They burst open, and he turned to re-mount his horse. But the creature stood with planted fore-feet and quivering nostrils, and he saw that there was no time in which to urge him forward, as the Gates were closing again. He tore the cormorant’s wings from where they hung on the saddle, together with his few provisions and a water-flask, and was just in time to rush through them before they swung together with a crash that rang through the air like thunder, and sent the frightened horse tearing over the plain. Then he stood unhorsed and alone on the confines of the desert.

His only chance now lay in making use of the cormorant’s wings, which he had hitherto omitted to do, preferring to travel on horseback. But he fastened them to his shoulders by the power of the magic shoe and toiled on, directed by the Golden Heart, going straight forward until his provisions were nearly done. One morning he reached a green oasis on which rose a fountain, bubbling in a grove of feathery acacia trees, and, as he lay resting in the shade, he saw two birds sitting among the boughs and talking together. Remembering the feathers in his cap, he wished to be invisible and to understand their language.

“Look at that cool water,” said one. “When we have arranged our wings and tails a little after our flight, we will go down and drink. We shall not get a chance again till we reach the stream flowing through the marsh land for which we are bound.”

“Very well,” replied the other, “and, after that, we will start at once, for I am anxious to get home. I have not seen my family for an age, and I think it is really time I put in an appearance. We can be there by nightfall.”

When the Prince heard this he resolved to follow them; and when the two birds had satisfied their thirst and set off on their journey, he spread his wings and sailed with rapid strokes after them.

“What an odd rushing there is in the air beside us,” observed one; “the wind must be going to change.”

By the time it was dark they entered the marsh land and saw a glimmer of the stream for which the Prince was looking. In due time they flew across it, and he alighted on the further bank and dropped his wings while he sat down to rest. His hopes were high as he thought of his lost Princess—lost perhaps no longer—and he anticipated the moment of finding the plant with joy almost amounting to dread. He rose to his feet and wished for the power of seeing in the dark.

He saw that he stood in the midst of so wonderful a piece of scenery that he could hardly believe himself awake. Just in front of him appeared the rock which the Golden Heart had described as being like the entrance to a tomb. It rose upwards out of a deep, dark pool, and a great star which stood in silver radiance over the summit threw a long steel-blue reflection trailing across the silent water. Down the face of the rock, and all round on a tangle of low bushes which closed him in on every side, hung thick wreaths of white convolvulus; strange lights flashed in and out among the heavy foliage, and from the blossoms rolled drops of scented dew like the tears of a weeping enchantress.

The air was faint with enchantment; the Ugly Prince felt a languor creeping over his body. His senses seemed to be fading from him, and, fearing that he might be overcome by the strange atmosphere of the place, he dashed through the bushes towards an open space not far off. There his eyes fell on a tall, solitary plant growing in the very centre of the clearing, and perceiving it to be none other than the object of his search, he threw himself upon the ground beside it, took the Golden Heart from his bosom and pressed it to his lips, covering it with passionate kisses.

His journey was done, his troubles ended; he had now only to wait till the plant had grown as high as his knee to bathe his face in the juice of the berries and all would be well. He would go back across the desert, through the Great Gates and over the world to his Princess’s kingdom, a changed man, with his happiness lying before him. He pictured the joy of the King, the delight of the faithful little boy who awaited him, and the clinging arms of his adored Princess, as he lay hour after hour beside the green stem and watched it grow taller and saw the berries begin to take shape and colour. At last, it had grown almost to the height of his knee, and, as he sat waiting in the breaking daylight for the moment when he should pluck his treasure, the Prince heard footsteps behind him, and, springing to his feet, beheld a tattered figure which started on seeing him, and then, with a long cry, fell prostrate upon the earth.

In a moment he was beside it and raising in his arms a man still young, but so bowed and emaciated by illness and trouble, that he seemed scarcely able to stand.

“Leave me! leave me!” he cried, as the Ugly Prince held him in the grasp of his strong arms. “What brings you here? Have you, too, come for the plant—the magic plant?”

“I have,” said the Prince firmly.

The unhappy man dropped his hands. “Then I am too late,” he cried, “and I must die—for what can I do against you?” And he glanced from his own trembling form to the straight, strong limbs of the Ugly Prince.

And he bowed his head and wept till the Prince’s heart bled to hear him.

“I beseech you, stop your tears,” he said kindly, “and tell me what has brought you here?”

