Part 7

Even as he spoke the Bat-creatures were hurrying back to their trees, blinking in the growing light. His eyes were getting dimmer every moment, and the Enchantress saw that she must put off her vengeance.

“When I return, this night week, we will kill them,” said she. “Keep them for me, for I will not lose the sight for twenty kingdoms.”

And she went off in haste, for she feared that her owls might not reach the castle ere the full blaze of day.

Before the Bat-King left his prisoners, he struck his spear on the ground, and a wall of briers rose around them, shutting them in. As soon as they were alone, the King, who still had his dagger hidden upon him, began to try and cut a way through with it. But as fast as he cut one stem, another grew in its place, and he found his work useless; there seemed nothing to do but to sit and wait for the end. In a week the Enchantress would return to see them put to death, and he could only promise himself that, while he had his concealed weapon, he would sell all their lives dear. Neither he nor the Princess had any hope of escape, for even should they be able to get through the tangled walls, they knew that the Bat-creatures could easily prevent their getting out of the forest.

At night, when the Bats were astir, the Bat-King would make the wall disappear, for he liked to look at his captives and tell them how little time they had left. In this way several days went by.

Now, the Princess had worn her white wreath till every bit of blossom had fallen, so that by the time she arrived in the forest it was scarcely more than a twist of withered leaves. She had taken it off reluctantly and thrown it down close to the place where they were now confined, and one day, as she and her lover paced their prison, they saw that the damp earth had revived the dying shoots and that they had put forth fruit. It lay on the earth, ripe and purple, and when night had fallen, and the Bat-King walked abroad, he saw what he took to be a spray of plums lying tossed at the foot of a tree. He ate one, and, finding it delicious, did not stop till he had devoured the whole.

That night the Bats rushed up and down the forest in dismay, for they could not think what had happened to their monarch. He would suffer none to approach him. No one could do his bidding fast enough to escape his wrath; no one was fit to stand in his presence; no one could make a low enough obeisance as he passed. But the strangest thing of all was that, when dawn broke, instead of hastening to his tree till the light should be gone, he protested that he was able to see as well in the sunshine as in the dark. To one so great as himself, he said, day and night were the same. He stumbled about, feeling the way with his spear, and by the time the Bats were asleep he came to the place where the Princess and her companions were. He had forgotten the wall he should have raised round them; he had forgotten how dangerous it was to approach the King unguarded; he had forgotten everything but his own fancied greatness.

The King watched him come; his hand was on his dagger, his eyes on fire. As he drew near he sprang upon him and stabbed him to the heart—once—twice. It was all over in a moment, quietly, and the Bat-King died without a groan, for his enemy’s hand was over his mouth.

By noon they had dug a hole deep enough for his body, and, having taken his clothes, his wings and his spear, they laid him in it, treading down the earth and covering the place with leaves.

Then they took the old man and dressed him in the Bat-King’s garments. They fastened the wings to his shoulders in as natural a way as they could. They put the spear in his hand, the flaming crown on his head, and with the dagger they cut off his long beard. With flint and steel they lit a fire, and, burning some wood, smeared his face with the ash till it was as dark as that of their dead enemy. His own clothes they rolled up and hid in a hole. When all this was done the old man made a whistling noise, such as he had heard the Bat-King make to call his subjects, and the evil creatures trooped round, staggering blindly about in the daylight.

When they were gathered at a little distance, he told them, in a voice as like that of their leader as he could make it, that the Princess’s servant was dead. He showed them the mound in the grass, under which, he said, he had made the other two prisoners bury him. A murmur of approval ran through the Bat crowd. The creatures could scarcely see the speaker, but they were anxious to keep their Sovereign in a good temper, so they pretended to understand everything. It was evident that they had no suspicions.

“If we are to escape,” said the Princess, under her breath, “I must have my dear Amulet back, I will never consent to leave him here.”

“Now!” cried the old man, “bring me the white horse that the woman rode upon. Fetch him immediately, for I intend to go afoot no more.”

“To-night, your Majesty, to-night?” cried they, astonished. “We cannot see in this blinding light!”

“Obey me at once,” roared the old man, “or I will have fifty of you executed after sunset! Is the greatest monarch on earth to walk like the lowest of his people?”

