"No more could I," said I.

He was going to say something more, but just then a man came in from the street. Directly he spotted the kid, he rushed up to him.

"Why, it is Tommy," said he.

Tommy put on a grin, and dug his hands into his pockets. "I've got a knife," said he, "of my very own."

"Are you the young gentleman who left the message at Waterloo?" said the man. "Why, the letter I got said the train got in at 8 a.m., not 8 p.m. You don't know what a turn it gave me to go down there this morning and not see him. Have you had him here all night?"

"Rather," said I.

"Daddy, there's an ugly man came to this house. I can see him now, with a red nose. Look there!"

"I hope he's been a good boy," said the proud father. "I'm sure I'm much obliged. I'm afraid he's been a trouble to you. I've got a cab here. My word, I'm glad I've got you safe, Tommy, my boy. Come, say good-bye to the kind gentleman."

"He was naughty, and spilt the water on the floor. He must be whipped— ha, ha!" observed Tommy, by way of farewell.

He didn't seem to care twopence about leaving me, and chucked me up for his governor as if I'd been a railway porter. However, I can tell you I was glad to see the back of him, and didn't envy his governor a little bit.

Of course, I'd lost my first train home, and had to wait till mid-day, to endure the scowls of the hotel man, and the frowns of all the people who had been kept awake by the kid's row. Among others there was the professor.

"Well," said he, "what sort of night did baby have?"

"Middling," said I.

"I expected it would be middling," said he.

Now, Jossy, you know what I mean by "'Ware kids." Keep all this mum, whatever you do. I wouldn't have any of the fellows hear about it for the world. I can tell you, I feel as if I deserve a week's holiday longer than the rest of you. Never you utter the words "Three Bears" in my hearing, or there'll be a row.

Yours truly, Gus. Cutaway.



CHAPTER FIVE.

SIGURD THE HERO.

Sub-Chapter I.

THE TOWER OF THE NORTH-WEST WIND.

On the rugged shore of the Northern Sea, where the summer sun never sets, there stood long ago a grim bleak fortress, called the Tower of the North-West Wind. Before it stretched the sea, which thundered ceaselessly at its base, like a wolf that gnaws at the root of some noble oak. On either side of it glittered the blue fiord, dotted with numberless islets, throwing its long arms far inland. Behind it frowned a dense forest of pines as far as eye could reach, in which the wind roared day and night, mingled often with the angry howls of the wolves.

The Tower of the North-West Wind stood there, the solitary work of man in all that wild landscape. Not a sign of life was to be seen besides. Not even a fisherman's hut on the shores of the fiord, or a woodman's shed among the trees. The stranger might easily have taken the rugged pile itself for a part of the black cliff on which it stood. No road seemed to lead up to it, no banner floated from its walls, no trumpet startled the sea-birds that lodged amongst its turrets.

Yet the old castle was not the deserted place it looked, for here dwelt Sigurd, the mightiest hero of all that land, brother to Ulf, the king.

Men hated Ulf as much as they loved his brother; for Sigurd, with all his prowess, was just and generous, and lied to no man.

"If Sigurd were but king," said they one to the other, "our land would be the happiest the sun shines upon. As it is, Ulf makes us wretched. We had rather be his enemies than his friends."

But though they said this one to another, Sigurd listened to none of it, and when they urged him to rebel, he sternly bade them hold their peace. And he went forth and fought the battles of the king, his brother, and they followed him, wishing only the battle-cry were "Sigurd!" and not "Ulf!"

For all this loyalty the king gave his brother little thanks. Indeed, as victory followed victory, and Sigurd's fame rose higher and higher, Ulf's heart swelled with jealousy, and jealousy presently grew to hate. For it was not in Ulf's nature to endure that another should be held greater than himself. So, instead of rewarding his brother for his service, he accused him and degraded him, and made another general in his place.

"Now," said the soldiers, "our chief will surely rebel, and we will follow his lead, and pluck down Ulf from the throne and set up our Sigurd."

