed in\nsteel, rode his black charger; behind the king, a little to the right,\nCurdie walked afoot, his mattock shining in the sun; Lina followed at\nhis heel; behind her came the wonderful company of Uglies; in the midst\nof them rode the gracious little Irene, dressed in blue, and mounted on\nthe prettiest of white ponies; behind the colonel, a little to the left,\nwalked the page, armed in a breastplate, headpiece, and trooper's sword\nhe had found in the palace, all much too big for him, and carrying a\nhuge brass trumpet which he did his best to blow; and the king smiled\nand seemed pleased with his music, although it was but the grunt of a\nbrazen unrest. Alongside of the beasts walked Derba carrying\nBarbara--their refuge the mountains, should the cause of the king be\nlost; as soon as they were over the river they turned aside to ascend\nthe cliff, and there awaited the forging of the day's history. Then\nfirst Curdie saw that the housemaid, whom they had all forgotten, was\nfollowing, mounted on the great red horse, and seated in the royal\nsaddle.\n\nMany were the eyes unfriendly of women that had stared at them from door\nand window as they passed through the city; and low laughter and mockery\nand evil words from the lips of children had rippled about their ears;\nbut the men were all gone to welcome the enemy, the butchers the first,\nthe king's guard the last. And now on the heels of the king's army\nrushed out the women and children also, to gather flowers and branches,\nwherewith to welcome their conquerors.\n\nAbout a mile down the river, Curdie, happening to look behind him, saw\nthe maid, whom he had supposed gone with Derba, still following on the\ngreat red horse. The same moment the king, a few paces in front of him,\ncaught sight of the enemy's tents, pitched where, the cliffs receding,\nthe bank of the river widened to a little plain.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII.\n\nTHE BATTLE.\n\n\nHe commanded the page to blow his trumpet; and, in the strength of the\nmoment, the youth uttered a right war-like defiance.\n\nBut the butchers and the guard, who had gone over armed to the enemy,\nthinking that the king had come to make his peace also, and that it\nmight thereafter go hard with them, rushed at once to make short work\nwith him, and both secure and commend themselves. The butchers came on\nfirst--for the guards had slackened their saddle-girths--brandishing\ntheir knives, and talking to their dogs. Curdie and the page, with Lina\nand her pack, bounded to meet them. Curdie struck down the foremost with\nhis mattock. The page, finding his sword too much for him, threw it away\nand seized the butcher's knife, which as he rose he plunged into the\nforemost dog. Lina rushed raging and gnashing amongst them. She would\nnot look at a dog so long as there was a butcher on his legs, and she\nnever stopped to kill a butcher, only with one grind of her jaws crushed\na leg of him. When they were all down, then indeed she flashed amongst\nthe dogs.\n\nMeantime the king and the colonel had spurred towards the advancing\nguard. The king clove the major through skull and collar-bone, and the\ncolonel stabbed the captain in the throat. Then a fierce combat\ncommenced--two against many. But the butchers and their dogs quickly\ndisposed of, up came Curdie and his beasts. The horses of the guard,\nstruck with terror, turned in spite of the spur, and fled in confusion.\n\nThereupon the forces of Borsagrass, which could see little of the\naffair, but correctly imagined a small determined body in front of them,\nhastened to the attack. No sooner did their first advancing wave appear\nthrough the foam of the retreating one, than the king and the colonel\nand the page, Curdie and the beasts, went charging upon them. Their\nattack, especially the rush of the Uglies, threw the first line into\ngreat confusion, but the second came up quickly; the beasts could not be\neverywhere, there were thousands to one against them, and the king and\nhis three companions were in the greatest possible danger.