CHAPTER III
And what of the little lame Prince, whom everybody
seemed so easily to have forgotten?
Not everybody. There were a few kind souls,
mothers of families, who had heard his sad story, and some servants about the
palace, who had been familiar with his sweet ways—these many a time sighed and
said, “Poor Prince Dolor!” Or, looking at the Beautiful Mountains, which were
visible all over Nomansland, though few people ever visited them, “Well, perhaps
his Royal Highness is better where he is than even there.”
They did not know—indeed, hardly anybody did
know—that beyond the mountains, between them and the sea, lay a tract of
country, barren, level, bare, except for short, stunted grass, and here and
there a patch of tiny flowers. Not a bush—not a tree not a resting place for
bird or beast was in that dreary plain. In summer the sunshine fell upon it
hour after hour with a blinding glare; in winter the winds and rains swept over
it unhindered, and the snow came down steadily, noiselessly, covering it from
end to end in one great white sheet, which lay for days and weeks unmarked by a
single footprint.
Not a pleasant place to live in—and nobody did
live there, apparently. The only sign that human creatures had ever been near
the spot was one large round tower which rose up in the center of the plain,
and might be seen all over it—if there had been anybody to see, which there
never was. Rose right up out of the ground, as if it had grown of itself, like
a mushroom. But it was not at all mushroom-like; on the contrary, it was very
solidly built. In form it resembled the Irish round towers, which have puzzled
people for so long, nobody being able to find out when, or by whom, or for what
purpose they were made; seemingly for no use at all, like this tower. It was
circular, of very firm brickwork, with neither doors nor windows, until near
the top, when you could perceive some slits in the wall through which one might
possibly creep in or look out. Its height was nearly a hundred feet, and it had
a battlemented parapet showing sharp against the sky.
As the plain was quite desolate—almost like a
desert, only without sand, and led to nowhere except the still more desolate
seacoast—nobody ever crossed it. Whatever mystery there was about the tower, it
and the sky and the plain kept their secret to themselves.
It was a very great secret indeed,—a state
secret,—which none but so clever a man as the present King of Nomansland would
ever have thought of. How he carried it out, undiscovered, I cannot tell.
People said, long afterward, that it was by means of a gang of condemned
criminals, who were set to work, and executed immediately after they had done,
so that nobody knew anything, or in the least suspected the real fact.
And what was the fact? Why, that this tower, which
seemed a mere mass of masonry, utterly forsaken and uninhabited, was not so at
all. Within twenty feet of the top some ingenious architect had planned a
perfect little house, divided into four rooms—as by drawing a cross within a
circle you will see might easily be done. By making skylights, and a few slits
in the walls for windows, and raising a peaked roof which was hidden by the
parapet, here was a dwelling complete, eighty feet from the ground, and as
inaccessible as a rook's nest on the top of a tree.
A charming place to live in! if you once got up
there,—and never wanted to come down again.
Inside—though nobody could have looked inside
except a bird, and hardly even a bird flew past that lonely tower—inside it was
furnished with all the comfort and elegance imaginable; with lots of books and
toys, and everything that the heart of a child could desire. For its only
inhabitant, except a nurse of course, was a poor solitary child.
One winter night, when all the plain was white
with moonlight, there was seen crossing it a great tall black horse, ridden by
a man also big and equally black, carrying before him on the saddle a woman and
a child. The woman—she had a sad, fierce look, and no wonder, for she was a
criminal under sentence of death, but her sentence had been changed to almost
as severe a punishment. She was to inhabit the lonely tower with the child, and
was allowed to live as long as the child lived—no longer. This in order that she
might take the utmost care of him; for those who put him there were equally
afraid of his dying and of his living.
Yet he was only a little gentle boy, with a sweet,
sleepy smile—he had been very tired with his long journey—and clinging arms,
which held tight to the man's neck, for he was rather frightened, and the face,
black as it was, looked kindly at him. And he was very helpless, with his poor,
small shriveled legs, which could neither stand nor run away—for the little
forlorn boy was Prince Dolor.
He had not been dead at all—or buried either. His
grand funeral had been a mere pretense: a wax figure having been put in his
place, while he himself was spirited away under charge of these two, the
condemned woman and the black man. The latter was deaf and dumb, so could
neither tell nor repeat anything.