The Bats disappeared in all directions, for the Bat-King had kept the horse tied up in a distant spot; in their alarm they strayed all over the forest, but at last some of them got to the place where he was tethered.

The Princess watched eagerly for her favourite. “Dear Amulet,” she whispered to him when he arrived, “have no fear and we shall yet escape. I have sent for you that I may free you. Do all you are bid, for he who you think is the Bat-King is our friend who has come all the way with us.”

Then the old man mounted; he dismissed the crowd, but kept back one of the Bat-creatures, whom he drove before him with his spear to guide him to the edge of the enchanted forest. The Bat could scarcely see, but when he stopped, he beat him with the spear-shaft till he found the way again.

The King and Princess remained behind; they feared to rouse the suspicions of their enemies by going with him, as evening was far spent and the time when they would see clearly was drawing near. Besides which, they did not know how far distant the forest’s edge might be, nor whether the Princess would be able to reach it on foot by dark.

Before long the old man returned. He had freed Amulet at the borders, bidding him stay near the wood’s outskirts till his mistress should be able to join him. He had then slain the guide with his spear, lest he should bring word to his fellows of what had happened. The Princess rejoiced that her dear Amulet was safe, and the three companions sat down to discuss their escape. The King had a plan which they hoped to carry out that night, for the week had gone by and the Enchantress was coming.

The glow-worms were shining and the Bats going about again with open eyes when the owl-chariot was seen. The old man took a dark cloak which had belonged to the Bat-King, and, muffling his head and face with it, went to meet the Enchantress. As she stepped out of her car he cried: “Alas, lady! I have bad news. The old man is dead, and the pleasure of slaying one of these wretches is lost. I kept him alive as long as I could, but his captivity told on him and he died.”

“That is of no consequence,” said she. “It is the other two who concern me most. We will make it yet worse for them. But why do you keep your face hidden?”

“Fair one,” replied he, “flying in the daylight, I bruised my cheek against a tree, and I would not that you should see it.”

She laughed. “And why is your voice so strange?” she asked again.

“It is the folds of the cloak that muffle it,” said he.

“And how is it,” she went on, seating herself on the grass, “that you have made no preparations for the execution?”

“All is ready,” he said; “only wait till I call up my people, and you shall choose the manner of their deaths.”

Then he gave a call, and the Bat-creatures surrounded them.

“Bats!” he cried, pointing to the Enchantress, “fall upon this woman and slay her where she stands.”

And almost before she had time to scream they had set upon her, and while she raved and struggled they beat her with their heavy wings, smiting her till she died.

Then the King and Princess sprang into the owl-chariot, the old man following. Before the Bats discovered how they had been deceived, the King took the plaited switch which was lying in the car and lashed the owls till they flew up far above the heads of the tossing crowd. The Bat-creatures rose with one accord into the air and followed in a great flight, but the owls were swifter, and soon the forest was passed and the pursuers fell back, fearing the open country.

* * * * *

When the lovers and their companion came down to earth and lit on the ground, they found Amulet waiting near the place where the old man had left him, and they passed the rest of the night peacefully under the stars.

Next day they began their homeward journey, and in time reached the city in the plain where the Princess lived; and there she was married to her lover with great splendour. Amulet and the old man went with her to her husband’s kingdom, and on the way thither they stopped to see the Tree of Pride cut down.

Then they rode on, the King and his Queen side by side, and disappeared over the plain and beyond the blue hills into their new life.

THE STORY OF FARMYARD MAGGIE

One Saturday afternoon when the miller had let his man go out, he was standing at the mill door above the steps, with the white dust whirling behind him like a mist. He saw Peter and his sister near the witch’s cottage, and he waved his hand and shouted to them to come. He was smoking, but knocked the ashes out of his pipe, for he was certain that little Peter would ask for a story. He liked telling him stories better than reading out of his grandmother’s book, because he could look at Janet all the time, instead of keeping his eyes upon the words. He began to rack his brains for something new.

“A story! a story!” cried little Peter, as soon as he had got within earshot.

“But I have none left in my head,” said the miller, teasing him.

“Then there is the book,” said Peter. “I’ll go for it.”

It was a long time since he had stopped being afraid of the tall man in the white hat.

“No! no! no!” cried the miller. “Come here and sit on the sacks, and I’ll think of something. We’ll go up and shut the sluice in a few minutes, and by that time no doubt something new will come into my mind.”

