Chapter 22

Looking at the white hand, what was his surprise to see upon the middle finger the ring he had given to the maiden he loved. Then he looked into her face and recognized her, and in a flash he understood that she had come to court as a huntsman, only to be near him. The King was so touched that he kissed her white cheeks till they grew rosy, and her blue eyes opened in wonder. "You shall be my queen," he said, "and none in all the wide world shall separate us."

Then he sent a messenger to the princess who was coming to meet him, saying he was sorry he must ask her to return home, as the maiden that he loved and was going to marry was with him in the forest.

And the next day the bells pealed loud and far, and at the royal wedding the lion was an honored guest, because it had at last been proved that he spoke the truth.

THE TWELVE DANCING PRINCESSES

Once upon a time there was a King who had twelve daughters, each more beautiful than the other. The twelve princesses slept in a large hall, each in a little bed of her own. After they were snugly settled for the night, their father, the King, used to bolt the door on the outside. He then felt sure that his daughters would be safe until he withdrew the bolt next morning.

But one day when the King unbolted the hall door, and peeped in as usual, he saw twelve worn-out pairs of little slippers lying about the floor.

"What! shoes wanted again," he exclaimed, and after breakfast a messenger was sent to order a new pair for each of the princesses.

But the next morning the new shoes were worn out, how no one knew.

This went on and on until the King made up his mind to put an end to the mystery. The shoes, he felt sure, were danced to pieces, and he sent a herald to offer a reward to any one who should discover where the princesses held their night-frolic.

"He who succeeds, shall choose one of my daughters to be his wife," said the King, "and he shall reign after my death; but he who fails, after three nights' trial, shall be put to death."

Soon a prince arrived at the palace, and said he was willing to risk his life in the attempt to win one of the beautiful princesses.

When night came, he was given a bedroom next the hall in which the royal sisters slept. His door was left ajar and his bed placed so that from it he could watch the door of the hall. The escape of the princesses he would also watch, and he would follow them in their flight, discover their secret haunt, and marry the fairest.

This is what the prince meant to do, but before long he was fast asleep. And while he slept, the princesses danced and danced, for, in the morning, the soles of their slippers were once more riddled with holes.

The next night the prince made up his mind that stay awake he would, but again he must have fallen fast asleep, for in the morning twelve pairs of little worn-out slippers lay scattered about the floor of the hall.

The third night, in fear and trembling, the prince began his night watch. But try as he might, he could not keep his eyes open, and when in the morning the little slippers were as usual found riddled with holes, the King had no mercy on the prince who could not keep awake, and his head was at once cut off.

After his death, many princes came from far and near, each willing to risk everything in the attempt to win the fairest of these fair princesses. But each failed, and each in his turn was beheaded.

Now a poor soldier, who had been wounded in the wars, was on his way home to the town where the twelve princesses lived. One morning he met an old witch.

"You can no longer serve your country," she said. "What will you do?"

"With your help, good mother, I mean to rule it," replied the soldier; for he had heard of the mystery at the palace, and of the reward the King offered to him who should solve it.

"That need not be difficult," said the witch. "Listen to me. Go straightway to the palace. There you will be led before the throne. Tell the King that you would win the fairest of his fair daughters for your wife. His Majesty will welcome you gladly, and when night falls, you will be shown to a little bedroom. From the time you enter it, remember these three things. Firstly, refuse to drink the wine which will be offered you; secondly, pretend to fall fast asleep; thirdly, wear this when you wish to be invisible." So saying, the old dame gave him a cloak and disappeared.

Straightway, the soldier went to the palace, and was led before the throne. "I would win the fairest of your fair daughters for my wife," said he, bowing low before the King.

So anxious was his Majesty to discover the secret haunt of his daughters, that he gladly welcomed the poor soldier, and ordered that he should be dressed in scarlet and gold.

