Part 6

He rushed upon the little dog, trying to reach him with his foot and a soup-ladle which he held; but Giroflé tore about round the table and behind such furniture as there was, only darting out now and then to get a good snap at his heels. The Princess, who was not yet undressed, came downstairs to see what was the matter; for what between the landlord’s roars, Giroflé’s barks, the overturning of chairs and the wind and rain outside, the noise was really frightful.

“What is all this?” she cried, standing in the doorway.

“I’ll soon show you!” bawled the landlord. “I’ll show you that an honest man is not to be insulted for nothing! Out with you—you and your vile, ill-conditioned cur! Princess indeed! He says you are a Princess—but, Princess or not, out you go! Not another moment do you stop under this roof!”

Just then he managed to reach Giroflé with the ladle, and the little dog sprang out, yelping, into the passage.

“Come, off with you!” cried the landlord. And, before the Princess had time to say a word, he had opened the door and thrust her out into the night. It was fortunate for her that she had hidden the bag of gold in her girdle, for he slammed the door behind them, and they could hear the key turn and the bolts shoot into their places.

By this time Giroflé was whining. She took him by the scuff of the neck and shook him. “If I did what was right, I should leave you to perish in the nearest ditch,” said she.

But, all the same, he was so small that she had not the heart to let him die, so she took him up, and ran to the stable, where the old man had laid himself down for the night beside Amulet and his mule. Giroflé whined and snarled all the time.

There was nothing for it but to start off again; they could not even remain in the stable, for the landlord was shouting from the window to a couple of men to turn them out. All they could do was to mount and ride towards the forest, where at least the branches would give them some shelter from the pouring rain.

When they entered it, the darkness was such that they could scarcely see their way. There were no stars to guide them, so, after stumbling about for some time, they began to search for a place in which they could be sheltered from the wind. By the light of the little lantern that the old man carried with him, they saw a bank covered with distorted tree-roots, some of which had been torn from the ground in a gale. They spread leaves and bracken in a hollow underneath one of these, and the Princess lay down to rest, with her cloak drawn about her, and Giroflé, who was by this time much subdued, curled himself at her feet. The old man and his mule disposed themselves a little way off, and Amulet stood in as snug a spot as he could find. The noise of the swishing branches overhead sounded like the waves of the sea.

But at last the wanderers fell asleep, and the storm had abated and the moon come out when the Princess heard Amulet plunging and stamping, and sat up, rubbing her eyes. By the light of the crescent showing through a gap in the trees, she saw a host of dark creatures surrounding them on all sides. She could not imagine what they were. Their great wings were outlined sharply against the moonlight, and, though their faces were hidden, she was aware of their bright eyes fixed upon her. One figure in their midst came towards them holding a tall spear; a crown of pale green flickering flame was on his head. Giroflé jumped up barking and then fled to his mistress’s skirts, his tail between his legs. In a moment the tall figure strode after him and pierced him to the heart with his spear. As he bent over his victim, the Princess could see that he had the face of a bat.

Then, at a signal from him, the whole host came about them; they were seized, and Amulet, who had tried to attack the Bat-King with his teeth, was taken also; for, gallop and stamp as he might, the fluttering wings closed him round on every side, so that there was no escape. The mule fled at once.

When they were all safely secured, the Bat-King went on before them and his people followed, leading their prisoners into the heart of the forest.

And there we must leave them, for we must return to the King, and hear what happened to him after his parting with the old man.

* * * * *

When he reached home, the King threw himself into his old pursuits as if nothing had happened; but his heart was so sore that they gave him little joy, and, instead of spending his spare hours in hunting with his lords and gentlemen, he only longed to be alone. When he had leisure he would ride off by himself for days at a time, searching for new scenes and new thoughts. He would go out across the borders of his kingdom, by towers and rivers and high castles, sometimes wandering through towns and sometimes passing nights alone in the waste places of the hills.

One evening he came to the foot of a chain of rocky mountains, and stopped, looking up at the crags which towered above his head. Their shapes were so weird that he wondered whether their spires and pinnacles had been carved out by human hands, or whether an earthquake had cast them up in the likeness of men’s work. A track wound up and disappeared among them, and he turned his horse’s steps into it.

