Part 8

Prudence, her promise to Maddy Norey and her own safety were alike forgotten; all that she could think of was those approaching vessels which would so soon be landing, and, without fear or hesitation, she spread her wings, and in a moment was flying madly seawards. Over the woods she sped, over the plains and marshes, only now and then passing above a solitary dwelling in the thinly-populated country she crossed. Sometimes she saw a little knot of soldiers encamped in secluded places, and guessed that they were the scouts posted about by the rebels to watch for and capture their sovereign. With a thankful heart she observed that, being stationed in low-lying parts of the country and among the woods, they could not see the sight which she saw from the height at which she flew. It was evident that none suspected the King of having left the country. She hastened forward with redoubled speed as the space between the fleet and the sea-shore lessened. Just before sunset she had almost reached the coast on which the ships were already landing, and could plainly see boats rowing to the shore to empty upon it their loads of armed warriors and going back again to return with more. The sands were black with hurrying figures.

All at once, below her there rose a shout from a watchman who had been climbing to a greater eminence than the others, and, realising that in an hour the country might be up in arms, she strained every nerve to reach her husband in time to prepare him for an attack.

Scarcely a mile lay between her and the invading army; she was thinking how, in another few moments, she would be once more with the King, when a man, loitering about on the waste land with his crossbow saw the bird passing over his head, took an arrow from the quiver and fitted it to the string. He was a good marksman.

Suddenly a shock of pain passed through the white pigeon and the earth seemed to rise up to meet her; then a giddiness, a drop, and a heavy blow, and she was lying on the wet ground, no longer a bird, but a terrified and wounded woman with an arrow sticking in her arm. Her wing had been broken.

She raised herself a little and saw that her persecutor was rushing forward, and, as the remembrance of her mission came back, she staggered to her feet and tore the arrow from her arm. She was so near safety and succour—so near—she _must_ make one more effort; gathering all her strength together, she bounded on, half faint from loss of blood.

As the King stood on a green mound giving orders for the encampment of his army, he heard a sound of rushing footsteps and turned round. A woman with flying hair and outstretched hands was dashing towards him, through the sea-grass, through the stones and driftwood, and, as she fell fainting at his feet, he recognised the Queen.

* * * * *

The King and his wife sat in the royal tent together. Her arm was stiff and painful and the King was uneasy, for he longed to place her under more skilful care than any which could be got in their present position. They sat at the tent door under the stars; just before morning, when all was beginning to be astir with preparations for the march, a star dropped from its place and fell across the Northern heavens. It travelled slowly along, leaving in its wake a little train of blue sparks.

“That is a good omen,” the Queen said.

Soon the rebels got news that the King had landed, and they came with their troops to meet him. There was a great battle that lasted from noon until the evening, and all day the King rode unharmed through the fray with a white pigeon on his shoulder—a white pigeon with a broken wing. The enemy looked upon this strange sight with superstitious awe, and many an arrow tried to find its way to the mysterious bird’s heart. But none succeeded, and when, at the end of that hard day, the King stood victorious on the field, the only signs of blood to be seen upon him were the drops that dripped upon his shoulder from the wing of the white pigeon.

At last he was able to go to his tent and lay aside sword and armour, and he placed the bird tenderly upon the ground. The Queen at once returned to her own shape, half dead with pain and fatigue and scarcely able to stand.

A great fear took hold upon the King. How if he were even now, in the hour of his success, to lose her?

It took him but one moment to make up his mind. He would take her to Maddy Norey, for, if there were help to be found under heaven, he knew that the witch would give it to him.

Commanding a fresh horse should be brought, he mounted as the moon rose and rode out into the night, holding the bird in the folds of his cloak. The people, when they heard of the advance of the troops and the great defeat from some fugitives who had escaped from the battle, had abandoned their houses and fled in all directions, so it was through a desolate country that the King spurred his good horse. He rode grimly on with his sword drawn in his hand, ready to cut down the first obstacle that might present itself, his eyes fixed steadily in front of him, looking neither to the right nor the left. In the early dawn he stood, as he had stood not so long since, at the foot of the Dovecote. There was the little door in front of him, with its rusty latch and hanging cobwebs. He threw himself from the saddle and rushed into the building and up the crazy stair. Maddy Norey’s voice came from inside the attic.