As he spoke these words his breath almost stopped, for he foresaw, dawning on the very horizon of his mind, the vague outlines of a possible sacrifice, so great, so overwhelming, that he hardly dared to put it into thoughts, and yet—it was there.

“I have come,” said the stranger, “from a long, long distance and crossed the desert on foot. See my feet, how they are bruised. My journey has taken two years (for I am a poor man and must travel as best I may) and, at times, I have hardly hoped to live to the end; for I am suffering from a slow, fatal disease. I have tried every cure in vain, and have been told by a learned magician to seek out this plant as a last hope of life. I have a wife whose whole heart is bound up in mine, and little children. Their hopes have been centred in me through these sad years since I left them to begin my journey. I shall never see them again, and they will go on, day by day, hoping for my return. But that will never be now. That is my history. And you, why are you here? What is yours?”

For answer, the Prince drew off his mask. “That is mine,” he said.

His companion recoiled from him, shuddering.

The two men remained gazing dumbly upon each other; then the Ugly Prince broke the silence.

“We are in the most horrible position,” he said, “that two miserable men have ever been placed in. Look,” and he pointed to the now fully-developed plant, “in a few minutes one of us will have his hopes fulfilled, and one of us will be in despair. Let us suppose for a moment that I am that unhappy man and that you, in your good fortune, will grant me a favour. Let me have a little space in which to think it all over. Give me your word to hold your hand from plucking the berries while I try to face this trial and make up my mind to what is coming. Should I take the golden chance that lies here for one of us, a few moments of respite will do you no injury; and, should you profit by it, your happiness will be none the less sweet for having granted the prayer of a man into whose life no joy can ever shine again. Will you do this?”

The man looked at him narrowly. “I am in your power,” he said, “for you are the stronger.”

“Let that go for nothing,” answered the Prince, waving his hand impatiently. “I shall leave you alone. I want your word that you will do nothing till I come back.”

“I promise it,” replied the stranger.

And the Ugly Prince went, leaving the black mask lying at his feet.

He entered a grove of trees which stood near, and flung his arms round the stem of a tall ash, pressing his unmasked face against the bark; dreadful thoughts assailed him on every side. He had only to go back and drive his sword into that powerless body and the happiness which had seemed so real a short time ago would still be his. None could see the deed or tell of it. His mind was as though filled with evil mists, and, above them, rose the alluring form of his Princess, golden-haired, white-armed, beckoning. But he thrust her from him. No, such a thing could not be. Better to die a thousand times than to sink into such dishonour as that.

And if he relinquished his chance? If he were to give up to that suffering mortal the thing that he had striven and toiled for during the two years through which he had dragged his poor aching limbs to this spot, what then? Whose happiness would he destroy by so doing? Not the Princess’s, certainly. She had given him up of her free will, had shrunk from the sight of him and the thought of becoming his wife. The King, her father, would sorrow indeed, but he would still have his daughter. The little boy would welcome him back should he return as he had left him. No, it would be his loss alone.

He thought of that evening in the Palace garden, his last evening of happiness. He saw it all again, the golden sky, the roses, the far-stretching landscape, and he felt again the soft hand of his love clinging to his arm as they talked together. He groaned, and, as he thought of these things, some words came back to his memory, words he had remembered on that last happy evening, words which had once been spoken by the Princess when she threw him the Golden Heart. “If you take it, it will bring you pain and sorrow, perhaps more than you can bear. Can you really accept it? Are you willing to take the trouble that must come?” He had not realised them then. Once more they had returned to his mind when she asked him to release her, and he had then imagined that he understood them. He understood them now.

And his rival? Perhaps he adored that wife as he himself had adored, and did adore, his lost love. And the wife, to whom his own success would mean a life-long grief? He tried to put himself in the unhappy man’s place. He tried to suppose that the Princess was waiting for him, that she was sitting watching as this woman watched. What should he feel if another and a stronger hand were to grasp the prize upon which all their hopes of meeting depended? And the little children?

A great lump rose in his throat and a hand seemed to clutch at his heartstrings; he looked up at the early mist rolling away from stream and plain, and a load of black temptation lifted heavily from his bursting heart. The stranger stood waiting a little way off; he approached him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Go!” he said, pointing to the plant. “It is yours. Take it. I give up my claim freely.”

A few minutes more and he was lying on the earth near the still pool he had seen the night before, his cheek resting on the cool moss, trying to realise and accept the loveless life which was all he had now left. Every hope was gone and the future lay before him like the vast, sterile desert he had lately crossed, bare and bleak. There was nothing to live for now, nothing. The fact rushed over him in its full meaning, and for the first time since his boyhood he burst into tears and sobbed like a little child.