He had reached a considerable height when he came suddenly to a chasm so deep that he could not see its bottom. The rock on either side was worn smooth, as though with the passing of many feet, and the opening was narrow enough for a man to stride across without difficulty. The horse stopped, and the rein being loose on his neck, snuffed delicately at the strange gash that divided his path; then he picked his way over it, snorting and cocking his ears. They were scarcely ten yards on the farther side when there was a loud cracking noise, and, looking back, the King saw that the chasm had split wider asunder and now yawned behind him like the mouth of a pit. The horse dashed forward, and had gone some distance before his rider could check him. When at last they stood still, they had come to a smooth face of high rock, with a wide ledge at its foot, over which the track went.

Crowning its summit, some feet above their heads, ran a battlemented wall, and on it sat a woman who looked down at the King while she supported herself with one white arm. Whirling vapour floated behind her, through which appeared the outline of a fantastic castle whose towers seemed to climb to heaven. Her hair was bound about with cords of silver and livid purple poppies. Their petals were dropping down and falling in the King’s path. A dull dark blue garment was wound round her which left only her bare arms free and trailed over the wall below her feet, mixing with her heavy plaits and the silver tassels at the ends of them.

She smiled, bending forward till she looked as though she must fall from her high place; she was like some great unearthly gull poised upon a wave’s crest.

“Soon it will be too dark to travel among these precipices,” she cried. “Come up, O King, before the light falls. The way winds up to my gates.”

And, indeed, the path took a turn at the end of the ledge, and, twisting like a ribbon, vanished in the vapour.

There was no going back, for the chasm was behind him, and the light, as she said, was failing; so he rode upwards till he came to a gate whose top was lost in the clouds. It opened, disclosing a castle, and inside it the lady was coming to meet him, her draperies trailing behind her and the silver tassels on her plaits making a tinkling sound as they swept the stones. A noiseless person came from a doorway and led away his horse.

She was very beautiful. Her pale face and scarlet lips and her heavy-lidded eyes made him think of things he had seen in dreams, and a faint misgiving touched him as he followed her. Before the castle was a terrace, on the wall of which he had seen her sitting above him as he entered. He passed through stone galleries, over whose sides he thought he could see wild faces staring; the misgiving deepened with every step.

She went before him to a chamber hung with curtains, and when she had left him, another silent servant brought him fresh clothes and began to unbuckle his spurs. When he had put off his belt and sword, the servant took them from him and turned to the door.

“Give me my sword,” said the King; “I never part with that.”

He stretched out his hand to take it, but as he did so his companion vanished on the spot where he had stood. Then he saw that the walls were hung with images of demons, and that snakes’ heads peered from the corners. He looked out of the window, to see nothing but whirling vapours. When a messenger came to tell him that the lady awaited him to sup with her, he followed gloomily, for he knew he was in the stronghold of an Enchantress.

She was sitting at a table, on which a feast was spread, and she made him as welcome as though he had been some long-expected guest. Her voice was mellow as the voice of pigeons cooing in the woods, but it seemed to him that a gleam of cruelty lurked in her eyes. After dark, a chill fell in the air, and they drew close to a fire of logs which glowed at one end of the hall. A silent-footed company of musicians came, playing on instruments the like of which he had never seen, and one in their midst began to sing:

“Boughs of the pine, and stars between, In woods where shadows fill the air— Oh, who may rest that once hath been A shadow there?

“Sounds of the night, and tears between, The grey owl hooting, dimly heard: Can footsteps reach these lands unseen, Or wings of bird?

“Days of the years, and worlds between— Oh, through those boughs the stars may burn; The heart may break for lands unseen, For woods wherein its life has been, But not return!”

The King sat listening, his head leaning upon his hand, and when he looked up, the Enchantress’s eyes were fixed on him with the cruel look he could not fathom. He sprang up and begged leave to retire; he was weary, he said, for he had ridden a long distance. At the door of the hall he asked her to tell her servants to return his sword. “We have never been parted yet,” said he.

She broke into a laugh. “To-morrow,” she said, waving him away. And when he would have spoken again, he found himself alone.

