XII
PETERKIN’S FATE
IT was an hour—a full and hungry hour—before Peterkin had told his tale. For he told to the King and his courtiers all of the strange happenings which had brought him floating from the pumpkin patch and flying in through the bed-room window. And, all the while he spoke, he could see the shadows of wrath grow darker on the brow of His Majesty and that the little princess’s red mouth drooped sorrowfully. Peterkin faltered. He wondered what was wrong with his tale. How could it offend His Majesty? He went on slowly, until he came to the fearful experience he had had, in his flying shell, with the toothless old farmer.
The King could stand it no longer. He banged his scepter down so hard as to crack every butter-plate on the table. Up to his feet he sprang, his eyes flashing lightning.
“Yes,” he rumbled, “yes, yes, yes! I might have guessed it! It was the arch enemy of our Four Kingdoms that you brought into our midst. Yes, yes, the Farmer Without Teeth! It is told in all our histories that he will work us harm. Every witch in the land has warned me to beware of him! And of you, too, you bothersome wayfarer! All the ancient history books have prophesied your coming. All of them described exactly how you would fly into my palace by way of the roof. This is just what they say:
When they heard this fateful rhyme, all of the courtiers shuddered with terror. A little moan escaped from the lips of the princess. As for Peterkin, his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth.
“Take him away!” ordered the King. “Away to the dungeon with him! And send out my royal army in search of the toothless farmer, that arch enemy of the Four Kingdoms. Away, to the deep, black dungeon!”
At once Peterkin was smothered in a great crowd of stalwart guards who bound him in heavy chains, who lifted him away and out of the banquet hall. The last thing he heard was the scream of the little princess.
Down, down, into the darkness of narrow cellars; down steep stairs of crumbling stone, where the air was damp and smelling of old mosses; down, still further down, they carried him. At last they came to a little iron door in a wall of black rock. There was a creaking of a rusty iron key in its lock, and a swinging of the little door on its stiff hinges.
“In with him!” cried the guards—and they tossed poor Peterkin, chains and all, into the furthermost corner of the cell. Then back went the door on its hinges, and creak, went the key in its lock. There was a faint sound of voices and footsteps dying in the distance ... and Peterkin was alone!
A prisoner! Deep in the dark of the dungeon, he lay with his head in his hands and sobbed to think of what a fate had come to him. What a fine ending for his story!
But then he remembered how the Princess Clem had screamed when he was snatched away—and he looked up and smiled. There was a tiny, barred window to his cell; and the sunlight came slanting through it in a narrow shaft, to make a little pool of brightness on the floor.
For the longest while did Peterkin lie looking at it; and dreamed, as all true lovers do, of what a pretty sight the princess was in her blue, lilied gown, and ribbons in her braid!