Part 13

Prince Ivan did as he was told, and the Gray Wolf crouched under a bush of juniper, and waited until evening fell. As the light faded out of the sunset sky and the pale little moon rose slowly over the mountain-tops, Queen Helen walked in her garden. She was so fair and sweet to look upon that even the heart of the Gray Wolf was moved to admiration, and he wished her a worthier mate than the stern Tsar Afron, who knew not how to be gentle even in his love. After a while she approached the streamlet, winding round her dainty throat a cloud of milk-white gossamer, that she might not feel the touch of the evening breeze.

“Do not fear, sweet lady! I will not harm you!” the Gray Wolf cried, as he sprang from his hiding place and crossed the stream. Holding her tenderly by her flowing draperies, he leaped back to the other side, and galloped with her to the prince, who waited under the spreading oak.

When the queen and prince beheld each other, it was as if a veil had fallen from their eyes. Never had the world appeared so beautiful, and as they gazed at each other in the soft twilight, the queen’s fears fled. As for Prince Ivan, he knew from that moment that she was intended for his wife, and when they rode away together on the Gray Wolf’s back, he already felt that she belonged to him.

The journey was all too short, and soon Tsar Afron’s palace loomed before them.

“Why are you weeping?” the Gray Wolf inquired, as their tears splashed on his head. Queen Helen could make no answer, but Prince Ivan’s words poured forth like a raging flood.

“How can we help it, Gray Wolf,” he cried, “since we love each other, and I must resign my beautiful queen to the stern Tsar Afron, or else be branded before all nations as a robber and a thief?”

“I have kept my promise, Prince Ivan,” said the Gray Wolf, “and served you well, but I will do more for you still. By means of magic known to myself alone, I, the Gray Wolf, will take the form of beautiful Queen Helen. You shall leave the real queen here, in the shade of this grove of pine trees, and when you have taken Tsar Afron his strange wolf bride, who will appear to him as a lovely woman with golden hair, he will give you the gold-maned horse. Bid him farewell as quickly as you can, and, taking your queen behind you, ride swiftly toward the west. When I have given you time to journey far, I will ask Tsar Afron to let me walk with my maidens in the woods. Then, if you call me to your mind, I shall disappear, from their midst even as they watch me, and join you and your queen.”

Prince Ivan once more did as the Gray Wolf said, and great was the delight of the Tsar Afron as he beheld the tall and gracious woman whom the prince presented to him. She was even more beautiful than he had imagined from her picture, and he would have given not only his gold-maned horse, but his crown as well, to her captor had he desired it. Prince Ivan, however, asked nothing but the gold-maned horse, and was soon speeding across the plains with the real Queen Helen nestling against his side. He rode toward the west, where lay the kingdom of Tsar Dolmat.

Tsar Afron was more than content with his wolfish bride, who was not alarmed by his fierce caresses, and only smiled when he threatened to kill her if her love for him should waver for a single instant. On the fourth day after their marriage feast she complained of feeling stifled in the royal palace.

“If I might walk in the meadows,” she said, “the breath of the cool fresh air would refresh my spirit, and I could once more laugh with my lord.”

So the tsar allowed her to walk with her maidens. Just at this time the thought of the Gray Wolf flashed into Prince Ivan’s head.

“I had forgotten him,” he exclaimed remorsefully to his dear wife. “What is he doing, I wonder? I wish we had him here.”

He had no sooner spoken than there came a clap of thunder from the distant hills, and the Gray Wolf suddenly appeared.

“You must let the queen ride the gold-maned horse alone,” he told the prince, “and I will be your steed.”

Somewhat reluctantly, the prince accepted his suggestion, and in this manner they rode to the verge of Tsar Dolmat’s capital. The kindly looks of the Gray Wolf emboldened the prince to ask him another favor.

“Since you can change yourself into a beautiful woman, and then back again into a Gray Wolf, could you not become for a time a gold-maned horse, so that I might give you to Tsar Dolmat, and keep the real one for my dear queen?”

