Chapter XVII

Maida stared in astonishment, but the ugly old woman was Queen Aurora Borealis beyond a doubt. On her head she wore a great golden crown, and as Maida stared at her the same blinding white light flashed from it straight up to the sky, and everybody was pleased because the Queen was pleased.

Aurora stopped and smiled. I wish I could describe that smile, but it would take three painters and a photographer to do it justice.

“Good-morning, my children!” she cried, “Who is the Queen of Beauty?” And altogether everybody said, “You are.”

Aurora smiled still more.

“Who is the Pride of Illusia?” she asked. Again a chorus arose, “You, divine Queen!”

“Yes, of _course_!” smirked Aurora; and then looking directly at Maida, she added, “a little louder over there.”

The eyes of the multitude turned toward the stranger and Maida realized she must speak. “You, divine Queen!” she quavered.

“Don’t be so piano in your praise,” remarked Aurora, “a little enthusiasm goes a long way.” Then turning to her subjects, she added: “Do you know my children, I envy you.”

As if spoken by one man, a mighty “Why?” rose from the multitude.

“Why?” repeated Aurora astonished, “because you can gaze on _me_. You can feast your eyes on my lovely face.” Then turning to Maida, she added fiercely, “it _is_ lovely--isn’t it?” Maida managed to pipe out, “Oh, very!” but she felt guilty of telling an awful whopper.

“You can gladden your eyes with my sylph-like form,” and again turning to Maida, continued, “If I’m not mistaken, it _is_ sylph-like?”

“If you please,” murmured Maida, “I don’t know what a sylph is, I never saw one, but I am sure they couldn’t look any worse.”

Luckily for Maida, the Queen did not hear the last part of her speech. A minion approached Aurora, and distracted her attention by presenting her with a paper which bore a huge red seal.

“What’s this?” she inquired petulantly, “didn’t you hear me? I was talking about myself. Every time I get absorbed in an interesting topic you come along and spoil it. What’s the matter?”

“Your noble Majesty,” humbly replied the minion, “Santa Claus, the toy-maker, has deserted his post. We caught him here, together with two of his creatures.”

Aurora frowned, then the entire assembly fell on their knees and hid their faces. From the golden crown a huge shaft of fierce red light shot up to the sky, turning the Plaza to crimson.

Then other minions brought on poor Santa Claus with his arms tied behind him, and Jack-in-the-Box and the Candy Kid handcuffed together. Maida realized at once why her friends had all disappeared from the airship. No doubt they had all been captured--and she alone had been spared. She began to plan their escape. Jack-in-the-Box and the Candy Kid were made to stand in a line with Santa Claus, and were so close to Maida she could have touched them. The trial was very short. Santa Claus was banished. The Candy Kid was to be broken up and fed to the kiddies in Illusia, and the key of Jack-in-the-Box was to be thrown away, and he was never to be wound up again. Forgetting her danger, Maida had drawn closer and closer to the Candy Kid, so that when Aurora had sentenced him, the next thing she saw was a strange little girl who did not in the least look like one of the children of Illusia.

Maida thought her time had come, but a lucky accident saved her, as Aurora mistook her for some sort of a doll Santa Claus had made.

“Oh, here’s another toy,” she said, squinting at Maida, for she was very near-sighted. “I didn’t notice this one at first. Ugly little thing, isn’t it?”

Maida was about to protest, but a whisper from Santa Claus frightened her to silence.

“Still for your life!” he said. “If she learns you are a mortal, you will be put to death.”

So Maida stood stock still, and never even winked an eye. A pretty little boy, Aurora’s page, who carried her sceptre, stared at Maida critically. “I think it’s rather pretty,” he said.

“Pretty?” said Aurora, “pooh, pooh! Why, it’s very badly made. The arms are much too long--the body is too slender,” and she gave Maida a poke in the ribs which made the poor child gasp for breath. “The color is bad and the face is--waxy. I could do better work than that. I’ll have them break it in pieces.” Maida began to tremble. The little page, however, was persistent.

“If you’re going to have it broken up,” he said, “why not give it to me?”

“Certainly,” said Aurora; and before Maida realized what had happened, she was seized, folded double, packed away in a box, and was being carted off somewhere, not daring to cry out for fear they would discover she was a mortal, and put her to death.