But Sigurd sternly silenced them, and bade them serve their king as they feared him. He meanwhile departed sadly from his brother's court, and came and dwelt alone in his Tower of the North-West Wind.

For many weeks the time passed slowly, as Sigurd brooded over his wrongs and pined in idleness.

Yet this grieved him less than the secret visits of not a few of his old comrades, who had deserted Ulf, and now came begging him to lead them forth and rid the land of a tyrant. He sent them each sternly away, bidding them, on pain of his anger, return to their duty and serve the king; and they durst not disobey.

So passed many a weary month in the Tower of the North-West Wind, when one bright summer day a little fleet of English ships sailed gaily up the fiord under the castle walls.

Sigurd joyfully bade the voyagers welcome to his castle, for the chief of the little band was Raedwald, an English king, whom Sigurd himself only two years before had visited in his own land. There, too, he had met not Raedwald only, but Raedwald's beautiful daughter, who now, with her gay train of attendants, accompanied her father on this visit to his friend and comrade.

And now the days passed gaily and only too swiftly for the happy Sigurd. In the company of Raedwald and amid the smiles of the ladies, Ulf was forgotten, and all the wrongs of the past vanished. The Tower of the North-west Wind was no longer a gloomy fortress, but a gay palace, and, like the summer day in the northern heavens, the sun of Sigurd's content knew no setting.

Before the day of Raedwald's departure arrived a wedding had taken place in the chapel of the good old Tower, and the English king, as he hauled his anchors and set his sails westward, knew not whether to mourn over the daughter he had given up or to rejoice over the son he had gained.

As for Sigurd, he could do nothing but rejoice, and some who saw him and heard him laugh said, smiling—

"The queen his wife is a fairer sweetheart than was the king his brother. Ulf and our country and all of us are forgotten in the smiles of this little English maiden."

But three days after Raedwald had sailed a storm broke over the Tower of the North-West Wind. The summer sea lashed furiously against the rocks, and far up the fiord the angry breakers rushed in, so that no boat could live upon their surface for an hour.

That night as Sigurd sat heedless of the hurricane without and feasted with his lords and ladies, they came and told him that a raft had been driven ashore at the foot of the castle, with a man upon it half dead. Sigurd bade them instantly bring him to the castle, and give him fire and clothing and food, to revive him in his unhappy plight.

This they did, and presently came to the hero with the hews that the man lived and desired to speak with his deliverer. So Sigurd ordered him to be brought up. And as the tempest raged without, his heart rejoiced to know that one man at least had been saved from its ravages.

The man was of the common order, and though clothed in a rough woodman's suit it was plain to see he was a soldier.

He fell at the feet of the prince and poured forth his thanks for the shelter given him that night.

"And who art thou?" asked Sigurd, to whom such thanks were never welcome.

"I am a servant of King Ulf thy brother."

At the mention of the king's name the faces of those present fell, and Sigurd asked, sternly—

"And what is thy errand here?"

"I was sent," said the man, "with two others, to spy into your state here. The king has heard of your merrymakings and of your alliance with the English king. He bade us see how you were armed and how prepared for a sudden assault, and then return secretly and report it to him."

"And is it thus you perform your errand?" cried Sigurd. "Where are thy companions?"

"Drowned, my liege, in the fiord, as I had been but for your gracious help."

"And when is the king coming to assault this tower?" demanded an English noble who sat near.

"Never," said the man, shortly.

"And why?" asked Sigurd.

"Oh, my liege," said the man, dropping once more on his knees, "please Heaven, in a week's time there will be no king in all this land but Sigurd."

The hero started from his seat and seized the man roughly.

"What is it you say?" he cried. "Speak out, and that plainly, or it will be worse for you!"

"On this day week," said the trembling serf, "Ulf is to visit his castle of Niflheim. He goes there alone, as you, my liege, came hither, to receive his bride. But he will never return the way he came, for Bur and Harald, your friends, my prince, have vowed to slay him there, and at one blow rid the land of a tyrant and give it a just and good king."

