Part 6

'Who can the woman be that lives behind the curtain?' said the elder sister at last. 'I daresay she is not so very bad after all, and perhaps she can teach us some fresh games. I have noticed that there is a little hole in the curtain; I will peep through that, and if she looks kind and good-natured, I will go in.'

'Yes; that is a good plan,' answered the child, and they both went on tiptoe to the curtain.

The hole was very small, and it was hardly possible that anyone on the other side of the curtain should have seen them looking through. Yet the moment that the wife had fixed her eye on it, the woman threw up her hands and screamed, and both sisters fell down dead; and that is how Mountain Dweller found them when he returned from the hunt.

He guessed at once what had happened, and his anger was so great that the first thing he did was to run behind the curtain and kill the bad woman who lived there. Then he took some eagle-down and spread it over the girls' bodies, and walked round them many times, shaking his rattle all the while. At length slight shivers passed through their limbs; the colour came back into their faces, and there they stood on their feet, as well as ever they were.

* * * * *

When they had been in the mountain for many, many months, Mountain Dweller said one day to his wife:

'Would you not like to see your father and mother once more?'

'Oh, yes, yes!' cried both the girls at once.

'Well, you shall,' said he; 'but first I must go to hunt and prepare a gift for them. So make me a little basket, just big enough to put your finger in.'

'That won't take long,' laughed she, and on his return in the evening the basket was ready. But this basket was not like other baskets, for when the husband shook it, it grew large enough to hold all kinds of meat and bags of tallow, and when he shook it again, it shrunk--and the meat also.

At dawn the next day the girls started and carried the basket to their father's house. It was evening before they arrived, and the first person who saw them approaching was their little brother, who ran in, crying, 'Mother, my sisters are there.'

'Nonsense!' she answered angrily. 'Why do you say such things? They have been dead this many a long day.'

'They _are_ my sisters,' shouted he. 'Do you suppose I don't know them?'

'Well, let me see the hair from their marten-skin robes,' she replied, still unbelieving, for she remembered that her daughters had marten-skin robes, such as only the chief families were allowed to wear. Then the boy went and spoke to his sisters, and pulled little pieces of the fur out. As soon as she saw the fur, the mother believed, and she and her husband and their kinsfolk went forth to meet the lost girls, weeping for joy at having found them again.

The next day the big girl said to her mother, 'There is a little basket in the woods, filled with meat. Let it be fetched.' So several people went to fetch it, but returned, saying it was so large that all of them put together could not bring it in.

'I will go and see about it,' answered the girl, and she made it small so that she could easily carry it, but as soon as she laid it down in the house, it became as large as ever. She knelt on the floor and unpacked the basket, and the house could hardly contain all that was in it; and the village people came and feasted likewise. Only the mother ate so much that she grew very ill, and never got any better.

To this day luck befalls every man who hears Mountain Dweller chopping the wood.

_THE ESCAPE OF THE GALLEY-SLAVES_

In the year 1563 the 'Three Half Moons,' with thirty men on board, set sail from Portsmouth for the south of Spain, intending to sell their goods to merchants in the town of Seville, situated on the river Guadalquivir. The wind was behind them and they had a prosperous voyage till they neared the Straits of Gibraltar, when eight Turkish ships suddenly hove in sight, and surrounded the 'Three Half Moons.'

Of course, no vessel ever entered the Mediterranean, which in those days was alive with pirates, without being fully armed, and every man was a fighter. So when the captain of the 'Three Half Moons' beheld the flag with the crescent flying at the masthead of each galley, he ordered the trumpets and drums to be beaten, and served out swords and ammunition to the crew. This done, John Fox the gunner moved his cannon into position and sent a shower of bullets at the Turks.

The enemy however either had better artillery or were in greater practice than the English men, for they loaded at least three times as quickly, coming up as they did so to closed quarters, so that the crew were forced to take to their bows. Their aim was deadly and soon many of the Turks had fallen upon their decks, but again their more rapid firing told, and soon there were signs that the 'Three Half Moons' was filling with water from the holes pierced in her side. Then the Turks left their own galleys and tried to board her before she sank. Bows and cannon were alike useless now, so the English seized their pikes and swords, and fought hand to hand till they were overborne by the number of the enemy. At length they could resist no longer; their weapons were taken from them, and those who were left alive were sent, as prisoners of war usually were, to work at the oars of the galley. This was a fate dreaded by all from nearly the beginnings of history. The unfortunate slaves were generally chained together on benches in a stifling, dark place, where they could hardly breathe; their food was scanty and often bad, and if from exhaustion any man showed symptoms of flagging, an overseer was at hand to flog him into greater vigour. Should the ship sink, as often happened, the heavy chains deprived the unhappy slaves of any chance of escaping death.