He rose very early next day and left the castle without meeting anyone; the gates were open, and he went all round the walls, hoping to come across some path which would take him out of the hills and lead him to the plains below. He was now sure that he was a prisoner. He remembered with a shudder how the rock on either side of the chasm was worn by the feet that had passed over it; and, having found only precipices on the north side of the castle, he determined to follow the track by which he had come, and see if some path, no matter how dangerous, might be found by which he could escape.

Coming down towards the chasm, he could hardly believe his eyes, for the sides had closed together, and it was no wider than when he had first seen it. He ran forward, but as he reached the brink it opened with the cracking noise he had heard before, and he found himself standing on the edge, looking into a gulf of mist. He turned back, disheartened; and as he crossed the ledge under the wall, he looked up to see the Enchantress, perched upon her height, watching him and smiling.

Day after day he lived on, a free prisoner. Each evening when he left her he asked for his sword, and each evening her laugh was the only answer he got. He did not know that the Enchantress had sat countless years upon the ramparts of her castle, waiting, like a spider, for her prey; that all her life had been spent in entrapping and imprisoning men. Some she had slain, some she had kept in dungeons, and some had dashed themselves down into the ravines or perished among them in their efforts to escape.

But she had no intention of killing the King or of casting him into a dungeon; of all those she had entrapped, he was the one she liked best, and every day she fell more deeply in love with him. She would stand by him on the highest tower of the castle, showing him all the wonders of the landscape and telling him tales which almost made him forget his captivity; she gave him rich gifts, and plied him with such wines and delicacies as, King though he was, he had never tasted. Each morning a servant brought him new clothes and jewels to choose from, but it only made him long more fervently for his russet leather and his sword. Each evening she would send for her musicians and sit by him till far into the night, listening to the unearthly melodies they played. But he cared neither for her nor for them.

His thought was always of escape, but, to throw her off her guard, he behaved as though life was growing endurable. He kissed her hand night and morning, he sought her company, he did all that he could to flatter her; but in reality he hated her false smile and soft voice, and only the hope of releasing himself made him able to play his part.

On the first night of every week the Enchantress would disappear, going out in a car drawn by great owls, and not returning till dawn. He longed to go with her, because he was weary for a change of scene, and because he thought it possible that he might find some chance of escape. So one evening, seeing that she was about to depart, he sighed heavily.

“Lady,” he said, “if you knew how long these evenings seem to me when you are away, you would never have the heart to go.”

“Are not all my dancing-girls and musicians here to while away the time?” replied she, looking very softly at him.

“What do I care for them?” said he. “Is there one who has a voice like yours, or a face to be compared with yours? No, no. If I have to part with you, my only wish is to be alone.”

The Enchantress was delighted.

“I must go, nevertheless,” she said. “For a long time past I have spent the first night of every week in a visit to the Bat-King, who rules over an enchanted forest some leagues from here. If I were to disappoint him, he would never forgive me. I have to go after dark and return before sunrise, as he can only see at night, and spends his days sleeping among the trees.”

The King made as though he were jealous.

“And who is this Bat-King that he should rob me of you?” he cried in an angry voice.

“Well, well,” said the Enchantress, laughing, “there is only one thing for it—you must come too. For I cannot vex the Bat-King by my absence, and you can delight yourself with my company while we go and come.”

Then, as though she guessed his thoughts, she continued: “If I did not know you loved me, I would tell you that you need not hope to escape from me in the forest. The Bat-King has millions of subjects, and he has only to sign to them to put you to death should you attempt it.”

They went out, and on the ramparts her chariot waited her. The King could not tell what it was made of, but it looked like one of those clouds that cross the setting sun before a stormy night; six enormous owls were harnessed to it and stood ready for a flight, their yellow eyes fixed on space. A servant handed a long scourge of plaited twigs to the Enchantress. When she and the King had seated themselves, the car rose into the air, and they were soon rushing across the sky.

Away they went, leaving the earth far under them; they flew over towns twinkling with lights and rivers which lay in the darkness like shining snakes. Sometimes a heavy bird of prey would pass on its way beneath them, and sometimes the cry of a nightjar would come up from below. At last they came upon a dark mass covering many miles, which the Enchantress told him was the forest of the Bat-King. A curious twilight shone through the branches, caused by the presence of many glow-worms. The owls lit upon an open patch among the trees, and she got out of the car, telling the King to remain beside her as he valued his life. The owls crouched near, ruffling as they settled.