When Sigurd heard this he turned white and red with wrath and fear. Fiercely he summoned his guards, and bade them seize the spy and cast him into the dungeon.

Then, as soon as words came, he turned to the company and said—

"You hear what this knave says?"

"Yes, we hear," cried some, "and we rejoice that Sigurd's day has come at last. Long live King Sigurd!"

Then Sigurd struck the table with his fist as he started to his feet and glared at the rash companions.

"Villains!" he shouted, with a voice that made the room itself tremble. "Yes, Sigurd's day has come—the day for teaching cowards like you the duty of a knight and a brother. Ulf, at his bridal, unarmed, slain by traitors' hands. Is that the chivalry ye praise? If so, begone from my sight and reach of this arm! But 'tis no time for talk. Without there, my arms! and saddle my horse!"

"What means this!" cried all. "Where go you, Sigurd?"

"I go to my brother," he said.

"Your brother! Ulf is eight days' sail from here!"

"'Tis but five days across the forest," said the hero.

At this the ladies shrieked, and all looked on Sigurd as a man that is mad.

"The forest, said you?" cried one. "It swarms with wolves, Sigurd, and where the wolves are not, the robbers lurk."

Sigurd smiled scornfully. "It is wolves and robbers I go to seek," he said.

"If thou wilt go," they said then, "we will go with thee."

"No!" cried Sigurd. "I go alone. Let him who loves me remain here and guard my lady. I can trust you to be true to a lady—but ye have yet to learn to be loyal to a prince."

At this many hung their heads and were silent.

Sigurd meanwhile put on his armour, and turned hurriedly to bid farewell to his wife. The hero's voice trembled as he prayed Heaven to guard over her.

They all accompanied him to the courtyard, where, quickly mounting, he departed, and rode slowly forward into the forest.

Sigurd rode slowly forward into the forest, and as he entered it he turned for one last look at the brave old castle which held within its walls the joy of his life—and a soft voice at his ear whispered "Return!"

Yet he halted not, nor did his courage waver, for another voice, louder than the other, cried "Onward!" It seemed like his brother's voice, as he had known it years ago, before troubles came, and when as merry boys the two lived with but one heart between them. And at the sound he put spurs to his horse and plunged into the wood.

Gloomy indeed was this forest of lonely pines, which rocked and groaned in the wind, and in which a dim twilight deepening often into black darkness reigned on every hand. And gloomier still were those distant cries which rose ever and again above the tempest, and caused even the brave horse to shiver as he heard them.

But Sigurd shivered not, but rode forward, trusting in his God and listening only to that old-remembered voice ahead.

For a league the road was easy and the perils few. For thus far the woodman's axe had often fallen amidst the thick underwood, clearing a path among the trees and driving before it the sullen wolves into the deeper recesses of the forest.

But as Sigurd rode on, and the boughs overhead closed in between him and the light of day, these few traces of man's hand vanished.

His good horse stumbled painfully over the tangled ground, often hardly finding himself a path among the dense trunks. And all around, those wild yells which had mingled with the tempest seemed to draw closer, as though eagerly awaiting the horse and its rider somewhere not far off.

Sigurd heeded them not, but cheered himself as he rode on by calling to mind some of the beautiful stories of the old religion of his land. He thought of the elves and fairies who were said to dwell in these very forests, and at midnight to creep up from their hiding-places and gambol and play tricks among the flowers and dewdrops with the wild bees and the summer insects, or dance in magic circles on the greensward. And it did his heart good to feel he was not alone, but that these merry little companions were with him, lightening his way and guiding his course all the night through. And he thought too of luckless dwarfs whom Odin had condemned to dig and delve all day deep in the ground, and throw fuel on the great central fire of the earth, but who at night, like the fairies, might come above and revisit then old haunts. And even these mischievous little companions helped to cheer the heart of the wayfarer and beguile his journey.