When they reached the foot of the tower, there was
light enough to see a huge chain dangling from the parapet, but dangling only
halfway. The deaf-mute took from his saddle-wallet a sort of ladder, arranged
in pieces like a puzzle, fitted it together, and lifted it up to meet the
chain. Then he mounted to the top of the tower, and slung from it a sort of
chair, in which the woman and the child placed themselves and were drawn up,
never to come down again as long as they lived. Leaving them there, the man
descended the ladder, took it to pieces again and packed it in his pack,
mounted the horse and disappeared across the plain.
Every month they used to watch for him, appearing
like a speck in the distance. He fastened his horse to the foot of the tower,
and climbed it, as before, laden with provisions and many other things. He
always saw the Prince, so as to make sure that the child was alive and well,
and then went away until the following month.
While his first childhood lasted Prince Dolor was
happy enough. He had every luxury that even a prince could need, and the one
thing wanting,—love,—never having known, he did not miss. His nurse was very
kind to him though she was a wicked woman. But either she had not been quite so
wicked as people said, or she grew better through being shut up continually
with a little innocent child who was dependent upon her for every comfort and
pleasure of his life.
It was not an unhappy life. There was nobody to
tease or ill-use him, and he was never ill. He played about from room to
room—there were four rooms, parlor, kitchen, his nurse's bedroom, and his own;
learned to crawl like a fly, and to jump like a frog, and to run about on
all-fours almost as fast as a puppy. In fact, he was very much like a puppy or
a kitten, as thoughtless and as merry—scarcely ever cross, though sometimes a
little weary.
As he grew older, he occasionally liked to be
quiet for a while, and then he would sit at the slits of windows—which were, however,
much bigger than they looked from the bottom of the tower—and watch the sky
above and the ground below, with the storms sweeping over and the sunshine
coming and going, and the shadows of the clouds running races across the blank
plain.
By and by he began to learn lessons—not that his
nurse had been ordered to teach him, but she did it partly to amuse herself.
She was not a stupid woman, and Prince Dolor was by no means a stupid boy; so
they got on very well, and his continual entreaty, “What can I do? what can you
find me to do?” was stopped, at least for an hour or two in the day.
It was a dull life, but he had never known any
other; anyhow, he remembered no other, and he did not pity himself at all. Not
for a long time, till he grew quite a big little boy, and could read quite
easily. Then he suddenly took to books, which the deaf-mute brought him from
time to time—books which, not being acquainted with the literature of
Nomansland, I cannot describe, but no doubt they were very interesting; and
they informed him of everything in the outside world, and filled him with an
intense longing to see it.
From this time a change came over the boy. He
began to look sad and thin, and to shut himself up for hours without speaking.
For his nurse hardly spoke, and whatever questions he asked beyond their
ordinary daily life she never answered. She had, indeed, been forbidden, on
pain of death, to tell him anything about himself, who he was, or what he might
have been.
He knew he was Prince Dolor, because she always
addressed him as “My Prince” and “Your Royal Highness,” but what a prince was
he had not the least idea. He had no idea of anything in the world, except what
he found in his books.
He sat one day surrounded by them, having built
them up round him like a little castle wall. He had been reading them half the
day, but feeling all the while that to read about things which you never can
see is like hearing about a beautiful dinner while you are starving. For almost
the first time in his life he grew melancholy; his hands fell on his lap; he
sat gazing out of the window-slit upon the view outside—the view he had looked
at every day of his life, and might look at for endless days more.
Not a very cheerful view,—just the plain and the
sky,—but he liked it. He used to think, if he could only fly out of that
window, up to the sky or down to the plain, how nice it would be! Perhaps when
he died—his nurse had told him once in anger that he would never leave the
tower till he died—he might be able to do this. Not that he understood much
what dying meant, but it must be a change, and any change seemed to him a
blessing.
“And I wish I had somebody to tell me all about
it—about that and many other things; somebody that would be fond of me, like my
poor white kitten.”
Here the tears came into his eyes, for the boy's
one friend, the one interest of his life, had been a little white kitten, which
the deaf-mute, kindly smiling, once took out of his pocket and gave him—the
only living creature Prince Dolor had ever seen.
For four weeks it was his constant plaything and
companion, till one moonlight night it took a fancy for wandering, climbed on
to the parapet of the tower, dropped over and disappeared. It was not killed,
he hoped, for cats have nine lives; indeed, he almost fancied he saw it pick
itself up and scamper away; but he never caught sight of it more.
“Yes, I wish I had something better than a
kitten—a person, a real live person, who would be fond of me and kind to me.
Oh, I want somebody—dreadfully, dreadfully!”
