Part 7

“Ah!” cried the Blind Bowler. “Only six down that time! Not so easy, when you’ve no eyes to see with! But keep everlastingly at it, that’s the word! What did you say?”

“What about yourself?” said I.

“Oh, me! I helped the governor fight this Babadag, and we lost; and for that the powerful one put out my eyes, and the eyes of my three brothers as well, for nothing but because they were my brothers; three ballad singers--”

“Yes!” said I. “I have seen them.”

“Ridiculous fellows, but no harm in them! And because it was my pleasure in former times to play at bowling, old Babadag placed me here, under my shop, to bowl a thousand strikes, if I could, by midnight of this very day; and if not, to take my place in the web with Goolk the Spider. Those ballad singers, my brothers, they would like to help me if they could, and perhaps they will yet, who knows? Aha! Another strike! I’ll do it yet!”

“It’s no use,” said Figli. “The time’s too short. And I can’t save him. Oh, if you could help us, peddler! But you mustn’t do my father any harm!”

“My boy,” said I, “I am a friend of the enchanted governor, and I will do my best to help you. And perhaps the three blind ballad singers mean to help too. I think they do. Will you take me to your father?”

The boy started in alarm. “You are very brave, peddler,” said he. “What do you say?” he asked of the Blind Bowler.

“I say yes!” cried the Bowler. “There is hope in this stranger. I think he’s the one we’ve been waiting for. My brothers have been on the lookout for him. They’ll help too. Trust him!”

“Do you know any stories?” said the boy.

I smiled. “A few, I dare say,” said I.

“My father is a lover of tales. It’s his one weakness. It will be safer for you if you can amuse him with tales, and the longer they are the better.”

“The wine, if he offers you any,” said the Blind Bowler, “will be drugged; that much is sure. Take care. And do not let yourself be touched by Goolk the Spider.”

“Come,” said I. “There is not a moment to be lost.”

_The Prince Sets Out for His Encounter with Babadag the Tailor_

I hastened to the ladder, followed by the boy, and we began to go up. The tenpins fell down with a clatter, and as I reached the grating overhead I heard the voice of the Blind Bowler from below, crying out cheerily, “Four down! Never mind! Keep everlastingly at it!”

In the paved yard I slung my pack on my back again, and followed the boy into the street. It was beginning to grow dark, and I thought anxiously of my daughter; but I could not go back to her yet. During our walk the boy spoke only once, and then he said:

“You must not do my father any harm. I love my father. I want him to be good, like the others, but I should die--I should die!--if he came to any harm.”

I did not reply, but followed for half an hour through streets which were now almost empty of people. We entered at last a street narrower than the others, paved with cobblestones and without a sidewalk, and stopped before a shop over whose door, by way of a sign, hung a yardstick and a pair of shears. It seemed a mean enough abode for the ruler of the city, but Figli, without hesitating, opened the door and went in. The room inside was dark, but I could see a tailor’s bench and implements, and a disorderly array of half-finished garments, covered with dust. The boy opened a door at the rear, and I followed him along a dark passage to another door, which Figli threw open to a flood of light.

_Babadag the Tailor, Goolk the Spider, and the Eight Tailors_

We were standing in a magnificent apartment, paved with colored marble, hung and spread with soft rugs, and lit with hundreds of tapers. At the left, near the wall, was sitting an old man, and behind his chair, from ceiling to floor, was a gigantic spider’s web, which glistened like silver in the candlelight. In the center of this web was a great green spider, with five or six small black spiders about him. Against the opposite wall, on a tailor’s bench, eight men, totally without eyebrows, were sitting cross-legged, each bending over a bowl held on his knees, filled with what looked like shreds of hair, and engaged in some kind of work with tiny knitting needles.

The old man’s gross and heavy body was clothed in a gorgeous robe of pale yellow silk, like that which the boy had thrown in the mud, but embroidered with spider’s webs of spun gold, and studded with rubies and amethysts. His face, a rather jovial face, was covered with gray hair, which hung over his breast, and his eyes shone like sparks behind a pair of the shaggiest eyebrows I had ever seen. He gazed at me calmly, and held out a hand to his son.

The boy went to him, and Babadag the Tailor put an arm about him and said, with very obvious tenderness:

“My boy, you are late. And your robe and hat! Where are they?”