Janet came in and sat down, and the dust settled on her yellow hair till she looked like a snow-powdered fairy on the top of a Christmas cake. The miller thought it beautiful. As for little Peter, the creaking machinery was enough to keep him happy, and when they went to shut the sluice-gate, he danced and jumped the whole way there.

“So here we’ll stay,” said the miller, when the water was turned off and they were sitting on a fallen tree at the edge of the mill-dam. “I have just remembered the story of Farmyard Maggie.”

Long before you were born, and before I was born either (began the miller), there lived at the farm over yonder a little girl. She was an orphan, like you, but she had not even a grandmother to share her roof with her. In summer she slept by the hedge, and in winter she would slip into the stable and lie by the farm horses. And when it was autumn, and the stacks stood in rows in the rickyard waiting to be threshed, she would crawl in under them through the little hole that is left for the air to pass through and to keep them from heating. There she slept as snug as if she were in a house. She was called “Farmyard Maggie,” because it was her business to look after the fowls in the yard.

Poor little body! she had not a very happy life of it. They were rough folk at the farm, for the farmer was miserly and his wife was cruel, and often she did not get enough to eat. But the farm men were kind and would sometimes give her a crust of bread or a bit of cheese from their own dinners; and once, when it was cold, a ploughman brought her a pair of shoes that belonged to his own little girl, for he did not like to see her poor little toes on the frosty ground. The horses were kind always, and were careful not to kick her or tramp on her when she took refuge in their stalls; but, unfortunately, they were proud, and when they had on their fine harness with the brass crescents that swung between their ears, they would not notice her. They were high creatures.

Maggie took care of the poultry well. She knew all the cocks and hens and little chickens, and even the waddling, gobbling, ducks, whom she fetched home each evening from the pond at the foot of the hill, thought well of her—that is, when they had time to think of anything but their own stomachs, which was not often, certainly. But she had two great friends who loved her dearly. One was a little game-fowl who was as straight on his legs as a sergeant on parade, and the other was a large Cochin-China cock who looked as if he wore ill-fitting yellow trousers that were always on the verge of coming off. The gamecock despised the Cochin-Chinaman a little, for he thought him vulgar, but he was a great deal too well-bred to show it. Besides which, their affection for Maggie made the two birds quite friendly.

One autumn afternoon, when the mist hung over the stubble and the brambles were red and gold, Maggie sat crying just over there by the roadside. She was most dreadfully unhappy, for a duck was lost and the farmer’s wife had told her that she must go away and never come back any more. She had turned her out of the yard without so much as a sixpence or a piece of bread to keep her from starving.

Presently the Cochin-China cock passed by, and when he saw she was in trouble, he came running towards her as hard as he could, with great awkward strides and his neck stuck out in front of him.

“Oh, what _is_ the matter?” he cried. And Maggie put her arms round him and told him everything.

When he knew what had happened he was in as great a taking as herself, and he walked up and down, flapping his wings distractedly and making the most heartrending noises in his throat.

“I must go for Alfonso,” he said at last.

Alfonso was the gamecock.

I can tell you there was a to-do when the birds got at the bottom of the affair! They stood, one on either side of their poor friend, begging her not to cry; and Alfonso was anxious to fight everybody, from the bantam up to the great bubbly-jock who scraped his wings along the ground and turned blue about the neck if you whistled to him. All the fowls knew that something terrible had happened.

“But what is the use of your fighting, dear Alfonso?” said Maggie. “It would do me no good, and the poultry are all innocent. They have done me no harm.”

“I am not so sure about those sly fat huzzies of ducks. What business have they to look after themselves so badly? I have a good mind to go down and have a few words with the drake.”

“No, no—pray don’t,” said Maggie. “The best thing I can do is to go away and be done with it.”

The Cochin-Chinaman was weeping hoarsely: he had no dignity.

“I never thought to leave my family,” he cried, “but this is the last they’ll see of me. I shall go with you.”

Alfonso was rather shocked, for he had very proper ideas.

“And leave your wife?” he exclaimed.

“She is in love with the Dorking cock, so she can stay with him. I have known it for some time. There he is, standing on one leg by the wood-pile.”