After a while he remembered the mask which lay on the grass where he had left it. There was nothing for him to do but resume it and go back to the world with his old trouble unchanged; but, before rising, he went to bathe his heated eyes in the water and he leaned over the brink. Just as he put in his hand he saw that another face was looking up at him It startled him. Was it some poor, drowned man who lay staring up at the sky? Impossible, surely. None knew of this place but himself and that one stranger, and, moreover, there was no sign of death in those living eyes that met his own so fearlessly. He plunged down his hand and it only touched the bed of the pool; the water lay deep and still but for the ripples which his action had stirred into widening rings. He was simply bewildered. Still gazing downwards he drew his hand over his eyes, thinking they must be bewitched, and, as he did so, a hand passed over the face in the water. It could not be his own. He laughed bitterly at the idea. It had no resemblance to himself, and was the face of a handsome man, not a monster whose very look was unendurable. Thinking that he must be going mad, he felt the Golden Heart beating and fluttering against his breast. He wondered that he had forgotten it for so long as he took it out.

“Am I crazed?” he asked excitedly. “What is this illusion?”

“It is no illusion,” replied the voice, “but the truth. That face looking from the water is your own. Look once more, for the ripples have ceased.”

The Prince obeyed.

He saw the most noble countenance that it had ever entered his mind to imagine; no defect was there, no feature which was not perfection, and over all was an expression of such sublime grandeur, strength, and fortitude, that the Ugly Prince, ugly no longer, drew back, almost awed by what he saw.

“It is only the reflection of your own great soul,” said the voice—and it seemed to fill the air around him—“what you see is the beauty of honour and truth, of courage and sacrifice, and there is nothing which can be compared to it in the whole world. Now rise, for you must go from here and begin your homeward journey. Go back to reap the reward which is awaiting you, for there is no reward too great for such as you.”

So the Prince went. The cormorant’s wings bore him safely over the desert, and the witch’s shoe opened for him the Great Gates. Once through them, he procured himself a horse, and at last reached the borders of the kingdom where his heart lay; here he proceeded more slowly, only journeying by night, as he wished no one to see him who might tell the Princess of his return.

One morning early the little boy rose and went, as he always did, to a high turret in the palace to look down the road leading to the nearest city, and to see whether his Prince was coming home.

As he sat with the morning breeze lifting his hair, straining his eyes towards the white road which lay between the ripening corn-fields, he saw a solitary horseman approaching, and, in great excitement, he watched him as he advanced. When he was still some way off, the rider put his horse to a gallop, waving his hand, and the child, doubting no longer, rushed at the top of his speed down the turret stair, through the courtyard gate, across the drawbridge, and down the road till he reached the horse’s side and clung, transported with joy, to the stirrup. The Prince stooped and lifted him into the saddle before him.

When the first rapture of greeting was over, the little boy raised his head from his friend’s shoulder.

“Where is your mask?” he inquired.

“It is here, but I do not wear it any more. You see, I am not so ugly now,” said the Prince, smiling.

The little boy hugged him again with delight. “I never saw your face before,” he said, “but I don’t believe you were ever ugly. There is no one in the world like you.”

Then the Prince asked him a thousand questions about the Princess.

“She is not very happy,” replied the child, shaking his head, “for, after you left, she began to miss you and to cry because you had gone, and she has watched for you so long, that she grows paler and sadder every day.”

“Do you think she would love me if I came back with my mask on, as I left her?” asked the Prince.

“Try,” said the little boy.

They rode together through the gate and crossed the courtyard hand in hand, the Prince in his travel-worn clothes with the black mask on his face. Through the wide hall they went, down the corridor, and out into the Princess’s garden. She was standing in the morning sunlight feeding her peacocks, the gorgeous birds crowding round her; the eyes in their sweeping tails flashed blue and green, and their slim necks bent hither and thither as they picked up the grain. They trod as softly as they could, like two conspirators, so that she did not hear their footsteps until they were close behind her. Then she turned, half-startled, and saw the Prince.

For one moment she stood gazing at him with her hands clasped over her heart; then, with a low cry of joy, she sprang forward like some beautiful wild animal and threw herself into his arms.

“And can you really receive me back like this?” he asked a short time later, “when you see that it is the same man who has returned unaltered?”