When bedtime came, the soldier was shown his little room, from which he could see the door of the sleeping-hall. No sooner had he been left alone than in glided a fair princess bearing in her hand a silver goblet.

"I bring you sweet wine. Drink," she said. The soldier took the cup and pretended to swallow, but he really let the wine trickle down into a sponge which he had fastened beneath his chin.

The princess then left him, and he went to bed and pretended to fall asleep. So well did he pretend, that before long his snores were heard by the princesses in their sleeping-hall.

"Listen," said the eldest, and they all sat up in bed and laughed and laughed till the room shook.

"If ever we were safe, we are safe to-night," they thought, as they sprang from their little white beds, and ran to and fro, opening cupboards, boxes, and cases, and taking from them dainty dresses, and ribbons, and laces and jewels.

Gaily they decked themselves before the mirror, bubbling over with mischief and merriment at the thought that once more they should enjoy their night-frolic. Only the youngest sister was quiet.

"I don't know why," she said, "but I feel so strange--as if something were going to happen."

"You are a little goose," answered the eldest, "you are always afraid. Why! I need not have put a sleeping powder in the soldier's wine. He would have slept without it. Now, are you all ready?"

The twelve princesses then stood on tiptoe at the hall door, and peered into the little room where the soldier lay, seemingly sound asleep. Yes, they were quite safe once more.

Back they went into the hall. The eldest princess tapped upon her bed. Immediately it sank into the earth, and, through the opening it had made, the princesses went down one by one.

The soldier who, peeping, had seen twelve little heads peer out of the hall door, at once threw his invisible cloak around him, and followed the princesses into the hall, unseen. He was just in time to reach the youngest, as she disappeared through the opening in the floor. Halfway down he trod upon her frock.

"Oh, what was that?" screamed the little princess, terrified. "Some one is tramping on my dress."

"Nonsense, be quiet," said the eldest, "it must have caught on a hook." Then they all went down, down, until they reached a beautiful avenue of silver trees.

Thought the soldier, "I must take away a remembrance of the place to show the King," and he broke off a twig.

"Oh, did you hear that crackling sound?" cried the youngest princess. "I told you something was going to happen."

"Baby!" replied the eldest. "The sound was a salute."

Next they came to an avenue where the trees were golden. Here the soldier again broke off a twig, and again was heard the crackling sound.

"A salute, I told you," said the eldest princess to her terrified little sister.

Further on they reached an avenue of trees that glittered with diamonds. When the soldier once more broke off a twig, the youngest princess screamed with fright, but her sisters only went on faster and faster, and she had to follow in fear and trembling.

At last they came to a great lake. Close to the shore lay twelve little boats, and in each boat stood a handsome prince, one hand upon an oar, the other outstretched to welcome a princess.

Soon the little boats rowed off, a prince and a princess in each, the soldier, still wearing his invisible cloak, sitting by the youngest sister.

"I wonder," said the prince who rowed her, "why the boat is so heavy to-day. I have to pull with all my strength, and yet can hardly get along."

"I am sure I do not know," answered the princess. "I dare say it is the hot weather."

On the opposite shore of the lake stood a castle. Its bright lights beckoned to the twelve little boats that rowed toward it. Drums beat, and trumpets sounded a welcome. Very merrily did the sisters reach the little pier. They sprang from the boats, and ran up the castle steps and into the gay ballroom. And there they danced and danced, but never saw or guessed that the soldier with the invisible cloak danced among them. When a princess lifted a wine-cup to her lips and found it empty, she felt frightened, but she little thought that the unseen soldier had drained it. On and on they danced, until three o'clock, but then the sisters had to stop, for all their little slippers were riddled with holes. And in the early gray morning the princes rowed them back across the lake, while the soldier seated himself this time beside the eldest princess.

When they reached the bank, the sisters wandered up the sloping shore, while the princes called after them, "Good-by, fair daughters of the King, to-night once more shall we await you here."

And all the princesses turned, and, waving their white hands, cried sleepily, "Farewell, farewell."