The boy threw himself on his knees beside his father, and cried, “Oh, father! I couldn’t wear them any longer. I couldn’t! They’re hateful! I don’t want to be dressed in silk! I want to be poor like the others! I can’t wear them any longer, I can’t, I can’t!”

The old man smiled kindly. “Never mind, my son, never mind. I’ll not scold you. We’ll think no more about it. Who is the visitor you have brought with you?”

“It’s a peddler,” said Figli, standing up. “I don’t know his name; a peddler I met by chance, and I’d like you to buy me something from his pack.”

I stepped forward, made my bow, and dropped my pack to the floor.

“You are welcome, master peddler,” said Babadag.

The green spider gave a sharp twitch, which set the whole web quivering.

“Quiet, Goolk!” said Babadag.

The eight men on the tailor’s bench stopped their work, and said: “Welcome, master peddler!”

“Knit your brows!” said Babadag, angrily, and the eight men hurriedly resumed their knitting.

I opened my pack and began to take out some toys.

“Presently, presently, peddler,” said Babadag, stopping me. “Your face is dark, stranger. A little more, and it would have been black.”

“Yes, very dark,” said the eight men, stopping their work again.

“Knit your brows!” thundered Babadag. “Accursed dogs, be silent!--A dark stranger, who wears eyebrows in the city of Oogh! A thing of interest! I would gladly know who you are and what brings you here.”

I was prepared with my story, and I answered promptly.

“Magnificence,” said I, “I am a peddler, and my name is Nobbud Bald-er-Dash. If the ear of graciousness will incline to me, I will tell an amusing tale concerning myself, and at some length.”

“A tale!” cried Babadag. “You must know, honest Bald-er-Dash, that I am a lover of tales. A weakness! I confess it. Come! We will make a night of it. Goolk,” said he, rising, “come hither!”

The green spider sped down the web to the floor, and ran up the old man’s yellow silk robe, and came to a stop on his breast, beside his beard.

“It is the hour of the evening repast,” continued Babadag, stroking the spider with his finger, “and I invite you to sit down with me. A guest who has a tale to tell! It is good fortune, no less! Come, Figli, my son, we will listen to the excellent Bald-er-Dash while we dine.”

_The Prince Dines with Babadag the Tailor_

He pulled aside a curtain in the wall, and leaving the eight men at their work, we passed, all three, into an open court, hung about with lanterns of colored glass, and odorous with flowers. Under an awning was a small table, set for two. It was now dark, and the lanterns shed a soft glow on the silver and glass of the table. Servants appeared and laid a place for myself, and the meal commenced.

“You are wondering, Bald-er-Dash,” said Babadag, “who the eight men are whom we have just left. They are tailors, known among us as the Knitters of Eyebrows. They are knitting for me, out of the eyebrows which my good people have been so kind as to give me, a garment known as the Cloak of Wills, which will, when finished, complete the mastery of the fortunate person who wears it. Try a little of this wine, my good Bald-er-Dash; you will find it excellent.”

I pretended to drink the wine, but I was able, while Babadag’s attention was fixed on his plate, to spill a good deal of it on the floor.

“I am anxious to hear your story,” said the old man. “The singers who sometimes entertain me at my meals are late to-day, and we will not wait for them. Bald-er-Dash, my good fellow, let me hear your tale.”

At this moment voices were heard from the shadows, and three men came running toward the table, crying out boisterously.

“Good news!” they were shouting. “We’re going to marry! She’s promised! She’ll marry the one you choose, tra la! She’ll marry the one you choose!”

_The Three Blind Ballad Singers Once More_

They began to sing, at the top of their voices. I started in surprise. It was the three blind ballad singers. “O-o-oh!” they sang:

“She wanted to marry us all, she said, But that wouldn’t do, no never, No never, no never, no, no! From suitors a dozen, Not counting a cousin And two or three uncles or so, She’d freely and frankly, firmly and fairly, Flatly and finally fled! For never a one could sing, not one, Not a line, not a note, not a thing, not one, And she, she said, if she must be wed, A singer she’d have, or she’d have none, For really she’d almost rather be dead If she couldn’t be uninterruptedly fed On an endless tonic Of scales harmonic In every possible key, An infinite series, never finished, Of chords with all the sevenths diminished, And all the intervals less than minor,-- Surely nothing could be diviner, Nothing! nothing at all, said she: And after breakfast a quaver hemi, And after dinner a quaver demi, And after supper a quaver semi, And in between, for ever and ever, Every possible kind of shake! The fact of the matter is, you see, She’d made up her mind, beyond mistake, To offer her hand to one of we! But which should it be? Which one of the three? And what of the two who would have to go? What about them? she said; that’s it! She didn’t approve the idea a bit. Those other two she could never forget,-- Just think of them out in the cold and wet! Just think of their terrible, terrible woe! She wanted to marry, and yet, and yet, She’d never be happy, no never, No never, no never, no, no!”

“Silence, fools,” said Babadag, laughing. “We are about to listen to a tale,--a tale from Bald-er-Dash the peddler. Will you proceed now, excellent peddler?”

“Willingly,” said I.

At the sound of my voice, the three blind men cried out “Aha!” and broke into a fresh song:

“The peddler and the peddler’s maid, oh fair as milk was she, And she promised on her honor she would marry one of three,--”

“Silence, rascals!” said Babadag.

I was becoming, all this while, more and more restless, for I had no doubt that all this talk of marriage had reference to my own daughter. I wondered bitterly what mischief she had been up to during my absence.

“These rascals,” said Babadag, still laughing, “sometimes I am minded to put them to death. I don’t know really why I let them live. Now then, excellent one, let us hear the tale.”

I bowed, and while the repast proceeded, and the three ballad singers remained standing behind our chairs, I related to Babadag, as follows,

THE STORY OF NOBBUD BALD-ER-DASH THE PEDDLER

“In the course of my wanderings,” I began, “I arrived one day at a spring in the wilderness, beside which were encamped a company of--”

_“I think,” said Solario, interrupting himself, “that I cannot conscientiously repeat this story, because--”_

_“Oh, please!” said Bojohn. “We’d like to hear it.”_

_“No,” said. Solario, “I couldn’t, conscientiously, because there is not a word of truth in the story, and I do not wish to tell anything which is not strictly true.”_

During my tale (said the Prince) I pretended now and then to take a sip of wine, and to grow drowsy, so that toward the end I seemed to have difficulty in keeping awake. When I had concluded, Babadag laughed and said, “I thank you, peddler. Never in my life have I heard such a tissue of--er--amusing facts. Some more wine, peddler.”

I pretended to sip the wine again, and let my head fall forward on my breast, and roused myself as if with a great effort.

“I am something,” said Babadag, appearing to take no notice of my drowsiness, “of a teller of tales myself. I will tell you in return a story, and when I have finished you shall tell me another, if you know any, as you undoubtedly do.”

Thereupon he commenced a long and detailed story; and I could see that as he proceeded he was watching me from the corner of his eye. He had not spun out his tale very far when my eyes closed and my head nodded; and after an apparent effort to arouse myself I let my head fall forward on the table and lie there motionless.

Babadag instantly stopped, raised my head gently, and laying it back against my chair shook me roughly, but with no effect.

“Send in the accursed dogs,” said he in a fierce whisper.

I was aware, in a moment, that the eight tailors were standing around me.

“The eyebrows!” said Babadag, and the tailors bent over me and began to pluck at my eyebrows with instruments of some sort.

“Oh, father, father,” said Figli, “please don’t!”

“Be still, my son,” said Babadag.

_The Magic Doublet Protects the Prince Against the Knitters of Eyebrows and Against Goolk the Spider_

I laughed inwardly, for I was sure that, under the protection of my doublet, my eyebrows would reappear as fast as they could be plucked out. And indeed, from the snort of rage given by Babadag, I soon knew that my eyebrows were safe. I could hear the eight tailors whispering together, as if in dismay.

“Goolk!” said Babadag, in the same angry whisper, “sting me this false peddler!”

“No, no, father,” said Figli. “Not that, oh, please!”

I shivered a little, for I confess that the thought of the spider was horrifying to me. I waited anxiously, not daring to open my eyelids even a trifle. I assure you it was all I could do to remain still. There was silence, and in the midst of it I felt a tickling on my left cheek, and then a kind of pin-prick there, and I knew that the spider had stung me.