The Gray Wolf readily assented, and striking his right paw three times in succession on a patch of bare earth, became the exact image of the gold-maned horse who bore the fair Queen Helen. Leaving the real horse with his bride in a flower-strewn meadow outside the city, Prince Ivan rode on to the tsar. He was greeted by that monarch with every sign of joy, for the mane of the Gray Wolf-horse shone in the sunshine like purest gold. The tsar kissed Prince Ivan on either cheek, and leading him to his palace, gave him a royal feast. For three whole days they reveled in the choicest wines and the richest viands the kingdom could supply, and on the third, Tsar Dolmat rewarded the prince with many thanks, and the gift of the Magic Bird in her golden cage.

Prince Ivan felt now that his quest was over, and quickly regaining Queen Helen’s side, he fastened the cage of the Magic Bird round the neck of the gold-maned horse, and rode with her toward his father’s kingdom. Early the next afternoon they were joined by the Gray Wolf; Tsar Dolmat had ridden his newly acquired treasure in an open field, and had been heavily thrown for his pains by the false horse, which had then galloped away.

As the Gray Wolf had been so good a friend to him, Prince Ivan could not refuse his request when he asked to be allowed to carry him, so once more the queen alone sat on the gold-maned horse.

Thus they rode on until they came to the place where the Gray Wolf had slain the horse which Prince Ivan had brought from his father’s stable. Here the strange creature came to a sudden stop.

“I have done all that I said, and more,” he told the prince. “Now I am your servant no longer. Farewell!” And he galloped back to the gloomy wood from which he had first come.

Prince Ivan’s sorrow at parting with him was very real, but in the pleasure afforded by the queen’s company he soon forgot his loss. When he came within sight of his father’s realm, he stopped by the shade of a belt of fir trees, and placing the cage of the Magic Bird and the golden bridle beneath their shade, he lifted down his beautiful queen, and rested with her on a bank of fern. They were weary after their long journey, and soon, talking together softly as ring-doves coo in their nests, both fell asleep.

Now Prince Dimitri and Prince Vasili had fared badly on their travels, and were returning to the palace, empty-handed, and sadly out of temper, when they caught sight of the reclining forms of the two sleepers, with the gold-maned horse browsing close beside them. As they stared in amazement, an evil spirit of envy took possession of them, and there presently entered into their minds the thought of killing their brother. Each looked at the other, and then Prince Dimitri drew his sword, and ran it through Prince Ivan as he slept; he died without a murmur, and when the queen awoke, she found him lifeless.

“What is this you have done?” she sobbed to the guilty princes. “If you had met him in fair fight, and slain him thus, he might at least have struck a blow in self-defense. But you are cowards and dastards, fit only for ravens’ food!”

In vain she wept and protested, as the princes drew lots for their dead brother’s possessions. The queen fell to the keeping of Prince Vasili, and the gold-maned horse was adjudged to Prince Dimitri. In a passion of tears, the queen hid her face in her golden hair, as her would-be lord spoke roughly to her.

“You are in our power, fair Helen,” he said. “We shall tell our father that it was we who found you, the Magic Bird, and the gold-maned horse. If you deny our words, we will instantly put you to death, so look to it that you hold your tongue, and keep our counsel.”

The poor queen was so terrified by his cruel threat that speech forsook her, and when they arrived at the palace she was mute as some marble statue, and could not contradict the wicked statements which she heard them boldly utter.

Prince Ivan lay dead with his face to the sky, but the wood elves guarded his body, so that neither beast nor bird came near to devour it until the end of thirty days. Then, as the sun was sinking, a raven seeking food for her young, hopped on his breast, and would have pecked at his eyes had not the Gray Wolf galloped up in the nick of time. He knew at once that the dead man must be Ivan, and pouncing upon one of the young birds, would have torn it asunder in his rage.

“Do not touch my little birdling, O fierce Gray Wolf!” entreated the mother piteously. “It has done you no harm, and deserves no ill from you.”

“Then listen,” the Gray Wolf replied. “I will spare the life of your birdling, if you will fly away beyond the thrice-ninth lands, and bring me back the Water of Death and the Water of Life from the crystal stream whence they flow to the great Forever.”

