Part 3

“Ask me where lies the raindrop which fell yesterday in the river,” replied the Wise Man, “but ask me not where dwells the Master Thief. I do not know. No one knows. But as for breaking the spell, it is the spell-dispeller or nothing. Would that I could help you more!”

And, bidding the King a ceremonious farewell, the sage turned his attention to the questioner at the head of the long line, a stout peasant-fellow whose cottage chimney failed to draw.

But now you must hear of the Master Thief of the Adamant Mountains.

This mysterious personage, of whom all had heard, but whom none had seen, dwelt in a secret house in a lost valley of the mountains, a house so artfully shaped and so cunningly concealed with vines and branches, that the very birds of the air were deceived by it and would often come to roost on the chimney, mistaking it for a chestnut tree! As for the Master Thief himself, a kind of living bean-pole was he, for he was taller than the tallest, leaner than the leanest, and provided with a pair of long, tireless legs which could outrun and outlast the swiftest coursers in the land.

During the night, he moved through the world in a strange garment of pitchy blue-black, fitted as close to him as the skin to an eel; during the day, he wore a marvelous vesture on which were painted leaves, spots of sun, dabs of blue shade, and stripes of earthy brown.

Now this Master Thief was no ordinary robber, for he stole not for stealing’s sake, but only to gather new rarities for a wonderful museum he housed in the caverns under his dwelling. Surely there was never such a marvelous museum as the museum of the Master Thief!

Deep in the solemn echoing caves, ticketed and labeled each one, and arranged in order, shelf on shelf, was to be found the _finest specimen_ of everything in the world which men had made or loved. The most comfortable chair in the world was there, the pointedest pin, the warmest blanket, the loudest drum, the stickiest glue, the most interesting book, the funniest joke, the largest diamond, the most lifelike stuffed cat, the handsomest lamp-shade, and a thousand things more. To relabel his collection, to move it about, to do things to it and with it was the supreme delight of the Master Thief. Seated in the most comfortable chair in the world, finger tips together, he spent hours gloating on his treasures, and wondering if he lacked aught beneath the sun. Presently he chanced to hear of the invisible baby’s opal perambulator, and instantly determined to add this new wonder to his gallery.

Going first to his secret den, he spun for himself a globe of delicate glass, spoke five words into it, and sealed them snug within. Next, he attired himself in his parti-colored suit, put the globe in his pocket, and fled on his long legs over hill and over dale to the royal city.

Arriving late in the afternoon, he made his way without difficulty into the gardens of the palace. The day was fair as only a day on the threshold of summer may be, and the opal perambulator stood unattended in the shade of a clump of ancient trees. Magnificently clad, a number of royal nurses were standing about the silver fence which enclosed the prince’s romping-yard. Far off, in the sunny distance, sounded the drums and fifes of the palace soldiery.

And now, creeping nearer unobserved, the Master Thief took the crystal globe from his pocket and tossed it near the group. Striking the ground, the globe burst with the faintest crystal tinkle, and the words that the cunning Master Thief had sealed within escaped into the air. And these words were:--

_Oh, look at the balloon!_

Immediately all the nurses looked to the sky to see the imaginary balloon, and while they were looking here and looking there, the Master Thief sprang to the opal perambulator, released the brake on the golden wheels, and, pushing the carriage ahead of him, ran like mad down the flower-bordered alleyways and out the garden gates to the highroad.

Across the landscape in a long straight line fled the Master Thief on his wonderful legs, pushing the perambulator all the while. Now they saw him bouncing it across furrowed fields, now they saw it speed like a jeweled boat through a sea of waving green grain, now they beheld it scattering the silly sheep in the upland wilds.

Presently the bells of the city set up the maddest ringing; foot soldiers were turned out on the roads, and squadrons of cavalry were sent galloping after; but all in vain--the jeweled carriage, blazing in the western glow, sped like a meteor over the land. The last they saw of it was a moving streak of light along the steep slope of a mountain, a light which gleamed for a moment on the crest like a large, misplaced, and iridescent star, and then swiftly sank from view.