In a short time they saw a dark-winged figure coming towards them, whose crown of pale flame threw furtive shadows on the tree-trunks. The Enchantress went to meet him, and for some time the two friends walked up and down at a little distance from the King. He looked above and around for some chance of escape. Once he thought of springing into the owl chariot, but the Enchantress had taken her whip of plaited twigs with her, and he feared that without it the owls might refuse to fly. He felt under his doublet for a dagger which he had managed to lay hands on after his sword had been taken, and which he had kept carefully hidden ever since. Then a sound made him glance upwards, and he saw that the boughs of the trees were a mass of gigantic figures, winged and carrying long nets; they jibbered and laughed, making as though they would throw them over him. It was plain that there was no hope of escape, and that his only chance would be on the homeward way, when he might stab the Enchantress, and with her plaited switch force the owls downwards to earth. But he shuddered at the thought of killing a woman, even though she were a fiend. He turned over these things in his mind till he heard her calling.

“Come!” she was saying. “It may please you to see some of your own kind. His Majesty has got two prisoners he is keeping in the forest, and I am going to look at them. You need not think we shall leave you. I hear that the woman is beautiful, so you can tell me if you think her as beautiful as I am.”

They followed the Bat-King for some distance. The thickness of the forest was surprising; twisted roots were woven together in the most wonderful manner, and starry blossoms swayed to and fro in the night wind. The Bat-creatures came crowding behind, close on their footsteps.

At last they reached a place where some trees stood round a grassy circle; in the centre of it were two figures.

“See,” said the Bat-King, “here are my prisoners. In the night, when my people are awake, they are watched on all sides, and in the day, while we sleep, one touch of my spear raises such a wall of bush and brier that they may try for ever to get through it in vain.”

His eyes gleamed with malice. “Stand, woman!” he cried, “stand up and let the Enchantress see you!”

A lady rose and stood before them, and, as she looked up at her tormentor, her eyes met those of the King. For a moment he remained dumb with horror, then, with a shout, he sprang upon the Bat-King, hurling him to the ground and battering his head against the earth.

The Enchantress shrieked and the Bat-people came round in dozens. They overpowered the King, dragging his enemy from under him, and in another moment he also found himself a prisoner.

The Bat-King, who was now on his feet, rushed at him with his spear, but the Enchantress threw herself between them.

“No, no!” she cried, “you shall not kill him! He is mine! No one shall harm him. I love him and he loves me!”

At this the King, beside himself with rage, turned upon her.

“I would sooner die than be near you another day,” he cried. “I hate you as I hate sin itself! There is only one person in the world I love, and that is this Princess.”

The Enchantress’s face grew white; all her beauty seemed to have faded. She pressed close to him, her fingers opening and shutting, as though she would tear him to pieces.

“I hate you!” he exclaimed again. “Woman though you are, if my hands were free, I would kill you.”

“You all shall die,” said the Enchantress. “First you shall see the woman die, you traitor; then her companion; then you shall die yourself. No one lives to offend me twice.”

Then she turned to the Bat-King. “Send for your subjects,” she cried, “and let us kill them before I leave this forest. I will not go back to my castle till I have seen them slain with torments.”

The Bat-King held up his spear, and his creatures came flocking from every thicket till the place looked like a billowy sea of black wings.

The King’s heart sank; he cared little for torment and pain or the loss of his own life, but he could not bear the thought of seeing the Princess die. But she looked bravely at him.

“We have met again,” she said, “so I am happy. And now we are going to die for each other.” Then she turned to the old man. “Giroflé is dead,” said she, “and they have taken Amulet—I know not where; but you have stayed to the end with me. I have nothing to reward you with, but I will do all I can for you. Lady,” she continued, “neither I nor the King would ask for our lives, even if you were willing to grant them. But this old man, my faithful servant, has done you no harm. I beg you to spare him.”

“He shall die first, that you may see it,” replied the Enchantress, with a look of hatred.

But at this moment there was a sudden movement among the Bat-people, and all their dark arms were raised, pointing in one direction. For, far away eastward, beyond the tree-trunks, the first pale streaks of morning lay along the edge of the world.

“It is too late,” cried the Bat-King. “In a few minutes the dawn will be upon us, and we shall not be able to see.”