“Ah, do not remind me of my folly,” she begged, “I can hardly believe that you have come back to me at last; I fear to wake and find it is all a dream.” And she rested her head against his shoulder with a sigh of content.

“But,” persisted he, “could you bear to see me without my mask?”

“I can bear anything,” she replied, “but losing you again.”

Then he took off his mask and threw it on the ground. She glanced up at him and stood transfixed, for never in her whole life had she seen any one who looked as he looked.

She sank on her knees beside him, and covered her face with her hands. “I am not worthy to be your wife,” she faltered, “let me go, for it cannot be.”

But he did not listen to her.

Once upon a time there were two Princesses of Japan who lived with their father in a tall palace. It stood on the banks of a river, and they used to watch from the walls to see the boats plying up and down, and the great cranes standing in the shallows fishing.

They had never in their lives been outside the gardens, except when they were carried in a litter covered with paintings and carvings, and shut in by curtains. They peeped through the chinks as they went along, and Princess Azalea, the elder, used to tell Princess Anemone long stories which she invented about the passers-by. Once, indeed, when the servants had put down the litter for a moment’s rest, Princess Anemone, who was bolder than her sister, though not quite so good at making up stories, had slipped quietly out and gone off for a little exploring expedition of her own; while Princess Azalea sat terrified on the cushions, hiding her face behind her little fan. It seemed an age to her till the truant came back, breathless and rather pink in the face.

“Oh! Sister! Sister! What did you see?” she asked, “and how you have torn your dress! What will Utuka say?”

Utuka was their nurse; she had brought them up since Azalea was born, sixteen years before.

Anemone looked down at her white silk dress, all covered with silver flowers, and at the three-cornered slit which ran right across the front. “Never mind,” she said, “I’ll sew it up before she sees it. I know where she keeps her needles. Azalea, there was a man with a long staff who scowled at me so. I ran back as hard as I could, but O sister! look what I found! The world is a charming place, I know.”

And she held up a great cream and pink peony.

So the two stood, day after day, looking out over the palace wall, two white and gold figures with their hair done up in little knobs on the tops of their heads, and their fans fluttering like butterflies’ wings. The sun poured down on them, and the blue sky stretched above, and the great, unlimited world, which they knew nothing about, lay all round them.

Now, the Princesses’ father was such a popular man that there was only one person on that side of the world so much talked about, and that was the Sorcerer Badoko. The Emperor thought very seldom of the Sorcerer, because he had little time for thinking of anything but how to be kind to his neighbours; but Badoko could hardly sleep in his bed at night for thinking of the Emperor. He tossed about in his lonely cave, saying under his breath that, come what might, he would make himself the more celebrated of the two. He said it under his breath, so that his two sons, who were lying close by, should not hear him. He did not like his two sons very much.

He could not at all make out why the Princesses’ father was more admired than himself, for even Sorcerers are stupid sometimes—generally because they think themselves so clever. The real reason was because the old man was so kind, but the Sorcerer did not know that. He was clever enough to see that the Emperor was more thought of than himself, but he wasn’t clever enough to know why. At last he made up his mind that it must be because he was richer, and, having come to that conclusion, he determined to steal away the two Princesses. Then he would go to the palace and demand a great ransom—in fact, half the Emperor’s money—and he felt sure that it would be paid.

The Emperor’s garden was full of beautiful trees. In one corner a fountain played, and, near this, a flight of steps ran up to a summer-house on the wall in which the Princesses sat nearly every day and looked down on the world below.

As they were sitting there one afternoon they saw an old man passing by. It was the same person who had scowled at Anemone when she ran away from the litter, and she pointed him out to her sister. He glanced up at the two girls. Under his arm he carried a kind of guitar; Azalea looked at it with interest, for, besides making up stories, she could sing and play very prettily to a little instrument she had, which was rather like this one.

The Sorcerer—for it was he—made an extremely low bow.

“Shall I sing you a song, my ladies?” he asked.

Anemone felt bolder than ever, for was not the wall between them? “Yes, please,” she said.

Then the Sorcerer began to sing; and his voice was like liquid gold. It made one think of all the most beautiful things in the world: of the dawn in the sky, of great birds with white wings, of rushing waters, of prancing horses and waving plumes, of the deep velvet sky with its armies of stars.

“Oh, how lovely! How wonderful!” cried the Princesses. “Oh, sir! where did you learn those songs?”