When the Master Thief reached his secret haven in the valley, he shouted aloud for triumph, and swiftly wheeled the perambulator down to the museum. _The most magnificent perambulator in the world!_ Once more drawing forth the most comfortable chair, the Master Thief sank into it and contemplated his newest prize.

Suddenly, a strange sound, half cry, half gurgle caused him to sit bolt upright. Had someone discovered his secret treasury? What could it mean? And now there came a second cry which ended in a long protesting wail.

The Master Thief had stolen the invisible baby along with the carriage!

Now the notion of having to take care of a baby, of any baby, was a matter which might well alarm the Master Thief; but as for an _invisible_ baby, that was indeed a trial! All at once, however, the Master Thief slapped his knee and chuckled for joy--he had thought of the spell-dispeller! Holding aloft the brightest lantern in the world, the robber made his way to the little side-cavern in which he had placed the talisman.

His heart jumped. The spell-dispeller was gone!

Baffled and perplexed, the Master Thief began a nervous search of the little cavern; but never a sign of the spell-dispeller could he find. Vowing not to restore the Prince till he had found the talisman and tested its power, the Master Thief at length abandoned the search and carried the Prince through the caverns to his dwelling.

* * * * *

And now days passed, and months passed, and even years, without bringing to light the spell-dispeller. From an invisible infant the Prince grew to be an invisible boy, whose merry voice and friendly presence played about the house of the Master Thief like a capful of summer wind on a mountain lake.

Heigho, but after all it wasn’t so bad to be invisible! One could see things and find things hidden away from all other mortals; one could climb to the side of a bird’s nest, sit still, and watch the mother bird feed her young; one could dive, unseen, into the clear, cold pools of the mountain streams and pinch the lurking trout by their rippling tails; one could follow the squirrel to his secret granary!

Now, during the Prince’s fifteenth year, it came to pass that the Master Thief suddenly became ashamed of his wicked ways, so ashamed indeed that he resolved not only to forgo further _collecting_ but also to return every single thing he had stolen! The invisible Prince, I am glad to tell you, was of the greatest possible service to the Master Thief in this honest task. And now, all over the kingdoms of the world, people began to find their stolen possessions waiting for them when they came down to breakfast in the morning: the stuffed cat became once more the pride of the Blue Tower, the most interesting book went back to its place on the shelves of the royal library, the golden scroll of the funniest joke appeared as if by magic on the wall of the king’s own room. Alas for human waywardness, there were actually people who had grown so accustomed to the loss of their belongings that they reviled the Master Thief for their return. Dreadful to relate,--the style having changed,--the handsomest lamp-shade was actually tossed in a well!

At the end of the fifth year, the opal perambulator and the invisible Prince were the only two stolen things left to return. The invisible youth was twenty years old. With a sorrowful heart, for the youth was as dear to him as a son, the repentant Master Thief began preparations to restore prince and perambulator to the unhappy parents.

Now it came to pass that, on the morning of departure, the Master Thief descended for the last time to the forlorn and dusty corridors of his great museum and walked about the galleries, leaving footprints in the dust and musing on the glories that had been. Here had stood the shiniest rubber-plant, here the most beautiful hat-rack, here the only eraser which had never rubbed a hole in the paper. A tear gathered in his eye. He had loved them; he had stolen them; he had restored them; he was free!

All at once his glance, roving empty shelves, fell on a tiny box wedged in a sombre corner. With a loud shout of joy, the Master Thief recognized the spell-dispeller! It had fallen behind a shelf and had lain there concealed for almost twenty years! Thrusting it into his pocket’s depth, the Master Thief bounded up the secret stairs to the joy of the sun.

After a pleasant rambling journey in a huge coach, the Master Thief and the invisible Prince reached the city at the twilight hour, and took lodgings at a quiet, comfortable inn. The invisible Prince, I must remind you, was still invisible.

Now it came to pass that when supper had been served and eaten, the Master Thief and the invisible Prince went for a stroll through the royal city. Much to the surprise of the travelers, they found the city hung with streamers and bunting of the gayest kind. Stranger still, in spite of this display, the citizens of the royal city appeared to be particularly out of spirits.