Little did the sisters dream as they loitered homeward, that the soldier ran past them, reached the castle, and climbed the staircase that led to his little bedroom. When, slowly and wearily, they reached the door of the hall where they slept, they heard loud snores coming from his room. "Ah, safe once more!" they exclaimed, and they undid their silk gowns, and their ribbons and jewels, and kicked off their little worn-out shoes. Then each went to her white bed, and in less than a minute was sound asleep.

The next morning the soldier told nothing of his wonderful adventure, for he thought he would like again to follow the princesses in their wanderings. And this he did a second and a third time, and each night the twelve sisters danced until their slippers were riddled with holes. The third night the soldier carried off a goblet, as a sign that he had visited the castle across the lake.

When next day he was brought before the King, to tell where the twelve dancing princesses held their night-frolic, the soldier took with him the twig with its silver leaves, the twig with its leaves of gold, and the twig whose leaves were of diamonds. He took, too, the goblet.

"If you would live, young man," said the King, "answer me this: How comes it that my daughters' slippers, morning after morning are danced into holes? Tell me, where have the princesses spent the three last nights?"

"With twelve princes in an underground castle," was the unexpected reply.

And when the soldier told his story, and held up the three twigs and the goblet to prove the truth of what he said, the King sent for his daughters.

In the twelve sisters tripped, with no pity in their hearts for "the old snorer," as they called the soldier; but when their eyes fell upon the twigs and the goblet they all turned white as lilies, for they knew that their secret night-frolics were now at an end for ever.

"Tell your tale," said the King to the soldier. But before he could speak, the princesses wrung their hands, crying, "Alack! alack!" and their father knew that at last he had discovered their secret.

Then turning to the soldier, the King said: "You have indeed won your prize. Which of my daughters do you choose as your wife?"

"I am no longer young," replied the soldier. "Let me marry the eldest princess."

So that very day the wedding bells pealed loud and far, and a few years later the old soldier and his bride were proclaimed King and Queen.

EDWY AND THE ECHO

It was in the time of good Queen Anne, when none of the trees in the great forest of Norwood, near London, had begun to be cut down, that a very rich gentleman and lady lived in that neighborhood. Their name was Lawley, and they had a fine old house and large garden with a wall all round it. The woods were so close to this garden that some of the high trees spread their branches over the top of the wall.

Now this lady and gentleman were very proud and very grand. They despised all people poorer than themselves, and there were none whom they despised more than the gypsies, who lived in the forest round about them.

There was no place in all England then so full of gypsies as the forest of Norwood.

Mr. and Mrs. Lawley had been married many years without having children. At length they had a son, whom they called Edwy. They could not make enough of their only child or dress him too finely.

When he was just old enough to run about without help, he used to wear his trousers inlaid with the finest lace, with golden studs and laced robings. He had a plume of feathers in his cap, which was of velvet, with a button of gold to fasten it up in front under the feathers. He looked so fine that whoever saw him with the servants who attended him used to say, "Whose child is that?"

He was a pretty boy, too, and when his first sorrow came he was still too young to have learned any proud ways.

No one is so rich as to be above the reach of trouble, and when at last it came to Mr. and Mrs. Lawley it was all the more terrible.

One day the proud parents had been away some hours visiting a friend a few miles distant. On their return Edwy was nowhere to be found. His waiting-maid was gone, and had taken away his finest clothes. At least, these also were missing.

The poor father and mother were almost beside themselves with grief. All the gentlemen and magistrates round about helped in the search and tried to discover who had stolen him. But it was all in vain. Of course the gypsies were suspected and well examined, but nothing could be made of it.

Nor was it ever found out how the child had been carried off. But carried off he had been by the gypsies, and taken away to a country among hills between Worcester and Hereford.

In that country was a valley with a river running deep at the bottom. There were many trees and bushes, rocks and caves and holes there. Indeed, it was the best possible place for the haunt of wild people.