The Sorcerer smiled. “It is this little guitar,” he said, holding it up. “It is bewitched. One has only to strike the strings and the song comes out of it. Your ladyships think, no doubt, that it is I who sing, but I have only to open my mouth and the guitar does all the rest.”

Now this was a lie, for the Sorcerer’s two sons made all the songs; they were very clever young men.

“Sing one more; please sing one more!” cried the Princesses.

“Very well,” replied he, “one more, but that must be the last. Here is one which I hope you will like. It is called ‘The Peach Trees in the Valley.’ ”

“What a charming name,” said Anemone, who was fond of flowers.

And the Sorcerer sang:—

The girls were charmed, and, as for Azalea, she was so much excited she was almost in tears.

“If your ladyships like my guitar so much why do you not buy it?” said Badoko. “I am very poor, and I am taking it into the city to sell.”

Azalea wrung her hands; she had never been in such a predicament before. “But we have no money,” she exclaimed.

It had never entered the Princesses’ minds to think of money. Everything they wanted was always there ready for them, and it had never in their lives occurred to them to ask how it came.

The Sorcerer laughed rather slyly. “But surely his Imperial Majesty will not grudge you the money,” said he.

“Run, Anemone, run, and ask our father!” cried Azalea.

“It would be better for you to look at the guitar before buying it,” remarked the Sorcerer.

Anemone was practical, and this idea struck her as being very wise. “Wait,” she said to her sister, “we will go down to the gate and see it.”

And the two ran down the stairs with a great rustling of silks and clacking of little heels.

When they got out of the door the Sorcerer made another low bow, and held out the musical instrument. Azalea took it eagerly in her hand, and at the same time Badoko made a whistling sound. Two men sprang from behind a bush and threw heavy cloaks over the sisters, winding them so tightly over their mouths that they could not scream, though they tried to with all their might. The wicked Sorcerer laughed aloud, and ordered his men to carry the Princesses down to the river.

The garden opened on a lonely piece of waste ground, so they met no one on the way, reaching the shore and embarking under the shade of a thick tree in a long flat boat. Soon they had pushed off and were floating down the stream, Azalea and Anemone lying covered up under some grass matting, and Badoko steering while his men rowed. Behind them, the city was losing itself in the distance.

When the Princesses were allowed to come out of their hiding-place they found themselves in a wide country; the river wound on through stretches of sand; barren mountains, like great blue stone-heaps, covered the desert. They wept very piteously as they sat huddled together. Before them, Badoko’s grim image sat stiffly against the sky, and behind them, the bare country into which they were going spread for miles and miles; all round was sand and the dry reeds rustled as they passed. They held each other’s hands, and sobbed softly for fear he should hear. They would have liked to ask him if he was going to kill them, but they were much too frightened. Besides this, they were very uncomfortable, and they had left their little fans behind. It was all very dreadful. Just before sunset they stopped by the bare stump of a tree which was sticking up among the rushes; on it sat a black raven looking very wise and cawing loudly. He looked at the matting which covered the girls, and pointed at the Sorcerer with his claw.

“What have you got there?” he asked.

“Mind your own business,” said Badoko, throwing a great stone at him.

He flew away, flapping his wings angrily, but he turned his head round as he went and saw Azalea and Anemone getting out upon the bank. The Sorcerer was offering them some horrible black bread and some dried peas, for he did not want them to die of hunger. If they did, he would lose all the money he hoped to get from their father.

But they were not hungry, and only shuddered as they sat close together on the sand.

“If you don’t want any food,” said Badoko, “don’t sit there whining and wasting my time.” And he dragged them into the boat again.

The raven spread his wings and flew far away up the river, and when he had gone nearly a hundred miles, he saw the Emperor’s palace underneath him. He lit upon the roof and began to caw and squall at the top of his voice, and to dance in such a way that everybody below crowded to look at him. The Emperor, who was inside, put out his head to see what all the laughter meant. The tears had been running down his face as he thought of his two little girls who had disappeared so strangely, and his nose was quite red, poor old gentleman, but he rubbed his face on his silk handkerchief and went down to the courtyard, followed by his Prime Minister. All the servants were collected and were staring up at the raven.

“What is all this about?” inquired the Prime Minister, as he strutted after his master.

“Sir, it is a raven which is dancing on the roof in a very diverting manner,” said a bystander.

The Prime Minister was accustomed to be the principal person in any crowd, and he was not best pleased at finding himself scarcely regarded; nobody was regarding the Emperor either, but he did not think of that. He put on his spectacles and looked up.