\n\n[Illustration: \"_The king and the colonel and the page, Curdie and the\nbeasts, went charging upon them._\"]\n\nA dense cloud came over the sun, and sank rapidly towards the earth. The\ncloud moved \"all together,\" and yet the thousands of white flakes of\nwhich it was made up moved each for itself in ceaseless and rapid\nmotion: those flakes were the wings of pigeons. Down swooped the birds\nupon the invaders; right in the face of man and horse they flew with\nswift-beating wings, blinding eyes and confounding brain. Horses reared\nand plunged and wheeled. All was at once in confusion. The men made\nfrantic efforts to seize their tormentors, but not one could they touch;\nand they outdoubled them in numbers. Between every wild clutch came a\npeck of beak and a buffet of pinion in the face. Generally the bird\nwould, with sharp-clapping wings, dart its whole body, with the\nswiftness of an arrow, against its singled mark, yet so as to glance\naloft the same instant, and descend skimming; much as the thin stone,\nshot with horizontal cast of arm, having touched and torn the surface of\nthe lake, ascends to skim, touch, and tear again. So mingled the\nfeathered multitude in the grim game of war. It was a storm in which the\nwind was birds, and the sea men. And ever as each bird arrived at the\nrear of the enemy, it turned, ascended, and sped to the front to charge\nagain.\n\nThe moment the battle began, the princess's pony took fright, and turned\nand fled. But the maid wheeled her horse across the road and stopped\nhim; and they waited together the result of the battle.\n\nAnd as they waited, it seemed to the princess right strange that the\npigeons, every one as it came to the rear, and fetched a compass to\ngather force for the re-attack, should make the head of her attendant on\nthe red horse the goal around which it turned; so that about them was an\nunintermittent flapping and flashing of wings, and a curving, sweeping\ntorrent of the side-poised wheeling bodies of birds. Strange also it\nseemed that the maid should be constantly waving her arm towards the\nbattle. And the time of the motion of her arm so fitted with the rushes\nof birds, that it looked as if the birds obeyed her gesture, and she\nwere casting living javelins by the thousand against the enemy. The\nmoment a pigeon had rounded her head, it went off straight as bolt from\nbow, and with trebled velocity.\n\nBut of these strange things, others besides the princess had taken note.\nFrom a rising ground whence they watched the battle in growing dismay,\nthe leaders of the enemy saw the maid and her motions, and, concluding\nher an enchantress, whose were the airy legions humiliating them, set\nspurs to their horses, made a circuit, outflanked the king, and came\ndown upon her. But suddenly by her side stood a stalwart old man in the\ngarb of a miner, who, as the general rode at her, sword in hand,\nheaved his swift mattock, and brought it down with such force on the\nforehead of his charger, that he fell to the ground like a log. His\nrider shot over his head and lay stunned. Had not the great red horse\nreared and wheeled, he would have fallen beneath that of the general.\n\n[Illustration: \"_It looked as if the birds obeyed her gesture, and she\nwere casting living javelins by the thousand against the enemy._\"]\n\nWith lifted sabre, one of his attendant officers rode at the miner. But\na mass of pigeons darted in the faces of him and his horse, and the next\nmoment he lay beside his commander. The rest of them turned and fled,\npursued by the birds.\n\n\"Ah, friend Peter!\" said the maid; \"thou hast come as I told thee!\nWelcome and thanks!\"\n\nBy this time the battle was over. The rout was general. The enemy\nstormed back upon their own camp, with the beasts roaring in the midst\nof them, and the king and his army, now reinforced by one, pursuing. But\npresently the king drew rein.\n\n\"Call off your hounds, Curdie, and let the pigeons do the rest,\" he\nshouted, and turned to see what had become of the princess.\n\nIn full panic fled the invaders, sweeping down their tents, stumbling\nover their baggage, trampling on their dead and wounded, ceaselessly\npursued and buffeted by the white-winged army of heaven. Homeward they\nrushed the road they had come, straight for the borders, many dropping\nfrom pure fatigue, and lying where they fell. And still the pigeons were\nin their necks as they ran. At length to the eyes of the king and his\narmy nothing was visible save a dust-cloud below, and a bird-cloud\nabove.\n\nBefore night the bird-cloud came back, flying high over Gwyntystorm.\nSinking swiftly, it disappeared among the ancient roofs of the palace.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV.\n\nJUDGMENT.\n\n\nThe king and his army returned, bringing with them one prisoner only,\nthe lord chancellor. Curdie had dragged him from under a fallen tent,\nnot by the hand of a man, but by the foot of a mule.\n\nWhen they entered the city, it was still as the grave. The citizens had\nfled home. \"We must submit,\" they cried, \"or the king and his demons\nwill destroy us.\" The king rode through the streets in silence,\nill-pleased with his people. But he stopped his horse in the midst of\nthe market-place, and called, in a voice loud and clear as the cry of a\nsilver trumpet, \"Go and find your own. Bury your dead, and bring home\nyour wounded.