To this place the gypsies carried the little boy, and there they kept him all the following winter, warm in a hut with some of their own children.

They stripped him of his velvet and feathers and lace and golden clasps and studs, and clothed him in rags and daubed his fair skin with mud. But they fed him well, and after a little while he was quite happy and contented.

Perhaps the cunning gypsies hoped that during the long months of winter the child would quite forget the few words he had learned to speak distinctly in his father's house. They thought he would forget to call himself Edwy, or to cry, "Oh, mamma, mamma, papa, papa! come to little Edwy!" as he so often did. They taught him that his name was not Edwy, but Jack, or Tom, or some such name. And they made him say "mam" and "dad" and call himself the gypsy boy, born in a barn.

But after he had learned all these words, whenever anything hurt or frightened him, he would cry again, "Mamma, papa, come to Edwy!"

The gypsies could not take him out with them while there was a danger of his crying like that. So he never went with them on their rounds of begging and buying rags and telling fortunes. Instead, he was left in the hut, in the valley, with some big girl or old woman to look after him.

It happened one day, in the month of May, that Edwy was left as usual in the hut. He had been up before sunrise to breakfast with those who were going out for their day's begging and stealing. After they had left, he had fallen asleep on a bed of dry leaves. Only one old woman, who was too lame to tramp, was left with him.

He slept long, and when he awoke he sat up on his bed of leaves and looked about him to see who was with him. He saw no one within the hut, and no one at the doorway.

Little children do not like to be quite alone. Edwy listened to hear if there were any voices outside, but he heard nothing but the rush of a waterfall close by, and the distant cry of sheep and lambs. The next thing the little one did was to get up and go out at the door of the hut.

The hut was built of rude rafters in the front of a cave or hole in the rock. It was low down in the glen, at the edge of the brook, a little below the waterfall. When the child came out he looked anxiously for somebody, and was more and more frightened when he could find no one at all.

The old woman must have been close at hand although out of sight, but she was deaf, and did not hear the noise made by the child when he came out of the hut.

Edwy did not remember how long he stood by the brook, but this is certain, that the longer he felt himself to be alone the more frightened he became. Then he began to fancy terrible things. At the top of the rock from which the waters fell there was a huge old yew-tree, or rather bush, which hung forward over the fall. It looked very black in comparison with the tender green of the other trees, and the white, glittering spray of the water.

Edwy looked at it and fancied that it moved. His eye was deceived by the dancing motion of the water. While he looked and looked, some great black bird came out from the midst of it, uttering a harsh, croaking sound.

The little boy could bear no more. He turned away from the terrible bush and the terrible bird, and ran down the valley, leaving hut and all behind. And, as he ran, he cried, as he always did when hurt or frightened, "Papa, mamma! oh, come! oh, come to Edwy!"

He ran and ran while his little bare feet were bruised with pebbles, and his legs torn with briers. Very soon he came to where the valley became narrower and the rocks and banks higher on either side. The brook ran along between, and a path went in a line with the brook; but this path was only used by the gypsies and a few poor cottagers, and was but a lonely road.

As Edwy ran he still cried, "Mamma, mamma, papa, papa! oh, come! oh, come to Edwy!" And he kept up this cry from time to time, till his young voice began to be returned in a sort of hollow murmur.

When first he noticed this, he was even more frightened than before. He stood and looked round. Then he turned with his back toward the hut and ran and ran again until he got deeper in among the rocks. Then he stopped again, for the high black banks frightened him still more, and setting up his young voice he called again as he had done before.

He had scarcely finished his cry, when a voice seemed to answer him. It said, "Come, come to Edwy!" It said it once, it said it twice, it said it a third time. But it seemed each time more distant.

The child looked up and down, and all around, and in his terror he cried more loudly, "Oh, papa, mamma! come, come to poor Edwy!"