“How very unsuitable!” he exclaimed, turning his back. “Really, what we are all coming to I don’t know!”

The bird danced still more extravagantly, and even the Emperor began to smile.

“Come down from there immediately!” shouted the Prime Minister; “I wonder you are not ashamed of making such an exhibition of yourself.”

“All right,” said the bird; and he flew down, alighting at his Majesty’s feet, making so polished an obeisance that all were astonished.

The Emperor was much gratified. “What can I do for you?” he inquired.

“I have important news,” replied the bird, “and I would ask to communicate it.”

“Impudent scoundrel!” exclaimed the Prime Minister, “your right place would be in the cooking-pot if you were not so nasty.”

“It would certainly be fitter for me than for you,” observed the raven, “seeing that you are old and tough and that I am young and tender.”

“Your Majesty must not think of giving the audience unattended,” said the Prime Minister; “this disreputable creature may have some design upon your royal life. Someone should be present.”

“Anyone, so long as it is not yourself,” replied the raven.

And with that, he hopped into the palace in front of the Emperor, who was too much agitated to notice the breach of etiquette. The Prime Minister hurried after, hoping to get in also, but he was too late, for the guard who stood at the door shut it behind his Majesty according to custom. The Emperor seated himself and the bird stood respectfully before him.

“Is it anything about my poor little daughters that you have come to tell me?” he asked, looking very pitifully into the raven’s face.

“Your Majesty is right,” was the reply. “I myself saw them, not twenty-four hours ago, but in great distress. The Sorcerer Badoko has stolen them away.”

“Where has he taken them to? Where? Where?” cried the Emperor.

“They were rowing down the river in the direction of Badoko’s country. I have put myself to great inconvenience to bring this news to your Majesty; and it is lucky that that pig of a Prime Minister did not dissuade you from listening to me. Why such a mud-headed gander should be allowed near your sacred person, I don’t know.”

“He means well, he means well,” said the Emperor.

“He means to put me in a pot if he can get me,” replied the raven. “I only hope and trust he may not catch me until I have restored the young ladies to their illustrious parent.”

At this moment there was a loud knocking at the door.

“Who is there?” cried the Emperor.

“May it please your Imperial Majesty,” said the guard outside, “the Prime Minister says it is cold in the palace and that you have forgotten your Imperial Majesty’s muffler, and he will bring it in himself.”

“What does he say?” asked the monarch, who was rather deaf.

The raven repeated the message.

“Thanks, thanks; tell him I am very comfortable,” said the Emperor.

The raven hopped to the door.

“Tell him,” he bawled, “that his Majesty says he is to mind his own business and keep his bald head away from the key-hole.”

When the Emperor heard what the bird had got to say he determined to set out with a great force for Badoko’s country.

When the expedition was ready, they started, travelling in great force. The procession was several miles long, and, in the centre of it, immediately behind his Majesty, the raven was carried on a silver perch which was made in the form of a bower. Over his head swung a scarlet canopy, like an umbrella, which protected him from the rays of the sun, and under which he languished with all the airs of royalty. This he did because the Prime Minister’s litter was close behind, and because he knew that its occupant could see him. The slaves who carried him hated him, for his voice was never silent and he poured abuse upon them from dawn till dusk.

And now we must ask what had been happening all this time to the two Princesses. When the raven had flown away from the spot where he had seen them, they were hurried into the boat again, and continued their way till they reached the place where Badoko lived. It was a sandy desert with great rocks in which there were caves. To these caves, which were high up, staircases were cut in the stone, and the Sorcerer’s servant sat in the entrance of one, boiling a cauldron from which the steam went up in a column. They disembarked, and Badoko marched them up one of the flights of steps. “Here,” said he, “is the cave you are to live in. If you want anything to eat you can ask for something out of the cauldron.”

Azalea and Anemone were very hungry, so they begged a little food and went into their cave, glad to be away from his terrible eye. After some time they heard Badoko giving orders down below.

“Now,” he cried to his servant, “I am going on a journey. You are to take care that the Princesses do not escape, for if I come back and find them gone, I will put everybody to death for miles round!”

The servant fell at his feet and promised he would do all he was told, and Badoko, calling together the men who had rowed his boat, mounted a white donkey with pink eyes and rode away at their head across the sand.

When night came, Azalea and Anemone lay down, but they could not rest; and, as it was bright moonlight, they sat at the top of their staircase, looking out over the shining ground.

