Part 8

‘Oh! is she?’ said the King. ‘Then I suppose I’d better tear it up.’ And he did.

When he had finished, and had thrown the fragments into the waste-paper basket, he said:

‘Now I suppose you want me to consent to your marrying each other, and I suppose I’d better, or else I shall have Ernalie pitching into me like anything—only, I really don’t know who you are, young man, except that Ernalie says you are “him” (she ought to say he), and so I suppose you are Treblo, the Prince of the neighbouring kingdom?’

‘I am,’ said the Prince. ‘And I suppose you are the King of this country?’

The King was just about to say ‘I am,’ when another voice sounded through the room so clear and commanding that each of them looked towards the window from which it came; but nothing was to be seen there.

‘The road is made,’ it said, ‘and now perhaps you’ll give me the feather.’

‘Certainly,’ said the Princess. ‘Here it is,’ and she held it out in the direction of the Goddess. ‘Only, you might let us see you before you go for ever.’

‘Oh, certainly,’ said the Goddess, for, to tell the truth, Diana—like others besides goddesses—was very fond of being admired; and immediately she appeared in the middle of the room with her silver bow and quiver slung over her back, and the star that she always wore shining on her forehead.

She took the feather and, smiling, put it to her hair, and on the moment passed away; so that, where she had seemed to be, they saw the thin circlet of the moon hanging silvery and pale over the flush of the sun’s departure.

* * * * *

‘It really was Diana,’ Treblo said.

‘Yes, of course it was, you sceptical boy,’ Ernalie answered; and then, with a little sigh, ‘I wish I had the feather still, it makes me feel just like any other girl being without it.’

‘But you’re not—not a bit—there’s no one like you in the world!’ Treblo said hotly.

‘Why, I believe you’re right—upon my word I do,’ the King said suddenly, looking up from a book in which he had seemed immersed, ‘_I_ never knew any one like her—for obstinacy.’

‘Let’s go into the garden, Treblo,’ the Princess said.

‘You’ll catch your deaths of cold,’ the King remarked.

But somehow, although they quietly ignored his prudent observation, which was really wrong of them, they never caught cold. And that is all the stranger, because the evening was falling very rapidly, with a feeling of cool dew after the heat of the day, with a faint scent of roses and honeysuckle, and no sound on the air but the splash of a fish as it jumped for a moment out of the smooth river, or the short, shrill shriek of a bat that was circling in the air above them. They sat in a marble niche in the wall that had roses running up it and hanging down like a net in front of them—sat and talked till it grew so dark that he could no longer see the golden threads in her brown hair; until he could no longer see that her eyes were hazel-gray and long-lashed, or even that her face was a long, sweet, serious oval. So, you see, it must have been _quite_ a long time that they sat and talked thus.

But from this you are not to imagine that their example is to be emulated—not by any means; because I am perfectly certain that if any one were foolish enough to do it nowadays, they’d have perfectly miserable colds-in-the-head at the very least, not to mention rheumatic pains, so I should really advise you not to try any such tricks; very likely the Prince and Princess had something especial to keep them warm, or perhaps they sat rather close together—it’s just possible.

However, next morning the Prince and Princess set out together for the court of King Abbonamento.

They arrived safely at the Palace, and were received with joy by every one—except Mumkie, who was already making preparations to make himself King again, for he was quite sure that the Prince had been carried off for good. So, when he saw the Prince returning, safe and sound, he was seized with such a fit of rage that he jumped into the sea, and swam right out of sight. Wopole having, moreover, committed the fatal mistake of setting sail from the moon when it set, had unfortunately chosen the wrong side of the earth. And from that day to this neither he nor Mumkie has ever been heard more of.

But in a very short time the Prince and Princess were married, and it is needless to say—because, since we live in the nineteenth century, no one will believe it, but still, if you’ll take my word for it—they lived happily ever afterwards.

THE END

_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_