“Good host,” said the Master Thief to the landlord of the inn, “pray what means this air of jubilee? Do you make merry for some kingly festival?”

“A festival, yes,” replied the host, looking about to see if anyone were listening, “festival it is, but only in name. Have you not heard the news? Let us walk a little to one side and I will tell you the story.

“Three years ago our gracious sovereign, the good King Valdoro the Fourth--weary of the cares of state and still stricken to the heart by the loss of his son, the invisible Prince of whom you may have heard--gave over the guidance of the kingdom to the Marquis Malicorn. Last week this official made himself master of the royal power, imprisoned our dear King and Queen in a dark tower, and proclaimed himself successor to the throne. The coronation is to be held to-morrow afternoon in the great hall of the royal palace. Alas for the people and the nation! Oh, if the invisible Prince would only return!”

To this the Master Thief nodded his head, his busy brain plotting all the while. All at once he smiled. He had devised a plan.

And now it was once more the great hall of the castle, and once more a sunny afternoon. Bells rang, but their cry was wingless and leaden, and there was a dull and joyless note in the cannon’s roar. Crowded as densely together as ever they were twenty years before, the magnificoes sullenly awaited the arrival of the usurper and his train.

Presently the portals were once more swept apart, revealing Malicorn and his followers. Not a sound rose from the assembly.

Growling for rage beneath a huge pair of dragoon’s whiskers, the wicked Marquis made his way to the dais and the coronation chair. The noise of bells and cannon ceased. An official in blue advanced with the royal robe.

Just as he was about to throw it over the waiting shoulders of the usurper, an invisible something snatched the robe from him and, lo, it melted into the air!

Exceedingly angry, yet disturbed at heart, Malicorn hoped for better luck with the sceptre, but this, too, was snatched by an invisible hand. As for the royal crown, it vanished from its purple cushion in the twinkling of an eye.

Speechless with rage, Malicorn now rose to his feet, and stood before the throne, glaring about into the air. Cries of defiance, mingled with shouts of derision, rose from among the magnificoes. And now, even as the turmoil was at its height, the Master Thief, who had been concealed behind some curtains, strode boldly forth to the dais, thrust Malicorn aside with a sweep of his long arms, and shouted to the audience:--

“Magnificoes of the Realm, you came to see your King. Your rightful King is here. Would you behold him?”

“Yes!” shouted the assembly in one voice. And now the Master Thief touched the invisible Prince with the spell-dispeller.

The instant he did so a flash of deep golden light set everyone blinking, fairy music was heard, and suddenly the invisible Prince stood visible before the throne. He was tall, dark-haired, brown-eyed, and a bit slim, and the crown was on his head, the robe on his shoulders, and the sceptre in his hand.

And now the bells and cannon began to boom in real earnest, and a gay breeze came sweeping in to toss the flags and banners that had hung so still. Overcome by emotion, the generalissimo seized the Lord Chancellor by the waist and swung him into a jig, the soldiers all tossed their caps into the air and cheered like mad, whilst the organist became so excited that he began to play two tunes at once. Everybody was laughing and hallooing and hurrahing.

As for Malicorn and his crew, they were tumbling out the back door as fast as their legs could carry them, and nobody has seen them from that day to this.

Presently the old King and the Queen, released from the dark tower, came hurrying in to greet their son.

“He resembles you, my dear,” whispered the King to the Queen.

The Master Thief was forgiven everything.

Singing and rejoicing, the people of the city poured from the houses into the sunny streets.

Clang, clang! Boom! Clang, clang! Boom, boom! Boom! Boom!

And they all lived happily ever after.

THE TWO MILLERS

Once upon a time, in a pleasant country of meadows sweeping seaward from wooded inland heights, there were two millers and two mills. If you came to the country in a ship, you saw the windmill first, for it was built upon a tongue of land rising above the wide salt meadows and the washing midnight-tides; but if you came to the country by the land, it was the water mill you saw, for it stood beside the highway in the valley of a brooklet rushing to the sea.