It was not long before they saw two figures ride up and dismount below. They did not know what new enemies these might be, so they crept softly back into the cave and tried to sleep.

The Sorcerer’s two sons—for the riders were none other—were named Tiger and Gold-Eagle, for Badoko had thought these names lucky. They had come a long distance and were very tired, and as, when at home, they inhabited a cave next to the one in which the Princesses lay, they went in and threw themselves down on the piles of skins which served them for beds. In the middle of the night Tiger woke his companion.

“Brother,” he said, “what is that strange noise?”

Gold-Eagle sat up; he was very cross at being awakened from his first sleep. “If you annoy me again,” he said, throwing a handful of sand at Tiger, “I will get out of bed and beat you.”

As he spoke the noise grew more distinct.

“There’s someone crying close by,” said Tiger; “I shall go in and see what it means.”

Gold-Eagle was quite as inquisitive as his brother, so he rose, in spite of his bad humour, and followed. What was their astonishment at seeing two girls lying weeping on the floor. Azalea and Anemone fell at their feet. The Sorcerer’s sons knew very well that these must be some prisoners of their father’s, and as they disapproved of his wickedness, they were horrified at seeing the distress in which the poor little things were plunged. They soon heard their history, for, when the Princesses saw how kindly they looked at them, they were only too glad to have someone to talk to, and they implored Tiger and Gold-Eagle to protect them.

The two brothers were so much charmed that they immediately fell head-over-ears in love, and it was fortunate that Tiger preferred Azalea and Gold-Eagle Anemone, or there might have been a fight. They promised to help them to escape from Badoko and to take them back to their father, for, though they would be dreadfully sorry to part with them, they could not bear to think of them in the power of the wicked Sorcerer. Next day they went to the servant who was left in charge of the captives and asked where Badoko had gone.

“Young sirs,” said he, “his Honour has gone to consult the illustrious Dragon about the ransom which he will ask for the Princesses.”

Now the Sorcerer had a friend, a very rich Dragon who lived on an island some way off, and it was to visit him that he had set out on the pink-eyed donkey. The brothers knew that he could not get back for several days, and they told Azalea and Anemone that they would start as soon as their horses should be rested.

It was night when they left; the sky was clear and the steam from the servants’ cauldron rose in the moonlight. When he saw what the brothers were doing he remonstrated loudly, but nobody listened, so he could only promise to tell Badoko which way they had gone the moment he returned.

“You won’t get the chance,” said Gold-Eagle, giving him a cuff, “for you are coming too.” And he drove him along in front of them.

For three days all went well; as the brothers walked while the Princesses rode, the horses had not much to carry.

They were resting in a wood one day, when they were suddenly surrounded by a band of robbers, who sprang on them, and, before they could resist, tied them to trees while they sat down to decide what was to be done with them. Gold-Eagle and Tiger were furious and gnashed their teeth, but there was nothing they could do, poor fellows, for the robbers numbered about forty to their two. The head robber came into the circle holding the beautiful embroidered dresses he had taken from Anemone and Azalea. “These are worth a great deal,” said he; “if we take them to the Dragon who lives on the island we shall get a large sum; he is a great collector of curiosities, and we can sell the young men to him for slaves, and the girls too, for that matter. This has been a great find.”

You may imagine what the Princesses felt when they heard that!

We must now see what the Emperor and his train were doing, and how near they had got to the Sorcerer’s country. Every night they halted by the wayside, and the raven had a tent all to himself next to that of his Majesty. It was made of velvet and the royal arms were emblazoned on it; but, had you heard the raven talking about it, you would have supposed it to be no better than a dog-kennel. Nothing was good enough for him. The sentry who walked up and down before it was maddened by the offensive looks which the bird cast upon him as he passed and repassed the door.

One evening a shabby-looking rook flew by the camp, and, seeing so fine a tent occupied by one of his own kind, he went up to it, and, putting on a sad voice, began to beg. The raven, who was in front of a glass admiring a gold collar which the Emperor had caused to be put round his neck, stuck his beak in the air. “Sentry!” he called, “rid me at once of this pestilent bird. His presence is an offence to me.”

But the rook’s voice drowned the words. “Sir!” he cried, “great sir! Let me tell your noble Honour’s fortune. I see by the glorious jewels on your neck that you must be a king.”

“No, no, my good fellow,” answered the raven, “you mistake, indeed. Your admiration for my person and manners leads you into error.”

“Then it is easy to see by your appearance that you are some great lord,” continued the rook.