* * * * *

It was the custom of the Turks to lay up their galleys during the winter in a harbour near the town of Alexandria, and to throw all their prisoners and galley-slaves into gaol, with irons on their legs. The crew of the 'Three Half Moons' were thrust into dungeons like the rest, but before very long the captain and the owner of the ship, who had sailed with them, were ransomed by their friends.

Thankful though they were to be free again, they suffered terrible pain at leaving their companions to so many and great miseries, and they could only falter out a few broken words about doing their best to collect money at home to deliver them also. The prisoners sighed and did not answer: they knew too well the worth of promises such as these.

Their daily allowance of food in the prison was no greater than it had been on the galleys, and they were all more than half starved. Yet their plight would have been even worse than it was, had not John Fox the gunner possessed unusual skill as a barber, which somehow became known, and the officials about the gaol and harbour would send for him to shave them and cut their hair. With the money thus earned, he bought good food for his mates and himself. After a while, he and certain of his companions were allowed by the keeper to go out for the day and make what they could, a regular part of their earnings being paid to the gaoler. As they were obliged to report themselves at night and always kept the irons on their legs, there was not much fear of their running away.

In the winter of 1577, when the crew of the 'Three Half Moons' had reached the fourteenth year of their captivity, the galleys were dismantled of their masts and sails, and laid up in harbour till the spring. The captains and sailors, having nothing more to do, returned to their own homes; and the prisoners, amounting in all to two hundred and sixty-eight Christians belonging to sixteen different nations, were marched back to the prison.

Not far from the harbour was an eating-house kept by one Unticaro, a Spaniard, who since he had been thirty years a captive without once attempting to escape was permitted certain privileges. With him, John Fox had long ago made friends, and it was of this man he now asked advice as to his best plan of running away, because Fox had determined that, even if he died for it, he would stay there no longer. Unticaro had lacked the courage to move on his own account, but fired by Fox, readily agreed to risk his own life also. Six of the other prisoners whom they could trust were let into the secret, and they swore they would stand or fall together.

* * * * *

The first thing to be done was, of course, to get rid of their chains, so Fox distributed files among them, with orders to have their irons off their legs by eight o'clock the next night. They had by this time been imprisoned for so many years, and the gaoler had got so accustomed to seeing them about, that so long as they were all there when he locked up, he did not trouble himself further.

On the evening of the following day, January 1, 1578, the six captives accompanied by John Fox met at Unticaro's eating-house, pretending to be in high spirits so that nobody who dropped in should guess that anything serious was on hand. When eight o'clock struck, Fox sent Unticaro to the master of the harbour, with a message professing to come from one of the city officials, a friend of the gaolers. Unticaro seems to have persuaded the gaoler to go with him, and the two set out, injunctions being given to the warders not to bar the gate till his return, as he should not be absent long. No sooner had they departed, than the other men began to search Unticaro's house for the various weapons which he had hidden there. These all proved to be old, and there was only one sword among them which Fox took, and, grasping the hilt, he concealed himself round the corner of the house and awaited the gaoler.

The man was not long in coming, and when he saw the house in total darkness he instantly suspected that something was the matter. Stepping back from the door in order to make sure that he might not be taken by surprise, he perceived Fox standing in the shadow, and cried 'O Fox, what have I deserved of thee that thou shouldst seek my death?'

'Thou villain!' answered Fox, 'thou hast sucked many a Christian's blood, and now thou shalt know what thou hast deserved at my hands,' and he lifted his sword and struck the keeper such a blow that he fell stark dead to the ground.

Leaving the body, the men went down to the place where the six warders were waiting.

'Who goes there?' asked one, and Fox replied:

'All friends,' which, says the chronicler, 'when they were in, proved contrary,' for the prisoners fell upon the gaolers and soon dispatched them all. Then Fox barred the gate and dragged a gun against it, for he had work to do inside.

In the gaoler's lodge, which appears to have been empty, they found the prison keys and a number of weapons much better than those they had brought with them. There was also a chest containing money which they would certainly need, if they managed to escape from the town. John Fox, however, declined to touch any of it, but Unticaro and two others were not so scrupulous, and stuffed as many golden ducats into their clothes as they could contrive to stow away. After this was done Fox bade them follow him into the prison, unlocking the doors with the gaoler's keys, and slaying the warders in charge. The prisoners, thus set free, were put by him to different tasks, the greater number being ordered to seize a galley lying at the prison end of the harbour, while the others carried down to it the mast and the sails and oars which had been stored up in the prison. Although most of the warders had been killed, eight of them had taken refuge in the roof of the prison, and in order to come at them the conspirators had to place ladders against the walls. The fighting was hot, and Fox received three shots in his clothes, while Unticaro and the two men who had taken the ducats were killed outright, which Fox considered a judgment upon them, for taking what did not belong to them.