Now the wind-miller, who was a great tall man with blue eyes and fair hair, had a daughter named Cecily, whilst the water-miller, who was a little nimble man with a red face and crisp, black curls, had a son named Valentine. And because both the millers were merry men, and there was a plenty of grain for both the mills to grind, these millers were excellent cronies, and the maiden Cecily had been betrothed to the young man Valentine.

Every eve, when the day’s task at the water mill had been brought to an end, the gates lowered, and the brooklet turned free to rush unhindered down the glen, Valentine would walk from his wooded hills to the headland by the sea, and call at the mill for Cecily. The nights were often still, and the golden shield of the moon, rising over the hilly woods, gleamed upon the curling foam of the little long waves, and filled their glassy hollows with her light.

Now it befell that as Valentine and Cecily walked by the shore on such a night, they heard from the hollow of the hills a faint and far-off rumble like the echoing of thunder. Such mysterious sounds were forever rising in the hills, and because no one could tell whence they came, a legend had grown up that somewhere in the forest depths there dwelt a hidden someone, known as the Husbandman of the Hills.

“Listen, Valentine,” said Cecily, “the Husbandman of the Hills is closing the door of his barn. Think you that some day a mortal may find him in his hiding-place in the hills?”

“But suppose it were naught but an idle tale?” said the merry youth, with a smile.

“Oh no, Valentine,” said the maiden seriously. “All my life long have I dwelt here on the shore, and heard the mysterious echoes from the hills. Sometimes the sound is of the lowing of cattle, sometimes of the threshing of grain, sometimes ’tis the creaking of a hay wain in a field. And always the old and wise tell of the Husbandman of the Hills. Some day a mortal will find the hidden Husbandman--do you but wait and see.”

It was the early summer now, and all went merry as a marriage bell. The heavy water-wheel turned with a rolling thunder and a sound of endless splashing; and the four arms of the windmill spun with a windy thrum and a clock-like clack from the rising of the wind to the calm of sundown and the eve.

And now, alas, events were at hand which were to shatter the plans of the two millers and wreck the hopes of Cecily and Valentine!

At the close of the harvest-tide, the Princess Celestia, only daughter of the King and Queen of the country, was going to be married. Now it chanced that the Queen, her mother, was famous in the land as a maker of cake, and presently this good lady promised her daughter a wedding cake so splendid and delicious that painters would beg to be allowed to paint its portrait, and poets to praise it in glorious and immortal song.

Yes, the Queen would make the cake with her own white hands, the batter should be mixed in a golden bowl with a golden spoon, the two best hens in the kingdom should be summoned to lay the eggs, the oven should have a door of diamonds, and as for the flour, that should come from the finest fields and the best mill in all the land.

“I know what I’ll do; I’ll offer a rich reward for the best flour,” said the good Queen. And calling the royal herald to her presence, she bade him summon all good millers to strive for the prize, and to bring of their new flour to the palace at the close of the harvest yield.

Now it chanced that the Queen’s herald, all dressed in blue-and-white and sounding a silver horn, came cantering first to the water-miller’s door.

“I should like to win that treasure,” said the water-miller to himself, musing in the doorway.

“After all, my flour _is_ better than the wind-miller’s meal. That treasure should be mine, must be mine. Yes, mine, mine, mine!”

Now it was the custom of the country for millers to visit the farms in midsummer, view the growing, green grain, and bargain with the husbandmen for the yield of the tossing fields. Suddenly the water-miller, coveting the treasure, determined to purchase all the standing grain, so that the wind-miller should not have any good grain to grind! And this he did, forgetting the while that the deed was sharp and unfriendly.

A day or two passed, and presently the wind-miller climbed to the saddle of his fat white steed, and rode away to buy his customary grain. Alas, there was none to be had. Every turn of the road disclosed new fields of grain, but every single ear was pledged to the miller by the brook!