“Be quick, be quick,” she said, holding out her hands for the bird, “you have not come a moment too soon. Give her to me.”

They laid the fluttering creature on the ground, and, when her natural shape had returned, the Queen was carried to the carved bed where the witch dressed her wound, and, with charms and spells, charmed back her sinking life; and, having been assured by the old woman that all danger was past, the King left her with hope in his heart, and returned to meet his troops.

From that day everything went well; the march to the capital was but a triumphal progress, and the victors were soon joined by bands of those who had remained loyal during the rebellion, but who had not been able to gain the day for their sovereign by reason of the tremendous odds against which they fought.

* * * * *

The cornfield below Maddy Norey’s trees had been cut, the stooks were standing on the hill-side, and the elm-trees were beginning to be faintly touched with autumn, when, one blue, misty morning, the King rode through the pastures to fetch the Queen. He came alone, leading a grey horse by the bridle; and he tied the two animals to an iron ring in the Dovecote wall while he went up to the witch’s attic.

He found the old woman at her spinning-wheel with the young one beside her.

“When he comes to fetch me,” the Queen was saying, “you will leave the Dovecote, will you not, dear Maddy Norey, and come with us? For our home shall be yours. You have been so good to us that we cannot bear to part from you. Say that you will come.”

“No,” said the witch, “it is impossible. I have lived in this room for such countless years that I can never leave it now. When you have gone no one will ever find the little door again.”

And nothing that they could say would make her consent.

So they went down the wooden stair together, and Maddy Norey came to the top to bid them farewell. For one moment she laid her hand on the King’s curling hair as he bent over her wrinkled figure, and she kissed the Queen, who threw her arms around her crooked neck; then she stood a little space at the head of the stair, looking at the two bright figures as they went out from her into the light.

At the threshold they turned and saw that she was holding up her hands as if in blessing.

Very silently they rode out of the pasture, and, as they were about to turn the corner of the birch-wood, they reined in their horses to take a last look at the curious old building as it stood solitary in the morning mist.

There were tears in the Queen’s eyes.

THE PEACOCK’S TAIL

There was once a widow of respectable family who lived in a house in a retired part of the country. Her only companion was her daughter, Ella, who was exceedingly beautiful, and continually on the look-out to see whether a wandering prince would come by and marry her.

[Illustration: NOW I AM SIMPLY PERFECT SAID SHE]

There was also an old witch called Mother Grindle, who lived up a tree in the orchard. A deep pool was at the foot of this orchard, but in spring the sight of the water was almost shut out by the mass of blossom which covered the apple-trees. There was a peacock, too, who strutted about all day; he was not a bad fellow really, but intolerably vain. Only one thing in the place was vainer than himself, and that was Ella, the widow’s daughter. Mother Grindle and the peacock got on very well together, though the witch would sometimes laugh and rock about till the tree shook, which annoyed him very much. It was most odd.

One day he was walking along the grass; he took very high steps, and sometimes he dragged his wings on the ground. Then he would stop and set up his tail like a fan behind him, arching and twisting his neck in the sun. The apple-tree shook till the petals fell in showers.

He looked up and saw Mother Grindle sitting in the branches.

“Really!” he exclaimed. “A stranger might almost think you were laughing at _me_!”

“What an idea!” said the witch, “you must be mad.”

So he went on trailing and prancing. The tree shook again, and he could see Mother Grindle rocking from side to side.

“What are you laughing at?” he cried. “It can’t be me, because there is nothing about me to be amused at. Now, if _I_ were to start laughing at that pointed hat you wear there would be some sense in it.”

At this moment Ella came out wearing her best gown, for it was Sunday; she was not, as a rule, very civil to Mother Grindle, for she also did not admire the pointed hat. But she did admire the peacock. She looked over her shoulder at her own train and was forced to admit that, for colour and design, the peacock’s tail far outdid it.

“Ah!” she sighed, “how I wish I had that tail.”

“You may have one wish—two wishes—three wishes,” sang out Mother Grindle from the apple-tree.

And before you could say “Jack!” the beautiful tail became fixed to Ella’s waist—eyes, moons, quills, fringes and all.

“Now I am simply perfect,” said she; and she ran to the hedge and looked over to see if a Prince were coming down the road. But there was no one. As for the peacock, he was furious, naturally.