All seemed going well, when a wounded Turk fell outside the prison wall, and 'made such a lowing' or bellowing, that he was heard by the people who lived in one or two scattered houses about. They instantly gave the alarm, and the prisoners fighting for their freedom felt as if the way of escape was barred to them. For at each end of the harbour was a fortress, while the city of Alexandria lay behind. Yet, such good use had the men made of the start they had had in getting ready the galley that before another ship could put to sea they were all on board, and had passed in safety the guns of the two forts, gaining the open water.

Once fairly away, they looked back to be sure that none of the Turkish vessels were likely to catch them up. The shores of the harbour were black with people, 'in companies like unto swarms of bees, bustling themselves to dress up the galleys.' But this was not so easy, as the whole of the fittings were locked up in the town. So the Christians breathed again, and, falling on their knees, gave thanks for their deliverance.

But the danger was by no means over, the wind was constantly shifting, and they did not know how to shape their course; and worse than that, the few provisions, which in their haste they had been able to bring, were soon exhausted. In twenty-eight days, eight persons died of starvation, just before they made the port of Gallipoli in the island of Candia. Here they were welcomed by the abbot and the monks, who bade them stay till they were strong again, and thankful the fugitives were for their rest. After a while they took ship, and reached the harbour of Taranto in south Italy without further adventure, and there by order of Fox the galley was sold and the price divided equally among the men. Together they marched to Naples where they parted, every man going to his own country, Fox himself journeying to Rome. The Pope granted him a private interview, and bestowed a large sum of money on him, while the King of Spain pensioned him on twenty pence a day, which in those times meant a great deal more than it does now. The Ministers of Queen Elizabeth were not behind the rest, and, when Fox returned to England in 1579, 'extended to him their liberality to maintain him in his age, to the great encouragement of all Christians.'

_THE BEAVER AND THE PORCUPINE_

Once upon a time there lived in the North West of America a beaver and a porcupine, who were great friends; and, as often happens, they loved each other all the better because they were so different. To begin with, the porcupine as no doubt you know is stuck over like a pin-cushion with long prickly quills, while the beaver is smooth-haired. Then the beaver had his house in the middle of a great lake, and the porcupine much preferred to dwell on land among the mountains, and if the beaver had not been able to swim, the two would never have met at all.

Now the beaver was often to be seen at the door of the porcupine's house, and was continually urging him to return the visit; but so far the porcupine had always refused.

'How can I?' he would ask. 'You know quite well that in a moment I should have swallowed so much water that my body would sink to the bottom, and I should never come up again. No, no! it is impossible--totally impossible--sorry as I am to give up the pleasure of seeing all the wonderful things you have told me of.' And try as he might, the beaver never could get another answer.

But one day he thought of a very clever plan, and he lost no time in putting it into practice. He had noticed from his house that the porcupine was sitting on the shore, enjoying the sun, so he instantly set off to swim to him.

'You are coming to see my house this minute,' said he.

'To see your house?' repeated the porcupine in amazement; 'but how am I to do that? I have told you a hundred times I should be drowned before I had gone ten yards.'

'Oh, no, you wouldn't!' replied the beaver, 'for I am going to carry you. Be quick and get on my back, and hold fast round my neck.'

'But I shall die! I know I shall!'

'I tell you, you _won't_ die. I will take care of that! Oh, don't be such a coward!' And at length, very slowly, the porcupine climbed up and seated himself.

'Hold tight round my neck,' said the beaver again; 'I am just going to start.' But he need not have troubled to give that advice, for the porcupine's grasp nearly choked him. Still, so long as the beaver kept on the surface, the porcupine really had nothing to complain of; but when he dived as he did once or twice, the water got into the rider's eyes and nose and down his throat, and almost suffocated him.

No words could tell how thankful he was to reach the beaver's house, but he could not think how he should ever have the courage to make that dreadful journey a second time.

* * * * *

'You seem tired; you must have something to eat,' said the beaver as the porcupine lay down feebly on his side. The porcupine was very glad to hear that, for he was certainly hungry; but great was his disappointment when the beaver took out of a hole a bundle of sticks and placed them before his guest.

'They are quite young twigs--you will find them very good,' said he, and the poor porcupine did not know how to refuse, and ate them silently and without making more faces than he could help, for he did not like them at all.

Next morning, when the porcupine awoke, the beaver was standing by him.

'Let us have a game, friend,' he cried; 'I know ever so many!'

'What sort of game is it?' asked the porcupine, and the beaver answered: 'You shall get on my back, and put your nose well down on the nape of my neck, and four times will I dive to the bottom of the lake, and four times will I come up!'