At first--I must tell you--the wind-miller was more hurt than angry at his old crony’s trickery; but the more he thought of it the angrier he grew. Storming about the windmill in a rage, he gave a great roar for Cecily, and when the frightened maiden appeared before him, he bade her dismiss all thoughts of Valentine from her heart, and consider herself fortunate to be rid of the son of such a father.

The water-miller, however, was not to be outdone. The moment he heard of the wind-miller’s wrath, he too fell into a rage, and presently forbade Valentine, on pain of dismissal, so much as to look at the maiden Cecily.

And now the youth and the maiden were very sad indeed, for in spite of the strife between their fathers, they continued to love each other very much. Presently Valentine could endure it all no more, and stole away one night to have a word with Cecily.

The mill brook was babbling in the dark when Valentine returned to the mill, and a single light was burning in a window by the door. Opening the portal gently, the youth presently discovered his father seated on the stair clad in a flowered nightcap and a long white dressing-gown.

“Valentine,” said the water-miller in a voice deep as the bottom of a well, “where have you been?”

“I’ve been to the windmill to see Cecily,” said Valentine truthfully and bravely.

“Sirrah!” cried the water-miller, shaking with such temper that his flowered nightcap trembled on his head. “Did I not forbid you to go to the windmill, on pain of being turned away from this my house? Go!” And the angry water-miller pointed a level finger out into the night.

“But, father,” protested Valentine.

“But me no buts,” thundered the miller. “Go, sirrah, for this house is yours no more.”

“But whither, father?” asked bewildered Valentine.

“That, sirrah, is your affair,” replied the angry miller. “Go anywhere you please; go find the Husbandman of the Hills!”

And with this last bit of advice, the wrathful water-miller pushed his son out of the mill and drew the long, grinding bolt across the door. A moment later the single light went out, and the mill was dark.

And now Valentine, in search of shelter for the night, sought out a farm in the gloom of the wooded hills. Leaving the broad white road, he followed first a country lane, then a pathway winding through a great woodsy mire, and then another lane, softly carpeted with moss and last year’s fallen leaves.

A star fell from the twinkling heavens; a hunting owl hooted in a tree. Ever so far away a silver bell struck the midnight hour.

Suddenly Valentine knew that he had followed a strange path, and was lost in the heart of the hills. It was a very strange path indeed, for the trees and the brambles along it seemed to have grown together in the dark, and pressed forward to form a thick imprisoning wall.

Uneasy at heart, the youth now turned to retrace his steps, only to see that the same mysterious trees had risen up behind!

Hours passed. Stars that were high in the heavens vanished over treetops in the east, a silvery dawn began to pale, and there were chirps and stirs and peeps and feathery noises in the wood. At the rising of the sun, Valentine arrived at the farm of the Husbandman of the Hills.

Now the Husbandman of the Hills--I must tell you--was the farmer of the fairies. It was from this farm in the hills that the goblins of the mountain-tops, the elves of the silver river, and the peoples of the fairy kingdoms of the world had their apples and clotted cream, their cherries and plums, and their butter-pats stamped with a crown.

The fairy farm lay in a green vale, magically walled about with briery trees. Only at the midnight minute could the wall be passed, and Valentine had chanced to cross it at the sixth stroke of the bell.

And now Valentine found himself made welcome by the Husbandman and his lady, the Goodwife of the Hills. The Husbandman was old; his face was ruddy and his hair silvery white, and in a smock of blue with a white collar was he clad. His spouse was elderly too, and wore a gown of green with short old-fashioned sleeves, a white housekeeper’s-apron, and a cap with ribbons and frills.

I wish I had time to tell you of how the long summer passed at the farm of the fairies--of the brewing, the baking, and the churning; and of how the green elves came to cut the grain with silver scythes no longer than your arm; of how a very young giant, who had a pleasant smile and was as tall as a tree, came to pitch the hay into the barn; of how the orchard goblins came to gather the wonderful apples into baskets of silver and gold; and of the enchanted bear who wore yellow spectacles and turned the butter churn.

Presently the leaves, though green, began to rustle dryly on the trees, and Valentine began to long for his own again.