And so he plodded on all through the night, resolutely plunging deeper and deeper into the forest, and leaving the Tower of the Norths Waistcoat Wind league after league farther behind.

The day passed as the night had passed. Save for an occasional halt to rest his horse and refresh his body with food, nothing broke the dullness of the journey. The wolves alone were silent, waiting for the night. As the afternoon wore on Sigurd could see their gaunt forms skulking among the trees, casting many a hungry sidelong glance that way, and licking their cruel jaws as foretaste of the wished-for meal.

And now Sigurd needed to stop his ears closer than ever against the voice which cried "Return!" and set his face still more steadfastly towards Niflheim. For though his heart never faltered, his spirits drooped as another night closed in, and weary and oppressed he pushed onward.

The fairies no longer cheered him, nor could he smile again at the antics of the dwarfs. The soft voice of one behind was all he heard, and the music of its tones was sad. The voice before still cried "Onward," but it mingled dismally with the storm overhead and the wild and ever-increasing howling of the wolves. The horse, too, seemed to share his master's trouble, for he stumbled forward spiritlessly, hanging his head and trembling at each approaching howl.

Nearer and nearer those cruel voices closed in around him, not one but half a score. Stealthily at first they dogged their prey. Then, gaining boldness, advanced, and pressed more closely on the heels of the horse. Sigurd, as he glanced quickly round, saw a score of cruel eyes flash out in the darkness, and almost felt the hot breath in his face.

One bolder than the rest made an angry snap at the horse's heel. The unhappy animal, who long ere this had lost his wonted nerve, made a sudden bound forward, which almost unhorsed his rider. The sudden movement was the signal for the pack to leap forward with wild yells, and next moment Sigurd and his gallant horse were fighting for dear life.

Desperately fought Sigurd, swinging his trusty axe right and left, and carrying at each stroke death among his savage assailants.

At length the horse, beset on all sides, exhausted, wounded, dropped to the ground, unable longer to hold out. With a cry of savage triumph the wolves leapt upon him in a hideous, howling, struggling mass. Sigurd, scarcely gaining his feet after the fall, started forward alone. For the horse that was dead was more to the wolves than the hero who yet lived. And over the carcass they jostled and fought, and screamed ravenously, till nought remained to fight for.

Sigurd knew well, as he hastened forward, axe in hand and sword in belt—his spear had broken off short—that the respite was but short. A few minutes and the pack would be once more on the trail, and then it would be his turn. Yet he prayed his God to send him help and bring him through the peril.

He hurried on, yet slowly, by reason of the tangled paths and dense underwood of the forest, listening to the angry tumult behind and wondering how long before the hue and cry began once more.

It was not long. Scarcely had he forced his way a half-mile when he could hear the pack following. Onward they came at a rush with hideous tumult, and Sigurd knew that the foremost would be upon him in a moment. He strode on, casting a glance back at every step, and gripping fast his trusty axe. Presently, just as he reached a small clearing among the trees, the brushwood behind him crackled, and a pair of eyes gleamed close at hand.

Then Sigurd turned, and putting his back against a broad tree, waited.

On they came, half sated, doubly savage with the taste of blood on their jaws.

Desperately once more fought Sigurd, swinging his axe right and left and dealing death at every blow, till he stood surrounded by a half-circle of dead or dying wolves.

Sigurd fought till he could scarce stand or wield his axe. Many a cruel wound weakened him, his eyes grew dim, his hand unsteady, his blows uncertain. He could do no more. The axe fell from his grasp, and he reeled back.

As he did so there rose, loud above the wind and above the howling of the wolves, a cry which caused Sigurd to start once more to his feet, and the wild beasts to pause midway in their mortal onslaught.

It was the deep-mouthed voice of a dog, and next moment a huge mastiff dashed from out of the thicket and fastened on the throat of the foremost wolf.

It was Sigurd's own watch-dog Thor, whom some dear hand had loosed from his chain and sent forth into the forest to guard and maybe save his master.