This did not sound a very good game to the porcupine, and he would have preferred something quite different, but he did not like to be rude or ill-natured, so he agreed to play it. But when it came to the point, the game proved even worse than he thought, for before the beaver started he splashed about with his tail, and filled the porcupine's eyes and nose with water; and not content with that he stayed below at each dive so very long that, when they rose to the surface for the fourth time, the porcupine was nearly dead.

'I will take you home now,' said the beaver; 'I have enjoyed my game so much.'

* * * * *

No sooner had the porcupine touched dry land than he went up to join his tribe, and bade them come to a feast in his house. As soon as they were all assembled he told them of the terrible sufferings he had gone through at the hands of the beaver, whom he had always looked on as a friend, though he could do so no more.

'He really almost killed me,' he said mournfully; and his guests replied smilingly, 'Well, invite _him_ to come and play with _you_.'

The porcupine was well pleased with their words, and next day sent a message to the beaver, begging for the honour of a visit as early as possible. The beaver lost no time in setting out, and the porcupine who was keeping watch soon saw him coming up the valley.

'Come in! come in!' cried he, and gave the fire a switch with his tail, so that some sparks flew right into the eyes of the guest. 'Do you feel inclined for some food?' inquired the porcupine; 'you have had a long walk and I am sure you must be hungry.'

'Thank you, I should like some,' replied the beaver; but he did not fancy the bark and pine needles that the porcupine placed before him. However, the porcupine did not seem to notice his guest's unwillingness, and only said:

'Eat a little faster, my friend, for I am longing to have a game with you'; so the beaver was forced to swallow some of the bark, which he did not like any better than the porcupine had liked the twigs.

'What game is it, and where do you play?' he asked when he had finished.

'Do you see that tree on the slope over there? That is my play-ground. But, perhaps, as it is getting late and you may be tired, it would be as well to put it off till to-morrow. I will show you where you are to sleep.' And as they walked along, the porcupine said something to the sky and the clouds vanished, and in the morning the ground was covered with ice.

The following day he told the beaver he had prepared another feast for him, but as it was just like the last, the beaver would rather have been without it.

'I have finished now,' he observed as soon as he could, and the porcupine answered:

'Very well; now we will go out to play.'

So the two went down towards the slope and came to a frozen stream which had to be crossed. The porcupine easily got over with his long claws, but the beaver's feet were smooth, and had nothing to hold on with, thus he slid from one side to the other and was very uncomfortable.

'Come along,' said the porcupine, 'it is all right'; but the beaver could not 'come along,' and at last the porcupine had to go back and take him by the hand and lead him over.

'Now you will be able to walk,' remarked the porcupine, and they went on to the place where the tree was standing.

* * * * *

'Here we are!' said the porcupine, stopping beneath it.

'But what is the game?' asked the beaver.

'Oh, you have to climb this tree.'

'But I have never climbed a tree in my life,' replied the beaver anxiously. 'How do you begin?'

'I will go first, and you have only to watch me and see how I do it,' answered the porcupine, and he climbed and climbed till he reached the very top of the tree. Then he let go the branch he was on, and dropped straight to the ground.

'There, it is not very difficult,' he said to the beaver; 'but as you are not used to climbing I will take you up on my back, and you can come down by yourself. Be sure you cling tight round my neck.' And the beaver did--very tight indeed.

It took them some time to reach the top of the tree and then the porcupine put the beaver on to a branch. But the beaver was not much more comfortable than when he was crossing the ice, for his smooth hands could not dig into the bark like the porcupine's claws.

'Hold fast to the tree, and I will go down first,' said the porcupine, and as he spoke he let the branch go, and fell down to the earth. Then he got up, and ran about at the foot of the tree, watching the beaver who was still on his branch, too frightened to move.

'Oh, don't be afraid! Look at me! I am alive as you see,' so at last the beaver let go as the porcupine bade him. But he did not know the proper way to fall as the porcupine did, and his head struck on a rock, and the blow killed him.

Then the porcupine went home.

[_Tsimshian Texts, by Franz Boas._]

_AN OLD-WORLD GHOST_

Children are often inclined to think that the nations who ruled the world long, long ago, were quite unlike ourselves, and always busy with very serious things, such as the passing of laws or fighting. It is quite a surprise sometimes to learn that they really shared our feelings on a whole quantity of subjects, and even, as this story will show, were quite as much afraid of ghosts or haunted houses as anybody in these days could be. It is told by a famous Roman citizen called Pliny, who was born near Lake Como in the reign of the Emperor Nero.

There was, he says, at that time a large and comfortable house in a good part of the town of Athens which, to the astonishment of everybody, stood empty for many years. It seemed odd that so fine a building should remain so long unoccupied, and at length one man more curious than the rest asked his host when at a small dinner party if he could explain the reason. The tale he heard from the Athenian noble was a marvellous one, and the guest shuddered as he listened, for though he was bold enough in the field of battle, he trembled in the presence of that which he did not understand.