“I will come too,” said the game-fowl, who was a bachelor, “but do you go on. I will just go and break every bone in the drake’s body, and I can catch you up before you are out of sight.”

“Oh, no! no! Promise you won’t do that!” implored Maggie.

It took some time to persuade him to be quiet, but at last it was done.

“It is better to get the business over at once,” said the Cochin-China cock. “If Alfonso is ready, we will start.”

“And pray, who says I am not ready for anything?” inquired the other. “Anyone who wants to eat his words has only to come to me!”

“But nobody says it,” replied Maggie soothingly. “I am sure no one ever had two such dear, brave friends as I have.”

And with that the three set forth on their travels.

They went up the road that runs north, round the other side of the dam, for they were anxious to get as far as possible without being seen, in case anyone should come after them to try and make the cocks go back. Sometimes they ran, they were in such a hurry. At last they came to where the old gipsy track crosses the way, and turned into it; feeling much safer for the shelter of the whins and bushes in that green place.

All round them there were tangles of bramble, red and copper and orange, and fiery spotted leaves. Where it was damp the dew still lay under the burning bracken and the yellow ragwort stood up like plumes and feathers of gold. Here they went slower, pushing through the broom, whose black pods rattled as they passed. In front of them a little string of smoke was rising, and when they reached it, they found that it came from the chimneys of a caravan which was drawn up in a clearing.

Maggie and her two friends crouched down and looked at it through the bracken. They saw a large blue van and a battered-looking green one, which stood with their shafts resting on the ground. A couple of horses grazed, unharnessed, a few yards away. In a circle of stones burned a fire, over which hung a black caldron, and a woman, with a string of red beads round her neck, was nursing a baby on the top step of the blue van.

“Oh, what a lovely baby!” whispered Maggie, as she gazed at them.

“So it is,” replied the Cochin-China cock amiably. Alfonso turned up his beak, for he had no domestic tastes.

“I must go a little nearer,” said Maggie. “Oh, look! the woman can see us. I really will ask her to show it to me.”

“Ma’am,” she said, making a curtsey, “may I look at your little child?”

[Illustration: “MAGGIE TOOK IT AND BEGAN TO ROCK IT ABOUT.”]

The woman exchanged glances of rather contemptuous amusement with a man who had come out of the van and stood behind her. Then she held the baby out to Maggie, and Maggie took it and began to rock it about as if she had minded babies, and not poultry, all her life.

“Well, I never!” said the man. He wore small gold rings in his ears.

At this moment there arose a most furious noise from some fowls that were wandering about among the van wheels, where a fight was beginning. Alfonso had already managed to pick a quarrel with someone of his own sex, and the hens were screeching as the two birds crouched opposite to each other, making leaps into the air and striking out until the feathers flew.

“Alfonso! Alfonso! stop this moment!” screamed Maggie. “Oh! what a way to behave!”

But she could not get at him because of the baby she held.

“He has dreadful manners,” moaned the Cochin-China cock. But he would not have said that if Alfonso had been able to hear him.

“Well,” said the man, vaulting down the steps, “that’s the finest little game-bird I ever saw.”

And without more ado he separated the fighters and pushed Alfonso under a basket that stood upside down near the van. There was a hole in it, and through this Alfonso stuck his head and crowed at the top of his voice.

“What are you doing to him?” cried Maggie. “He is my friend, and we are travelling together.”

“He’s mine now,” replied the man, “for I’m going to keep him.”

“But I can’t part from him—you have got no right to take him away.” And the tears rushed to Maggie’s eyes at the thought.

“Best come along too,” said the woman, who spoke little.

“Oh yes—and perhaps I could mind the baby,” exclaimed Maggie.

“You’d have to,” said the woman. “We don’t keep people for nothing.”

“But there’s him too,” said Maggie, pointing to the Cochin-Chinaman. “I can’t leave him either. He always goes with Alfonso and me.”

The man laughed. “You’re the queerest lot _I_ ever saw,” said he. “But I suppose we must have you all.”

And so it was settled.

Maggie was very much relieved to find that the party was to move away early next morning, and she took care to keep as much out of sight as possible. But the rest of the evening passed without their hearing or seeing anything of the people at the farm, and she hoped that no one had discovered their absence. As soon as it was light next day the horses were harnessed, and the three truants set out with their new friends.