“Back, Goolk!” said Babadag. “Now, false peddler that you are, be no longer either a prince or a peddler, but a spider,--a black spider!--and take your place with Goolk in the web! Change!”

I felt no change, and I heard another snort of rage from Babadag. “Some charm!” he muttered. “Some charm protects him! Let us see what charm this lying stranger carries upon him.”

I felt that my smock was being lifted from my breast, and I heard a kind of gasp from Babadag. “The doublet!” he said. “It is plain! Off with the doublet!” And immediately fingers were at my breast, trying to unbutton the doublet.

But they could not unbutton it. Not a button would come through its hole.

“Fetch me a pair of shears, rascals,” said Babadag, and in a moment I knew that shears were snapping away at my doublet. But it was no use; the blade would not cut, neither the thread of the buttons nor the cloth; they held like iron at every point. I heard the shears drop to the floor.

“The Shears of Sharpness! Bring me the Shears of Sharpness!” said Babadag. “Nothing else will cut this doublet.”

I heard a chuckle, and the voice of one of the ballad singers said, “The Shears of Sharpness, brothers!” And there was another chuckle.

“What!” said Babadag. “You laugh, rascals? You dare to laugh?”

“The Shears of Sharpness!” said the voice of one of the ballad singers. “Where are the Shears of Sharpness, brothers?” And at this there was a very considerable tittering.

“Ask the fair lady, brother,” said the voice of another of the ballad singers.

“She knows! The wonderful lady!” said the voice of the third.

“Ineffable scoundrels!” said Babadag. “Have you stolen my Shears?”

“No, no! Only borrowed them! What harm in that?” said the ballad singers.

“Return them to me at once!” said Babadag.

I could hear the ballad singers chuckling together again. “We would, we would,” said one of them, “we meant to, but--”

“But what, beast?”

“She has them,” said one of the three.

“The most wonderful of women,” said another.

“She who swore she would marry one of us,” said the third.

_The Prince’s Daughter Has Beguiled the Shears of Sharpness from the Ballad Singers_

My daughter! My own daughter! She had beguiled the Shears from these foolish vagabonds! Or had they let her have the Shears for some purpose of their own--to help their brother, say? I was quite bewildered.

“Oh, that I should let such scoundrels live!” said Babadag, fiercely. “Where is this woman?”

“But she wouldn’t marry us unless we gave her the Shears,” said one of the ballad singers. “No harm in that!”

“No harm in that, surely!” said the other two.

“Where is this woman?” said Babadag again.

“We left her,” said one of the others, “by the dry fountain at the governor’s palace.”

“Accursed,” said Babadag, evidently addressing the eight tailors, “pick up this peddler and follow me. We must find the Shears. You, imbeciles that you are, I will deal with you afterward. Goolk, back to your web!”

I could not see what became of Goolk, but I knew that the eight tailors were lifting me from my chair, and I felt myself being borne away.

“Oh, father!” cried Figli. “You mustn’t! Please let the poor man go, oh please!”

“My son,” said Babadag, in the voice of tenderness with which he always addressed his son, “he is my enemy. I must have him in my power. Accursed doublet!”

_A Light Flickers in the Dark Shop_

In a moment I was aware that we were in the street, and I opened my eyelids a trifle. The moon was shining. I saw Babadag starting on before, with the three ballad singers at his back. Behind, the eight tailors were holding me in a sitting posture between them. I could see the shop door, without moving my head, and as we started I beheld Figli, coming from the door, in the act of stowing away something, I could not see what, in the bosom of his shirt. The shop was dark, but as Figli closed the door behind him I noticed, flickering from within, a tiny flame of light which had not been there before. I remarked that the boy’s face was very pale in the moonlight.

We came, after a long journey through deserted streets, to the little hill which led up to the governor’s palace. We entered the ruined park, and crossed it to the mansion. Babadag opened the door, and the company paused inside, listening. All was silent. I had an impulse to shout, in order to warn my daughter; but I knew that that would be fatal, and I continued to lie inert and speechless in the arms of the tailors. I risked opening my eyes from time to time, and I saw that Babadag was leading the way from room to room, all dark except for moonlight here and there upon the floors, and that he came at last, followed by all the others, into the court of the dry fountain; and there the eight tailors laid me down on the ground. My heart almost stopped beating, for fear that my daughter should be there.