“I will do what you wish,” cried the raven, “only do not touch my little son.” And as she spoke she sped away.

Three days and three nights had passed before she returned to the Gray Wolf, carrying two small vials. One held the Water of Life, the other the Water of Death, and as the Gray Wolf took them from her, he gave a cry of triumph. With a snap of his teeth, he bit the young raven in two, tearing it to pieces before its mother’s frantic eyes. This done, he broke one of the vials, and when he had sprinkled three drops of the Water of Death on the slain birdling, immediately its torn body grew together again. Then he touched it with a few drops from the second vial, and the little thing spread its wings, and flew off rejoicing.

Thus the Gray Wolf knew that the raven had served him well, and he poured what was left of the Waters of Life and Death over the body of the dead prince. In a few moments, life came back to him, and stumbling to his feet, he smiled at the Gray Wolf.

“Have I slept long?” he asked dreamily.

“You would have slept forever had it not been for me,” was the reply. And the prince listened with grieved surprise as the Gray Wolf told him all that had happened.

“Your brother is going to marry your bride to-day,” he ended by saying. “We must hasten to the palace with all possible speed. Mount on my back, and I will carry you once more.”

So they galloped to the palace of the old tsar, and the Gray Wolf bade Prince Ivan farewell for the last time as he dismounted at the great gates. The prince hurried into the banquet-hall, and there, looking like some fair statue that had been moulded from frozen snow, sat beautiful Queen Helen by Prince Vasili’s side. They had just returned from the wedding ceremony, and all the nobles were gathered round.

When Queen Helen saw who had entered the hall, her speech came back to her, and she flew to her lover with a cry of rapture and kissed him on the lips.

“This is my own dear husband,” she cried. “I belong to him, and not to the wicked prince I have married to-day.” From the shelter of Ivan’s breast she told the old tsar all that had happened, and how it was to his youngest son that he owed the gold-maned horse and the Magic Bird.

The joy of the tsar at his favorite son’s return was tempered by his grief and amazement at the conduct of the elder princes. They were cast into prison, where they languish still; but Prince Ivan and the beautiful Queen Helen are as happy as the days are long, and the Magic Bird was allowed to return to her home in the golden West.

KING ROBERT OF SICILY

Retold from the poem by Henry W. Longfellow

King Robert of Sicily was at church one evening attended as usual by a great train of gallant knights and trusty squires and ladies of the court. As he sat proudly in his high place, dressed in rich and beautiful robes, he thought not so much of the service as of his own importance and state. Not only was he a king himself, but he was brother to the Pope and to Valmond, Emperor of Germany.

Presently his attention was attracted by the chant that the priests were singing. It was the Magnificat. Over and over again they repeated the words,

“_Deposuit potentes de sede, et exaltavit humiles._”

King Robert had heard the chant many times before, but now he found himself wondering what this particular phrase meant. A learned man was at his side, and the king spoke to him.

“What do those words mean?” he asked.

“He has put down the mighty from their seat, And has exalted them of low degree,”

replied the scholar.

“It is well that such words are sung in Latin and only by the priests,” muttered King Robert, scornfully. “Be it known to both priests and people that there is no power that can push me from my throne.”

He leaned back in his seat yawning and soon fell asleep, lulled by the monotonous chant.

Now, it was St. John’s eve and on that day strange and unlooked for things happen. When King Robert awoke from his nap it was night and he was alone in the church. The service was over and the priests and every one else except himself had gone. The great building was dark but for the little lamps which were kept burning constantly before the images of the saints.

King Robert started from his seat and looked around in amazement. All was still. He groped his way down the long aisle to the door; he took hold of the handle and tried to turn it; the door was locked. He called and listened for an answer but none came. He knocked and he shouted, but to no purpose. Growing angrier every minute, he cried out threats and complaints and the sound of his own voice came back to him echoing from the roofs and the walls. It was as though he were being mocked by unseen hearers.