“There, I confess, you have me,” said the raven, looking down.

“Let me tell your Honourable Lordship’s noble fortune?” cried the rook again. “A great destiny is in store for you—though, to be sure, anyone who sees you can read that in your high-born and illustrious eye.”

“Sentry!” cried the raven, “I have made a mistake. I shall not require your intervention.”

The rook then approached humbly and began telling his fortune, assuring him that every dignity and honour would be his, that he would die lamented after having ruled the greater part of the earth, and that he would owe all these things to the virtue of his own heart and the lofty perfection of his intellect.

“My good creature,” said the raven, “you interest me. Not only do you seem to be in the front rank of the prophets, but you appear to possess discernment of character to a very unusual degree. How have you learnt so many accurate and valuable things?”

“Powerful Nobleman,” replied the rook, “though my appearance is mean, I have yet frequented august society—though I have never, of course, been in the presence of such combined rectitude and splendour as that in which I now find myself. Indeed, I have just come from a place where riches are stored such as have seldom been collected in this world.”

“Where is that?” inquired the raven.

“I have come from the island of a powerful Dragon who has immense wealth and a great collection of curiosities. He has an exalted guest with him at this moment, a man of great note, who——”

“Vermin, you begin to weary me,” said the raven; “who is this person?”

“The Sorcerer Badoko,” replied the rook.

The raven started. “And who else?” he cried.

“There are also two young gentlemen, sons of the illustrious Sorcerer, and two beautiful young ladies named Azalea and Anemone, whom gossips say are Princesses. But they did not arrive with Badoko. They were brought to the Dragon by robbers and are now in dungeons. The Sorcerer disapproves of his sons, I hear, and would not be sorry to see them put to death.”

The raven was all eagerness to give this news to the Emperor. “Be off, bird!” he said, “I have had enough of your talk.”

“But the fee, Gracious Monarch! My fee for telling your fortune!”

The raven fell into a towering rage and began to call for the sentry. The rook snatched up a valuable gold chain from a table and made off as hard as he could go, leaving the raven unable to pursue him on account of the heavy ornaments he wore.

Outside the Emperor’s tent the raven set up a great cry of “News! News!”

The Emperor commanded him to enter, and he related what had happened. “But I divined it all in a dream first,” he added, “so, when the low creature appeared, I knew exactly what he was going to say.”

The expedition started with all haste for the Dragon’s island and sighted it in a few days; it was evening when they approached the lake in which it lay, and they saw the single pine tree which stood on it and one star shining above in the green of the evening sky. But they had no leisure to admire all this and pushed on to find that the Dragon had gone to a palace some way from the shore where he was entertaining the Sorcerer with a feast. The only persons left on the island were the Sorcerer’s sons and the Princesses who were confined in dungeons below the Dragon’s treasure house. The force surrounded the palace in which the feast was going on and turned their heavy guns on it. The Dragon and the Sorcerer came out in great horror, and the Dragon was told that he would be blown to atoms if the captives were not released immediately and Badoko given up to justice.

“Take all I have,” said the Dragon, “but spare my collection of curiosities.”

So the Princesses were set free and, with them, Tiger and Gold-Eagle, and the Sorcerer was seized, bound, and drowned in the lake. The raven stood by the Emperor and surveyed all that was done. “My good fellows,” he said to Badoko’s sons, “there is no further need of your services. Your behaviour has been creditable. You may go.”

“Do you want your neck wrung?” asked Gold-Eagle, who had come behind him, taking him deftly between his finger and thumb. The raven took the first opportunity of retiring among the crowd.

Next day the Emperor with his daughters started for home, having invited the young men to his court, and they, after bidding the Princesses good-bye, returned to Badoko’s country to fit themselves out suitably for the visit.

So everybody departed in peace, except the Sorcerer, who was at the bottom of the lake.

In a short time Tiger and Gold-Eagle arrived at the court. They had inherited all their father’s wealth and they came in such splendour and state that people ran out of their houses for miles round to see them pass.

The Emperor was much delighted with their appearance, character and accomplishments, and, above all, with the charming way in which they played and sang, so when Tiger asked him for the hand of Azalea and Gold-Eagle for that of Anemone, he consented readily, and the two marriages took place amid great pomp. Everyone was pleased but the raven, who could not get on with the Emperor’s sons-in-law. Finally, he found it wiser to retire from court, and a fine house was built for him in which he spent the remainder of his days and died, at a good old age, of a surfeit.