“Vile rascals,” said Babadag, “you have deceived me! There is no woman here.”

“Astonishing!” said one of the ballad singers. “Not here! Who would have thought it?”

“I doubt that she was ever here,” said Babadag. “Wait!”

I saw him go off down the alley of cypress trees toward the Cobweb Room, no doubt to assure himself that his prisoner was safe, or else to seek the woman there. As soon as he was gone, I felt a hand on my arm, and the voice of Figli whispered in my ear, “Are you awake?” and I pressed his hand in answer.

_The Prince’s Daughter Is Gone, and the Prince Makes a Dash for Liberty_

The eight tailors were sitting on the rim of the fountain’s basin, mopping their foreheads and panting, and the blind men were standing near them. I measured with my eye the distance to the door from which I had come, and gave a sudden spring toward it which carried me nearly there; and I was off and away, before the eight tailors realized what had happened.

I scoured swiftly and silently through the dark rooms in all directions, listening now and then for sounds of pursuit. But I heard nothing, and I began to whisper my daughter’s name from time to time. In a room far distant from the court, to which I presently came, I found the door at the opposite side closed, which in that house of open doors struck me as being odd. A broad band of moonlight lay across the floor, and in the dim light I could see the furnishings of a kitchen. I approached the opposite door and opened it cautiously, thinking to go through; but I looked into a cupboard, hung with pots and pans, and there on the floor of the cupboard was sitting my daughter, calmly eating a fig.

She looked up at me with a merry laugh, and sprang to her feet.

“There are very good fig trees in the park,” said she. “Will you have one of these? No? You’ve been gone a long time. I heard some people going through the house, and I thought I had better wait in here. I’m going to be married!”

“Come,” said I, “we’ve no time for jesting.”

“But it’s the best joke!” said my daughter. “When I think how I played on those half-wits! I’ve never had such sport in my life! I promised to marry one of them, if they’d choose which--do you remember the three ballad singers?”

“And you have the Shears of Sharpness,” said I.

“How do you know that?” said she. “They’re simply mad! And I wouldn’t promise them anything unless they gave me the Shears. And they did! And I promised! And now you’ve got to get me out of it. Here are the Shears. Take them.”

“I suspect, my dear,” said I, taking the Shears from her, “that these three imbeciles meant that you should have the Shears all the time, and they’ve been making a bit of a fool of you. But there’s no time for talking. Hurry!”

I stepped quickly toward the door, and as I reached it it was blocked by a huge dark figure. It was Babadag.

“Not so fast, peddler,” said he; and then he saw my daughter, who was standing in the band of moonlight, most fairylike and beautiful. He brushed past me and stopped before her, gazing at her in astonishment and admiration.

“Beauty in tatters!” he said. “No wonder that even blind men are conquered. You make me forget the Shears. Surely there is no woman in Oogh so beautiful. Will you look on me kindly? I am powerful, and I offer you a share of my power. It is Babadag who speaks.”

He held out his hand to her, and she shrank away in horror. “No, no!” she screamed. “Father!”

Babadag turned swiftly, and at that moment I sprang upon him; but the old man snatched forth a knife, and as I caught and held the arm which was lifted to strike, a small dark figure darted in from the doorway and flung something over the old man’s neck from behind.

_Babadag the Tailor Is Conquered by His Little Son_

The knife dropped from Babadag’s hand. He swayed, tottered, collapsed, and fell full length on the floor, and lay motionless on his back in the strip of moonlight. The little dark figure knelt beside him. It was Figli.

“Oh, father! Oh, father!” he cried. “I’m sorry, sorry! I had to do it! I couldn’t let you kill him! It can’t go on any longer! The eyebrows must be cut, father! It’s only to make you like the others! We’ll both be happier, oh, indeed we will! It’s only because I love you, father!”

“I didn’t think you would have done this, Figli, my son,” said the old man, gently. “You have put me in the power of my enemy. Ah, Figli, my son, my son!”

“I know it, I know it,” sobbed the boy, “but the lady will give the Shears to me, and I will cut the eyebrows myself, with my own hand. The peddler will do you no harm. You’ll be glad, father, afterward, indeed you will.”