\" Then he turned him gloomily to the palace.\n\nJust as they reached the gates, Peter, who, as they went, had been\ntelling his tale to Curdie, ended it with the words,--\n\n\"And so there I was, in the nick of time to save the two princesses!\"\n\n\"The _two_ princesses, father! The one on the great red horse was the\nhousemaid,\" said Curdie, and ran to open the gates for the king.\n\nThey found Derba returned before them, and already busy preparing them\nfood. The king put up his charger with his own hands, rubbed him down,\nand fed him.\n\nWhen they had washed, and eaten and drunk, he called the colonel, and\ntold Curdie and the page to bring out the traitors and the beasts, and\nattend him to the market-place.\n\nBy this time the people were crowding back into the city, bearing their\ndead and wounded. And there was lamentation in Gwyntystorm, for no one\ncould comfort himself, and no one had any to comfort him. The nation was\nvictorious, but the people were conquered.\n\nThe king stood in the centre of the market-place, upon the steps of the\nancient cross. He had laid aside his helmet and put on his crown, but he\nstood all armed beside, with his sword in his hand. He called the people\nto him, and, for all the terror of the beasts, they dared not disobey\nhim. Those even, who were carrying their wounded laid them down, and\ndrew near trembling.\n\nThen the king said to Curdie and the page,--\n\n\"Set the evil men before me.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"_To the body of the animal they bound the lord\nchamberlain, speechless with horror._\"]\n\nHe looked upon them for a moment in mingled anger and pity, then turned\nto the people and said,--\n\n\"Behold your trust! Ye slaves, behold your leaders! I would have freed\nyou, but ye would not be free. Now shall ye be ruled with a rod of iron,\nthat ye may learn what freedom is, and love it and seek it. These\nwretches I will send where they shall mislead you no longer.\"\n\nHe made a sign to Curdie, who immediately brought up the leg serpent. To\nthe body of the animal they bound the lord chamberlain, speechless with\nhorror. The butler began to shriek and pray, but they bound him on the\nback of Clubhead. One after another, upon the largest of the creatures\nthey bound the whole seven, each through the unveiling terror looking\nthe villain he was. Then said the king,--\n\n\"I thank you, my good beasts; and I hope to visit you ere long. Take\nthese evil men with you, and go to your place.\"\n\nLike a whirlwind they were in the crowd, scattering it like dust. Like\nhounds they rushed from the city, their burdens howling and raving.\n\nWhat became of them I have never heard.\n\nThen the king turned once more to the people and said, \"Go to your\nhouses;\" nor vouchsafed them another word. They crept home like chidden\nhounds.\n\nThe king returned to the palace. He made the colonel a duke, and the\npage a knight, and Peter he appointed general of all his mines. But to\nCurdie he said,--\n\n\"You are my own boy, Curdie. My child cannot choose but love you, and\nwhen you are both grown up--if you both will--you shall marry each\nother, and be king and queen when I am gone. Till then be the king's\nCurdie.\"\n\nIrene held out her arms to Curdie. He raised her in his, and she kissed\nhim.\n\n\"And my Curdie too!\" she said.\n\nThereafter the people called him Prince Conrad; but the king always\ncalled him either just _Curdie_, or _My miner-boy_.\n\nThey sat down to supper, and Derba and the knight and the housemaid\nwaited, and Barbara sat on the king's left hand. The housemaid poured\nout the wine; and as she poured out for Curdie red wine that foamed in\nthe cup, as if glad to see the light whence it had been banished so\nlong, she looked him in the eyes. And Curdie started, and sprang from\nhis seat, and dropped on his knees, and burst into tears. And the maid\nsaid with a smile, such as none but one could smile,--\n\n\"Did I not tell you, Curdie, that it might be you would not know me when\nnext you saw me?\"\n\nThen she went from the room, and in a moment returned in royal purple,\nwith a crown of diamonds and rubies, from under which her hair went\nflowing to the floor, all about her ruby-slippered feet. Her face was\nradiant with joy, the joy overshadowed by a faint mist as of\nunfulfilment. The king rose and kneeled on one knee before her. All\nkneeled in like homage. Then the king would have yielded her his royal\nchair. But she made them all sit down, and with her own hands placed at\nthe table seats for Derba and the page. Then in ruby crown and royal\npurple she served them all.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV.\n\nTHE END\n\n\nThe king sent Curdie out into his dominions to search for men and women\nthat had human hands. And many such he found, honest and true, and\nbrought them to his master. So a new and upright government, a new and\nupright court, was formed, and strength returned to the nation.\n\nBut the exchequer was almost empty, for the evil men had squandered\neverything, and the king hated taxes unwillingly paid. Then came Curdie\nand said to the king that the city stood upon gold. And the king sent\nfor men wise in the ways of the earth, and they built smelting furnaces,\nand Peter brought miners, and they mined the gold, and smelted it, and\nthe king coined it into money, and therewith established things well in\nthe land.\n\nThe same day on which he found his boy, Peter set out to go home. When\nhe told the good news to Joan his wife, she rose from her chair and\nsaid, \"Let us go.\" And they left the cottage, and repaired to\nGwyntystorm. And on a mountain above the city they built themselves a\nwarm house for their old age, high in the clear air.\n\nAs Peter mined one day by himself, at the back of the king's\nwine-cellar, he broke into a cavern all crusted with gems, and much\nwealth flowed therefrom, and the king used it wisely.\n\nQueen Irene--that was the right name of the old princess--was thereafter\nseldom long absent from the palace. Once or twice when she was missing,\nBarbara, who seemed to know of her sometimes when nobody else had a\nnotion whither she had gone, said she was with the dear old Uglies in\nthe wood. Curdie thought that perhaps her business might be with others\nthere as well. All the uppermost rooms in the palace were left to her\nuse, and when any one was in need of her help, up thither he must go.\nBut even when she was there, he did not always succeed in finding her.\nShe, however, always knew that such a one had been looking for her.\n\nCurdie went to find her one day. As he ascended the last stair, to meet\nhim came the well-known scent of her roses; and when he opened her door,\nlo! there was the same gorgeous room in which his touch had been\nglorified by her fire! And there burned the fire--a huge heap of red\nand white roses. Before the hearth stood the princess, an old\ngray-haired woman, with Lina a little behind her, slowly wagging her\ntail, and looking like a beast of prey that can hardly so long restrain\nitself from springing as to be sure of its victim. The queen was casting\nroses, more and more roses, upon the fire. At last she turned and said,\n\"Now, Lina!\"--and Lina dashed burrowing into the fire. There went up a\nblack smoke and a dust, and Lina was never more seen in the palace.\n\nIrene and Curdie were married. The old king died, and they were king and\nqueen. As long as they lived Gwyntystorm was a better city, and good\npeople grew in it. But they had no children, and when they died the\npeople chose a king. And the new king went mining and mining in the rock\nunder the city, and grew more and more eager after the gold, and paid\nless and less heed to his people. Rapidly they sunk towards their old\nwickedness. But still the king went on mining, and coining gold by the\npailful, until the people were worse even than in the old time. And so\ngreedy was the king after gold, that when at last the ore began to fail,\nhe caused the miners to reduce the pillars which Peter and they that\nfollowed him had left standing to bear the city. And from the girth of\nan oak of a thousand years, they chipped them down to that of a fir tree\nof fifty.\n\nOne day at noon, when life was at its highest, the whole city fell with\na roaring crash. The cries of men and the shrieks of women went up with\nits dust, and then there was a great silence.\n\nWhere the mighty rock once towered, crowded with homes and crowned with\na palace, now rushes and raves a stone-obstructed rapid of the river.\nAll around spreads a wilderness of wild deer, and the very name of\nGwyntystorm has ceased from the lips of men.\n\n\nTHE END.\n\n\n\n\n_PUBLICATIONS OF J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO._\n\n\n                         FAIRY STORY BOOKS\n\n\nARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.\n\nProfusely Illustrated. 12mo. Extra cloth. $1.00.\n\n\nTHE NEW ARABIAN NIGHTS.\n\nContaining Stories Omitted in the One Thousand and One Nights.\nTranslated and Edited by W. F. Kirby. With over 30 full-page\nIllustrations. 12mo. Extra cloth. $2.00.\n\n\nANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES.\n\nGerman Fairy Tales. By Hans Christian Andersen. With 14 Illustrations.\n12mo. Extra cloth. $1.25.\n\n\nGERMAN FAIRY TALES.\n\nTranslated by Charles A. Dana. 12mo. 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