Ella knew there was no mirror in the widow’s house large enough to reflect her and all her glory, and she went down to the pool and looked in at herself; she stood on the edge and leaned over, putting up her tail behind her head. All at once there came a gust and caught it like the wind catching a sail; over she went, straight in. It was very deep.

“Help! Help!” she cried. But there was no one close by but the peacock, and _he_ wasn’t going to put himself out. He was delighted, and walked stiffly away to the yard at the back of the house; he was much consoled, and he knew very well that he would grow a new tail next year.

“La! husband, how paltry you look!” cried the peahens. They had long thought it rather hard that he should be so much better dressed than themselves.

Ella screamed and shrieked. She caught hold of some rushes, but the tail was so heavy that she could not drag herself out.

“You shall have one wish—two wishes!” sang out Mother Grindle from the tree.

“Oh! if I were only on shore!” cried Ella. And sure enough she found herself standing on the brink, dripping with water, but safe. She ran into the house as fast as ever she could go.

She was put to bed at once in hot blankets. “How you are to lie with that tail on, I can’t imagine,” said her mother. However, in she got, arranging it as best she might, and so tired was she after all she had gone through, that she fell asleep and never woke till the next morning.

She got up and dressed, but alas! alas! she had rolled about in the night, and the beautiful feathers were all broken and torn and matted together; they hung like so many limp rags, and, do what she would, she could not make them hang properly. She went into the orchard, hoping that the sun and wind might freshen them up; but though she spent some time in taking out the tangles, the effect was horrid, and she looked more draggle-tailed than words can say. The peahens peeped over the fence and tittered.

At this moment a Prince came riding by, and saw her walking in the orchard.

“Heavens! What an absurd sight!” he exclaimed, as he rode on.

Ella sat down on the grass and cried bitterly.

“You may have one wish—one wish!” sang out the witch from the tree.

“Oh! take away this dreadful thing,” sobbed Ella.

And before you could turn round it was gone. Then Mother Grindle began to sing again very cheerfully. But Ella was not cheerful—far from it.

“You may have one wish more—one wish more,” sang the witch.

But Ella has not made up her mind what to ask for yet. One cannot be too careful.

THE PELICAN

In the land of Egypt, where the Nile runs and the palm-trees grow and the great Sphynx sits alone in the Desert, there lived a young man who kept a jeweller’s shop in a crowded street. He was tall and grave, and he wore a yellow kaftan which clothed him from head to heel.

In the afternoon, when the street was full, he would sit in front of his shop looking at the people, and sometimes exchanging a word with the passers-by.

It chanced that, as he sat in his accustomed place one day, there passed a countryman carrying under his arm a young Pelican, which he had caught on the river. He held it very roughly, and a crowd of boys followed behind jeering at the strange, half-fledged creature, and sometimes pulling its tail or its legs and laughing when it opened its mouth in terror. Now the young man was angry that the bird should be so used, for he had read many books and thought many thoughts, and he knew that birds and beasts had feelings like other people. He pitied the poor frightened Pelican, and as one of the boys passed, he gave him a great cuff which nearly knocked him over.

“Good man,” said he to the countryman, “where are you going with that Pelican?”

“To the other side of the city,” replied the countryman, “where I know a man who will buy him and cut his throat when he grows older for the sake of his skin and feathers.”

“You need not go so far,” said the young man in yellow, “for I myself will give you what price you name for him.”

At this the countryman was glad enough, for he was tired of carrying the bird, and the young man paid him and took the poor Pelican into the court behind his shop, where he put him down near a small fountain in the middle of it.

As time went on, the Pelican grew so big that there was scarce room for him in the little tank, and the young man took him to sit in front of the shop.

[Illustration: THAT IS THE MOST CHARMING GIRL I HAVE EVER SEEN]

One day, as they were there together, there passed before them a girl carrying a basket of melons on her head. She was slender, and her naked feet and ankles were as fine as though she had been a great lady; she had long, dark eyes, and the plait of her hair hung down behind her, below the edge of her veil. With one hand she drew the black folds over her mouth.

The young man in yellow was so much struck that he could not refrain from speaking his thoughts aloud. “That is the most charming girl I have ever seen,” he said. “I wonder where she lives.”

“On the banks of the Nile some way down stream,” said the Pelican, who was standing behind him.