As he spoke, there sounded behind him a slight
tap-tap-tap, as of a stick or a cane, and twisting himself round, he saw—what
do you think he saw?
Nothing either frightening or ugly, but still
exceedingly curious. A little woman, no bigger than he might himself have been
had his legs grown like those of other children; but she was not a child—she
was an old woman. Her hair was gray, and her dress was gray, and there was a
gray shadow over her wherever she moved. But she had the sweetest smile, the prettiest
hands, and when she spoke it was in the softest voice imaginable.
“My dear little boy,”—and dropping her cane, the
only bright and rich thing about her, she laid those two tiny hands on his
shoulders,—“my own little boy, I could not come to you until you had said you
wanted me; but now you do want me, here I am.”
“And you are very welcome, madam,” replied the
Prince, trying to speak politely, as princes always did in books; “and I am
exceedingly obliged to you. May I ask who you are? Perhaps my mother?” For he
knew that little boys usually had a mother, and had occasionally wondered what
had become of his own.
“No,” said the visitor, with a tender, half-sad
smile, putting back the hair from his forehead, and looking right into his
eyes—“no, I am not your mother, though she was a dear friend of mine; and you
are as like her as ever you can be.”
“Will you tell her to come and see me, then?”
“She cannot; but I dare say she knows all about
you. And she loves you very much—and so do I; and I want to help you all I can,
my poor little boy.”
“Why do you call me poor?” asked Prince Dolor, in
surprise.
The little old woman glanced down on his legs and
feet, which he did not know were different from those of other children, and
then at his sweet, bright face, which, though he knew not that either, was
exceedingly different from many children's faces, which are often so fretful,
cross, sullen. Looking at him, instead of sighing, she smiled. “I beg your
pardon, my Prince,” said she.
“Yes, I am a prince, and my name is Dolor; will
you tell me yours, madam?”
The little old woman laughed like a chime of
silver bells.
“I have not got a name—or, rather, I have so many
names that I don't know which to choose. However, it was I who gave you yours,
and you will belong to me all your days. I am your godmother.”
“Hurrah!” cried the little Prince; “I am glad I
belong to you, for I like you very much. Will you come and play with me?”
So they sat down together and played. By and by
they began to talk.
“Are you very dull here?” asked the little old
woman.
“Not particularly, thank you, godmother. I have
plenty to eat and drink, and my lessons to do, and my books to read—lots of
books.”
“And you want nothing?”
“Nothing. Yes—perhaps——If you please, godmother,
could you bring me just one more thing?”
“What sort of thing!”
“A little boy to play with.”
The old woman looked very sad. “Just the thing,
alas I which I cannot give you. My child, I cannot alter your lot in any way,
but I can help you to bear it.”
“Thank you. But why do you talk of bearing it? I
have nothing to bear.”
“My poor little man!” said the old woman in the
very tenderest tone of her tender voice. “Kiss me!”
“What is kissing?” asked the wondering child.
His godmother took him in her arms and embraced
him many times. By and by he kissed her back again—at first awkwardly and
shyly, then with all the strength of his warm little heart.
“You are better to cuddle than even my white
kitten, I think. Promise me that you will never go away.”
“I must; but I will leave a present behind
me,—something as good as myself to amuse you,—something that will take you
wherever you want to go, and show you all that you wish to see.”
“What is it?”
“A traveling-cloak.”
The Prince's countenance fell. “I don't want a
cloak, for I never go out. Sometimes nurse hoists me on to the roof, and
carries me round by the parapet; but that is all. I can't walk, you know, as
she does.”
“The more reason why you should ride; and besides,
this traveling-cloak——”
“Hush!—she's coming.”
There sounded outside the room door a heavy step
and a grumpy voice, and a rattle of plates and dishes.
“It's my nurse, and she is bringing my dinner; but
I don't want dinner at all—I only want you. Will her coming drive you away,
godmother?”
“Perhaps; but only for a little while. Never mind;
all the bolts and bars in the world couldn't keep me out. I'd fly in at the
window, or down through the chimney. Only wish for me, and I come.”
“Thank you,” said Prince Dolor, but almost in a
whisper, for he was very uneasy at what might happen next. His nurse and his
godmother—what would they say to one another? how would they look at one
another?—two such different faces: one harsh-lined, sullen, cross, and sad; the
other sweet and bright and calm as a summer evening before the dark begins.