After what seemed a long time, the knocking and the shouting brought the sexton to the church door. He came with his lantern suspecting that thieves were in the church.

“Who is there?” he called.

“Open the door at once,” commanded the king, who was almost beside himself with rage. “It is I, the king.”

The sexton trembled and waited to hear more before putting the great key in the lock. He thought that there must be a madman within.

“Art thou afraid?” cried the king.

“It is a drunken vagabond,” muttered the old man and, turning the key, he flung the door wide open.

A figure leaped past him in the darkness. It was King Robert, but the sexton did not dream of that for the figure was half-naked and forlorn. The king’s gorgeous robes had disappeared, his hat and his cloak were gone and he did not look like himself at all. Without a word or a look at the sexton he sped down the street.

Bare-headed and breathless and splashed with mud, Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane and of Valmond, Emperor of Germany, reached his palace gate—the gate that he had entered in triumph so many times.

He thundered for admittance, boiling with rage and half-mad with an overpowering sense of his wrongs. Through the gate he rushed and across the courtyard, thrusting aside every one who stood in his way, upsetting pages, and overwhelming guards. Past them all and up the broad stairway he hurried and then sped through the long halls. He paid no attention to the calls and the cries which pursued him, and did not pause until he reached the banquet room.

There on a dais sat another king wearing Robert’s robes, his crown and his signet-ring. His features were like Robert’s and so was his form, but he possessed a majesty and an exalted look which the real king lacked. The room, always well lighted, shone with an unusual brilliancy and the atmosphere was full of fragrance.

An Angel had taken the place of the king, and although no one was conscious of the change every one present vaguely felt the improvement.

Robert stood speechless before the miracle. Then his surprise gave way to anger at seeing another in his place. The Angel spoke first.

“Who art thou, and why comest thou here?” he asked benignly, meeting Robert’s threatening look with one of almost divine compassion.

“I am the king,” answered Robert indignantly, “and I have come to claim my throne from the impostor who is on it.”

As he stood before the Angel, Robert did not look at all royal, and his clothing made such a difference in his appearance that the courtiers did not notice even a resemblance to their king, and took him for a stranger. At his bold words they sprang angrily from their seats and drew their swords to put him to death for his insolence.

The Angel was unmoved. He signed to the courtiers to sheath the weapons that they had drawn in his defense.

“No, thou art not the king,” he said to Robert. “Thou art the king’s jester and henceforth thou shalt wear bells and cap and a scalloped cape and lead a monkey about by a string. Thou shalt obey my servants and wait on my men.”

In those days every king kept a jester or a fool whose duty it was to amuse his master and the court. Often the jester was not quite right in his mind and for that reason said odd things which would not have occurred to entirely sane people, and he was allowed to make speeches which would have been rebuked if they had come from others. Thus the Angel treated Robert’s claim as a jest.

The attendants were delighted with the new joke. Paying no attention except laughter to Robert’s cries and explanations, they thrust him from the banquet hall and down the stairs. A crowd of pages ran before him throwing the doors wide open with mock ceremony, while the boisterous men-at-arms shouted “Long live the King” with noisy glee.

How he got through the evening King Robert hardly knew. He was so tired when he was shown at last to his comfortless straw bed that he slept better than he had done many a night on his royal couch.

The next morning he awoke with the day.

“What a curious dream I have had,” he exclaimed sleepily.

But it was no dream. Straw rustled as he turned his head and by his side were the cap and bells which he was to put on. His room was bare, its walls were discolored, and presently he heard horses stamping in their near-by stalls. He was in a stable. The monkey was there, too; King Robert saw the horrid thing grinning and chattering in a corner. His past life seemed far away. He had to begin to live again, this time the butt and the jest of the palace.

Days came and went, and the Angel still sat on the throne. The island of Sicily prospered under his reign. The crops were good, the vintage was abundant and the people were happy.

King Robert yielded to fate, but he did not yield willingly. He became sullen and silent and was a sorry jester in spite of his gay dress and his jingling bells and the chattering monkey. The courtiers mocked him in innumerable ways and the nimble pages played pranks on him; he had to be content with scraps from the tables of his masters, and the monkey was his only friend.