At this, his master was so exceedingly astonished that he nearly fell off his seat, for he never suspected that the bird could talk.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“There is a patch of brown Nile mud upon the border of her garment,” replied the Pelican.

“That is very well,” said the other, “but how can you tell what distance she comes from?”

“Her face is unveiled,” was the reply, “like those of the women in the remoter country places.”

“And how do you know that her home is down stream?” asked the young man again.

“Sir, I observed that the stems of the melons were freshly cut, and must have been gathered this morning. Those who bring melons to the town embark early, as soon as their load is ready. Had the owner of these lived up the river he would have arrived with his merchandise before noon, being carried by the current. But it is now afternoon.”

“You are a great reasoner,” exclaimed the young man, “but how do you know that the girl has not been in the city since morning?”

“Her basket is full,” answered the bird.

“Since you are so clever,” continued he, “perhaps you will inform me if she often comes this way. I have never seen her before.”

“Neither have I,” rejoined the Pelican, “but I can answer, for all that. She draws the end of her veil over her mouth as she goes; this is because she has seen much of the ways of city women who veil themselves. You may also have noticed that she turned under the gateway by the mosque. Now that gateway is small and mean, and only those acquainted with this street know that there is a passage through it to the thoroughfare where the cloth-merchants live; where every man is rich and keeps a pile of melons behind his wares for the entertainment of visitors. Doubtless she has been there many a time.”

The young man was still more astonished. “I perceive,” said he, “that one of the jewels in my shop is the rare jewel of wisdom.”

At this the Pelican rejoiced in his heart. “Wisdom is like other wildfowl, and roosts with its kind,” he replied.

“I perceive also that you have learnt to speak with great civility,” continued the young man.

“Sir,” said the bird again, “while sitting here I have observed the manners of the grave and reverend persons who pass by, and of the aged sheikhs who come on their donkeys to drink coffee with the merchant opposite.”

After this the two lived together in great content till, one day, the young man in yellow spoke his mind.

“Friend,” said he, “we have now been companions for some time; but I must tell you I think this no suitable life for a bird of your talents. You see nothing of your own kind here, nor anything outside my shop. It is time we began to think of your future. You should marry and rear a family instead of sitting here. Wisdom is good, but it is also portable, so you can carry it away when you go. I have been thinking this over, and I have found a good opening for you; my uncle’s brother-in-law is keeper of the garden at Prince Hassan’s palace outside the city. There, there are great trees, lakes, islands, fruits, and a very high family of Pelicans has been settled there for many years. At my request you would be well received, and you could then marry and live respectably. I shall be grieved beyond measure at parting from you, but, having your welfare at heart, I shall make up my mind to it. Besides, I will go to see you regularly every Friday.”

At first the bird was very unwilling to agree to this plan, for he was much attached to his friend, but at last he consented: and the young man hired an ass and rode to Prince Hassan’s garden with the Pelican sitting before him on the saddle. His uncle’s brother-in-law received them warmly, and installed the Pelican on a fine lake where there were islands covered with long grass, and, at one side, a mass of tall scarlet flowers standing by the banks with their roots in the water.

The Pelican was attracted by these beautiful plants and made his home in their midst, having an eye for colour; the life suited him but for one thing, and that was the dull company which he found among the other birds. He hardly cared to speak to them, for, though they were civil and pleasant enough, he had been so long accustomed to the talk of the young man in yellow that all other seemed dull in comparison. As for marrying, he gave up the idea, for he could not find one hen-pelican whose silly chatter did not drive him mad. In spite of the luxury in which he lived, he counted the days of each week till Friday should come round and bring his friend to sit with him for an hour or two among the scarlet flowers.

Now it happened that the girl who sold melons, and whom the young man in yellow had never seen since the day on which the Pelican first spoke, was sitting one afternoon by the Nile. The reason he had not seen her was that her father, a cross old man, had begun to sell his fruit on the bank of the river, and now made her sit by it from morning till night.

One day it was very hot, and the sun was so fierce that she grew sleepy and laid herself down under a palm tree to rest. While she slept a string of camels came by, and one of them knocked its foot against the pile of fruit; with a great splash all the melons rolled, one over the other, like round balls, down the bank, and were carried away by the running water. The girl jumped up, wringing her hands, and calling to the camel-drivers to save them, but they only laughed and passed on. “Who sleeps long at noon weeps long at night!” they shouted.