When the door was flung open, Prince Dolor shut
his eyes, trembling all over; opening them again, he saw he need fear
nothing—his lovely old godmother had melted away just like the rainbow out of
the sky, as he had watched it many a time. Nobody but his nurse was in the
room.
“What a muddle your Royal Highness is sitting in,”
said she sharply. “Such a heap of untidy books; and what's this rubbish?”
knocking a little bundle that lay beside them.
“Oh, nothing, nothing—give it me!” cried the
Prince, and, darting after it, he hid it under his pinafore, and then pushed it
quickly into his pocket. Rubbish as it was, it was left in the place where she
sat, and might be something belonging to her—his dear, kind godmother, whom
already he loved with all his lonely, tender, passionate heart.
It was, though he did not know this, his wonderful
traveling-cloak.
CHAPTER IV
And what of the traveling-cloak? What sort of
cloak was it, and what A good did it do the Prince?
Stay, and I'll tell you all about it. Outside it
was the commonest-looking bundle imaginable—shabby and small; and the instant
Prince Dolor touched it, it grew smaller still, dwindling down till he could
put it in his trousers pocket, like a handkerchief rolled up into a ball. He
did this at once, for fear his nurse should see it, and kept it there all
day—all night, too. Till after his next morning's lessons he had no opportunity
of examining his treasure.
When he did, it seemed no treasure at all; but a
mere piece of cloth—circular in form, dark green in color—that is, if it had
any color at all, being so worn and shabby, though not dirty. It had a split
cut to the center, forming a round hole for the neck—and that was all its
shape; the shape, in fact, of those cloaks which in South America are called
ponchos—very simple, but most graceful and convenient.
Prince Dolor had never seen anything like it. In
spite of his disappointment, he examined it curiously; spread it out on the
door, then arranged it on his shoulders. It felt very warm and comfortable; but
it was so exceedingly shabby—the only shabby thing that the Prince had ever
seen in his life.
“And what use will it be to me?” said he sadly. “I
have no need of outdoor clothes, as I never go out. Why was this given me, I
wonder? and what in the world am I to do with it? She must be a rather funny
person, this dear godmother of mine.”
Nevertheless, because she was his godmother, and
had given him the cloak, he folded it carefully and put it away, poor and
shabby as it was, hiding it in a safe corner of his top cupboard, which his
nurse never meddled with. He did not want her to find it, or to laugh at it or
at his godmother—as he felt sure she would, if she knew all.
There it lay, and by and by he forgot all about
it; nay, I am sorry to say that, being but a child, and not seeing her again,
he almost forgot his sweet old godmother, or thought of her only as he did of
the angels or fairies that he read of in his books, and of her visit as if it
had been a mere dream of the night.
There were times, certainly, when he recalled her:
of early mornings, like that morning when she appeared beside him, and late
evenings, when the gray twilight reminded him of the color of her hair and her
pretty soft garments; above all, when, waking in the middle of the night, with
the stars peering in at his window, or the moonlight shining across his little
bed, he would not have been surprised to see her standing beside it, looking at
him with those beautiful tender eyes, which seemed to have a pleasantness and
comfort in them different from anything he had ever known.
But she never came, and gradually she slipped out
of his memory—only a boy's memory, after all; until something happened which
made him remember her, and want her as he had never wanted anything before.
Prince Dolor fell ill. He caught—his nurse could
not tell how—a complaint common to the people of Nomansland, called the
doldrums, as unpleasant as measles or any other of our complaints; and it made
him restless, cross, and disagreeable. Even when a little better, he was too
weak to enjoy anything, but lay all day long on his sofa, fidgeting his nurse
extremely—while, in her intense terror lest he might die, she fidgeted him
still more. At last, seeing he really was getting well, she left him to
himself—which he was most glad of, in spite of his dullness and dreariness.
There he lay, alone, quite alone.
Now and then an irritable fit came over him, in
which he longed to get up and do something, or to go somewhere—would have liked
to imitate his white kitten—jump down from the tower and run away, taking the
chance of whatever might happen.
Only one thing, alas! was likely to happen; for
the kitten, he remembered, had four active legs, while he——
“I wonder what my godmother meant when she looked
at my legs and sighed so bitterly? I wonder why I can't walk straight and
steady like my nurse only I wouldn't like to have her great, noisy, clumping
shoes. Still it would be very nice to move about quickly—perhaps to fly, like a
bird, like that string of birds I saw the other day skimming across the sky,
one after the other.”
These were the passage-birds—the only living
creatures that ever crossed the lonely plain; and he had been much interested
in them, wonder-ing whence they came and whither they were going.