Sometimes the Angel asked him, as though in jest, “Art thou the king?” and Robert, still defiant, replied haughtily, “I am, I am the king!”

Almost three years passed. Then messengers came from Valmond, Emperor of Germany, to tell King Robert that their brother, Pope Urbane, summoned him to come on Holy Thursday to his city, Rome. The Angel welcomed the ambassadors with fitting ceremony, and gave them magnificent presents, embroidered vests, velvet mantles, rare jewels and costly rings. Not only were his guests messengers from the great Valmond but they were mighty nobles.

As soon as he could get ready the Angel went with the ambassadors and a mighty train of followers over the sea to Italy. As the procession travelled along crowds gathered to watch its progress. Never had there been seen a more gorgeous assembly. The Angel and his courtiers and the ambassadors were dressed in splendid garments with gold and gems and laces and embroideries and velvets and satins and nodding plumes, each one according to his state, and their horses were resplendent with gold and silver and jeweled bridles. After them rode the servants, less fine but equally gay, and among the lowliest of these was poor Robert riding in mock state on an awkward piebald pony. As the ridiculous steed shambled along, his rider’s cloak of fox-tails flapped in the wind and his bells jingled. The king was very unhappy and his face showed it, but it was only a joke for a jester to look disconsolate and people were no more sorry for him than for the solemn monkey who perched demurely by his side and aped his ways. In all the country towns through which they went the gaping crowds stared at them and laughed.

The Pope received the Angel and the emperor with pomp. Trumpets sounded a welcome and banners waved joyously, as they met on St. Peter’s square. The Pope embraced and blessed his brothers, as he thought, for even he did not know that he was entertaining an Angel. While prayers and rejoicing were at their height Robert the jester burst through the crowd and rushed into the presence of the Pope and his guests.

“I am the king,” he cried, addressing the Pope, “look and behold in me Robert, your brother, King of Sicily. That man who looks like me and wears my robes and my crown is an impostor. Do you not know me? Does nothing tell you that we are akin?”

Robert was desperate. This seemed his last chance of regaining his rights. He was appealing to the highest authority in the world.

The Pope looked troubled. He turned silently from Robert to the Angel with searching glances. The Angel met his scrutiny with perfect serenity. Valmond only laughed.

“It is strange sport to have a madman for thy jester,” he said to the Angel, whom he believed to be his brother.

The baffled jester was hustled back into the crowd. He was in disgrace and suffered punishment for his untimely joke.

Holy Week went by in solemn state, and Easter Sunday came. On that blessed morning the city was radiant with light even before the sun rose. The Angel’s presence made Rome bright, and filled men’s hearts with love and goodness. They felt as though Christ had indeed risen from the dead and were ready to devote themselves to him with fresh zeal. Even the jester, as he opened his eyes to the marvelous light felt within his heart a power that he had never felt before. What mattered it that his bed was straw? He fell on his knees beside it and prayed to the risen Christ.

When the visit was ended Valmond returned to Germany and the Angel and his train once more flashed along the towns of Italy and then set sail for Sicily. When they reached home the Angel occupied the throne as before. Robert could not understand it but he was humbled and no longer felt angry and bitter.

One evening when the convent bells were ringing for prayer the Angel beckoned to Robert to draw near and signed to the attendants to leave the room. When they were alone the Angel turned to Robert and asked with less sternness than ever before, “Art thou the king?”

King Robert bowed his head meekly and crossed his hands upon his breast.

“Thou knowest best,” he said. “I have sinned. Let me go away from here and spend the rest of my days in a convent cell. There, kneeling on stones, I will beg heaven to forgive my pride.”

The Angel smiled and the place was filled with a heavenly light. At the same moment through the open windows came the chant of the monks:

“He has put down the mighty from their seat And has exalted them of low degree.”

King Robert understood it at last. Then above the measured tones of the singers rose another voice, one of heavenly sweetness. It said:

“I am an Angel, thou art the king.”