It was an echo, the echo of the rocks which repeated the words of the child. The more loudly he spoke, the more perfect was the echo. But he could only catch the last few words, and this time he only heard, "Poor, poor Edwy!"

Edwy still dimly remembered a far-away happy home, and kind parents, and now he believed that what the echo said came from them. They were calling to him, and saying, "Poor, poor Edwy!" But where could they be? Were they in the caves, or at the top of the rocks, or in the blue bright heavens?

He looked at the rocks and the sky, and down among the reeds and sedges and alders by the side of the brook, but he could find no one.

After a while he called again, and called louder still.

"Come, come," was the cry again, "Edwy is lost! lost! lost!"

Echo repeated the last words as before, "Lost! lost! lost!" and now the voice sounded from behind him, for he had moved round a corner of a rock.

The child heard the voice behind, and turned and ran that way. Then he stopped and heard it again in the opposite direction. Next he shrieked from fear, and echo returned the shriek, finishing up with broken sounds which to Edwy's ears seemed as if some one a long way off was mocking him. His terror was now at its highest, and he did not know what to do, or where to go. Turning round, he began once more to run down the valley, and every step took him nearer the mouth of the glen and the entrance to the great highroad.

And who had been driving along that road, in a fine carriage with four horses, but Edwy's own papa and mamma!

Mr. and Mrs. Lawley had given up all hopes of finding their little boy near Norwood, and they had set out in their coach to go all over the country in search of him. They had come the day before to a town near to the place where the gypsies had kept Edwy all the winter. There they had made many inquiries, and asked about the gypsies who were to be found in that country. But people were afraid of the gypsies, and did not like to say anything which might bring trouble upon themselves.

The poor father and mother, therefore, could get no news there, and the next morning they came across the country, and along the road into which the gypsies' valley opened.

Wherever these unhappy parents saw a wild country full of woods, they thought, if possible, more than ever of their lost child, and Mrs. Lawley would begin to weep. Indeed, she had done little else since she lost her boy.

The travelers first caught sight of the gypsies' valley as the coach arrived at the top of a high hill. The descent on the other side was so steep that it was thought right to put a drag on the wheels.

Mr. Lawley suggested that they should get out and walk down the hill, so the coach stopped and every one got down from it. Mr. Lawley walked first, followed closely by his servant William, and Mrs. Lawley came after, leaning on the arm of her favorite little maid Barbara.

"Oh, Barbara!" said Mrs. Lawley, when the others were gone forward, "when I remember all the pretty ways of my boy, and think of his lovely face and gentle temper, and of the way in which I lost him, my heart is ready to break."

"Oh, dear mistress," answered the little maid, "who knows but that our grief may soon be at an end and we may find him yet and all will be well."

Mr. Lawley walked on before with the servant. He too was thinking of his boy as he looked up the wild lonely valley. He saw a raven rise from the wood and heard its croaking noise--it was perhaps the same black bird that had frightened Edwy.

William remarked to his master that there was a sound of falling water and that there must be brooks running into the valley. Mr. Lawley, however, was too sad to talk to his servant. He could only say, "I don't doubt it," and then they both walked on in silence.

They came to the bottom of the valley even before the carriage got there. They found that the brook crossed the road in that place, and that the road was carried over it by a little stone bridge.

Mr. Lawley stopped upon the bridge. He leaned on the low wall, and looked upon the dark mouth of the glen, William stood a little behind him.

William was young, and his sense of hearing was very quick. As he stood there he thought he heard a voice, but the rattling of the coach-wheels over the stony road prevented his hearing it distinctly. He heard the cry again, but the coach was coming nearer, and made it still more difficult for him to catch the sound.

His master was surprised the next moment to see him jump over the low parapet of the bridge and run up the narrow path which led to the glen.

It was the voice of Edwy and the answering echo which William had heard. He had got just far enough away from the sound of the coach-wheels at the moment when the echo returned poor little Edwy's wildest shriek.