“How nice it must be to be a bird! If legs are no
good, why cannot one have wings? People have wings when they die—perhaps; I
wish I were dead, that I do. I am so tired, so tired; and nobody cares for me.
Nobody ever did care for me, except perhaps my godmother. Godmother, dear, have
you quite forsaken me?”
He stretched himself wearily, gathered himself up,
and dropped his head upon his hands; as he did so, he felt somebody kiss him at
the back of his neck, and, turning, found that he was resting, not on the sofa
pillows, but on a warm shoulder—that of the little old woman clothed in gray.
How glad he was to see her! How he looked into her
kind eyes and felt her hands, to see if she were all real and alive! then put
both his arms round her neck, and kissed her as if he would never have done
kissing.
“Stop, stop!” cried she, pretending to be
smothered. “I see you have not forgotten my teachings. Kissing is a good
thing—in moderation. Only just let me have breath to speak one word.”
“A dozen!” he said.
“Well, then, tell me all that has happened to you
since I saw you—or, rather, since you saw me, which is quite a different
thing.”
“Nothing has happened—nothing ever does happen to
me,” answered the Prince dolefully.
“And are you very dull, my boy?”
“So dull that I was just thinking whether I could
not jump down to the bottom of the tower, like my white kitten.”
“Don't do that, not being a white kitten.”
“I wish I were—I wish I were anything but what I
am.”
“And you can't make yourself any different, nor
can I do it either. You must be content to stay just what you are.”
The little old woman said this—very firmly, but
gently, too—with her arms round his neck and her lips on his forehead. It was
the first time the boy had ever heard any one talk like this, and he looked up
in surprise—but not in pain, for her sweet manner softened the hardness of her
words.
“Now, my Prince,—for you are a prince, and must
behave as such,—let us see what we can do; how much I can do for you, or show
you how to do for yourself. Where is your traveling-cloak?”
Prince Dolor blushed extremely. “I—I put it away in
the cupboard; I suppose it is there still.”
“You have never used it; you dislike it?”
He hesitated, no; wishing to be impolite. “Don't
you think it's—just a little old and shabby for a prince?”
The old woman laughed—long and loud, though very
sweetly.
“Prince, indeed! Why, if all the princes in the
world craved for it, they couldn't get it, unless I gave it them. Old and
shabby! It's the most valuable thing imaginable! Very few ever have it; but I
thought I would give it to you, because—because you are different from other
people.”
“Am I?” said the Prince, and looked first with
curiosity, then with a sort of anxiety, into his godmother's face, which was
sad and grave, with slow tears beginning to steal down.
She touched his poor little legs. “These are not
like those of other little boys.”
“Indeed!—my nurse never told me that.”
“Very likely not. But it is time you were told;
and I tell you, because I love you.”
“Tell me what, dear godmother?”
“That you will never be able to walk or run or
jump or play—that your life will be quite different from most people's lives;
but it may be a very happy life for all that. Do not be afraid.”
“I am not afraid,” said the boy; but he turned
very pale, and his lips began to quiver, though he did not actually cry—he was
too old for that, and, perhaps, too proud.
Though not wholly comprehending, he began dimly to
guess what his godmother meant. He had never seen any real live boys, but he
had seen pictures of them running and jumping; which he had admired and tried hard
to imitate but always failed. Now he began to understand why he failed, and
that he always should fail—that, in fact, he was not like other little boys;
and it was of no use his wishing to do as they did, and play as they played,
even if he had had them to play with. His was a separate life, in which he must
find out new work and new pleasures for himself.
The sense of THE INEVITABLE, as grown-up people
call it—that we cannot have things as we want them to be, but as they are, and
that we must learn to bear them and make the best of them—this lesson, which
everybody has to learn soon or late—came, alas! sadly soon, to the poor boy. He
fought against it for a while, and then, quite overcome, turned and sobbed
bitterly in his godmother's arms.
She comforted him—I do not know how, except that
love always comforts; and then she whispered to him, in her sweet, strong,
cheerful voice: “Never mind!”
“No, I don't think I do mind—that is, I WON'T
mind,” replied he, catching the courage of her tone and speaking like a man,
though he was still such a mere boy.
“That is right, my Prince!—that is being like a
prince. Now we know exactly where we are; let us put our shoulders to the wheel
and——”
“We are in Hopeless Tower” (this was its name, if
it had a name), “and there is no wheel to put our shoulders to,” said the child
sadly.
“You little matter-of-fact goose! Well for you
that you have a godmother called——”
“What?” he eagerly asked.
“Stuff-and-nonsense.”
“Stuff-and-nonsense! What a funny name!”
“Some people give it me, but they are not my most
intimate friends. These call me—never mind what,” added the old woman, with a
soft twinkle in her eyes. “So as you know me, and know me well, you may give me
any name you please; it doesn't matter. But I am your godmother, child. I have
few godchildren; those I have love me dearly, and find me the greatest blessing
in all the world.”
“I can well believe it,” cried the little lame
Prince, and forgot his troubles in looking at her—as her figure dilated, her
eyes grew lustrous as stars, her very raiment brightened, and the whole room
seemed filled with her beautiful and beneficent presence like light.
He could have looked at her forever—half in love,
half in awe; but she suddenly dwindled down into the little old woman all in
gray, and, with a malicious twinkle in her eyes, asked for the traveling-cloak.
“Bring it out of the rubbish cupboard, and shake
the dust off it, quick!” said she to Prince Dolor, who hung his head, rather
ashamed. “Spread it out on the floor, and wait till the split closes and the
edges turn up like a rim all round. Then go and open the skylight,—mind, I say
OPEN THE SKYLIGHT,—set yourself down in the middle of it, like a frog on a
water-lily leaf; say 'Abracadabra, dum dum dum,' and—see what will happen!”
The Prince burst into a fit of laughing. It all
seemed so exceedingly silly; he wondered that a wise old woman like his
godmother should talk such nonsense.
“Stuff-and-nonsense, you mean,” said she,
answering, to his great alarm, his unspoken thoughts. “Did I not tell you some
people called me by that name? Never mind; it doesn't harm me.”
And she laughed—her merry laugh—as child-like as
if she were the Prince's age instead of her own, whatever that might be. She
certainly was a most extraordinary old woman.
“Believe me or not, it doesn't matter,” said she.
“Here is the cloak: when you want to go traveling on it, say 'Abracadabra, dum,
dum, dum'; when you want to come back again, say 'Abracadabra, tum tum ti.'
That's all; good-by.”
A puff of most pleasant air passing by him, and
making him feel for the moment quite strong and well, was all the Prince was
conscious of. His most extraordinary godmother was gone.
“Really now, how rosy your Royal Highness' cheeks
have grown! You seem to have got well already,” said the nurse, entering the
room.
“I think I have,” replied the Prince very
gently—he felt gently and kindly even to his grim nurse. “And now let me have
my dinner, and go you to your sewing as usual.”
The instant she was gone, however, taking with her
the plates and dishes, which for the first time since his illness he had
satisfactorily cleared, Prince Dolor sprang down from his sofa, and with one or
two of his frog-like jumps reached the cupboard where he kept his toys, and
looked everywhere for his traveling-cloak.
Alas! it was not there.
While he was ill of the doldrums, his nurse,
thinking it a good opportunity for putting things to rights, had made a grand
clearance of all his “rubbish”—as she considered it: his beloved headless horses,
broken carts, sheep without feet, and birds without wings—all the treasures of
his baby days, which he could not bear to part with. Though he seldom played
with them now, he liked just to feel they were there.
They were all gone and with them the traveling-cloak.
He sat down on the floor, looking at the empty shelves, so beautifully clean
and tidy, then burst out sobbing as if his heart would break.
But quietly—always quietly. He never let his nurse
hear him cry. She only laughed at him, as he felt she would laugh now.
“And it is all my own fault!” he cried. “I ought
to have taken better care of my godmother's gift. Oh, godmother, forgive me!
I'll never be so careless again. I don't know what the cloak is exactly, but I
am sure it is something precious. Help me to find it again. Oh, don't let it be
stolen from me—don't, please!”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed a silvery voice. “Why, that
traveling-cloak is the one thing in the world which nobody can steal. It is of
no use to anybody except the owner. Open your eyes, my Prince, and see what you
shall see.”
His dear old godmother, he thought, and turned
eagerly round. But no; he only beheld, lying in a corner of the room, all dust
and cobwebs, his precious traveling-cloak.
Prince Dolor darted toward it, tumbling several
times on the way, as he often did tumble, poor boy! and pick himself up again,
never complaining. Snatching it to his breast, he hugged and kissed it, cobwebs
and all, as if it had been something alive. Then he began unrolling it,
wondering each minute what would happen. What did happen was so curious that I
must leave it for another chapter.