At the sight of the great champion, and at sound of his bark, the cowardly wolves one by one slunk sullenly back into the woods, and Sigurd felt that he was saved.

A joyous meeting was that between gallant master and gallant hound.

"Thor, my brave dog," cried Sigurd, "is it to thee, then, I owe my life—my brother's life? Yet not to thee so much as to the fair lady who sent thee, a messenger of love and life to me. Thanks, Thor, thanks lady, thank most to God. Now shall I reach Niflheim even yet."

Thor wagged his great tail and barked joyfully in answer.

All that night Sigurd lay secure, watched over by the sleepless Thor, whose honest bark was the sweetest music that ever lulled a hero to repose.

For two days Sigurd trudged safely onward through that dense forest, with Thor, the dog, beside him. The way was hard and painful, and the hero's limbs, now his only support, crashed wearily through the thickets. But, faint and weary though he was, his bold heart and the thought of his brother carried him through.

Four days had come and gone since he quitted the Tower of the North-West Wind, and in three more Ulf would either be saved or slain. Sigurd, as he thought of it, strode sternly forward and shut his ears to all the backward voices.

And, with Thor at his side, all danger from the wolves seemed at an end. As the two pressed on many a distant how! fell on their ears, many a gaunt form stole out from among the trees to gaze at them, and then steal back. Thor's honest bark carried panic among those cruel hordes, while it comforted the heart of Sigurd.

For two days, without sleep, without rest, without proper food, the hero walked on, till, on the fifth morning after quitting his castle, the light broke in among the trees, the woodman's cheerful axe resounded through the glades, the angry howling sounded far behind, and Sigurd knew he was on the other side of the forest.

In one day he would reach Jockjen, and scarce two hours' march beyond Jockjen lay Niflheim.

Thor seemed to guess his master's mind, and with a hopeful bark bounded forward. But Sigurd regarded his companion sadly and doubtfully. He called him to him, caressed him lovingly, and said—

"Good Thor, thou hast been like a messenger from God to bring me through this wood. Alas! that we must part."

Thor stopped short as he heard these last words, and moaned piteously.

"Yes, good Thor," said the hero, sadly, "for I cannot live another day without sending a message to my lady that I am safe, thanks to her and thee."

The dog, who seemed to understand it all, looked up in his master's face beseechingly, as if to persuade him against his resolve.

"The danger now is past," said Sigurd. "No wolves haunt the forest betwixt here and Jockjen, and in the town thy presence may discover me. So haste back, good Thor, to my lady with this my message."

So saying he took from the ground a smooth strip of bark, on which, with the point of his sword, he wrote something. Then, turning to Thor, "Carry this," he said, "to her."

And as Thor turned and hastened off on his errand, Sigurd looked after him and sighed, and wished he too were going that way.

But time forbade that he should linger long thus, and once more he turned his face resolutely towards Jockjen and went on alone.

Although the forest stretched some leagues farther, the trees were no longer dense or the path difficult. In parts large clearings had been made, and felled timber here and there betokened the busy hand of the woodman. Sigurd met more than one of these, who accosted him. He would not, however, tarry with any of them, but pressed eagerly forward, so that they would turn and look after this noble knight and wonder who he was, and whither he hasted.

One of these simple folk with whom he waited a few minutes to partake of a hasty meal said, at parting—

"Beware, my lord, of the robbers who haunt the skirts of the forest. They come suddenly upon the unwary traveller, and have no pity."

Sigurd smiled.

"I have passed the four-footed wolves," he said; "I fear not the two- footed."

"Nay, but," said the peasant, "they are not to be despised. Ever since Sigurd was banished many of his soldiers have deserted the king, and now live the robber's life in these woods. Stay here, my lord, till a band of us will be going to Jockjen together."

But Sigurd smiled scornfully, and, thanking the man, started forward, fearing nothing save arriving too late at Niflheim.

Yet the woodman's warning was not lost upon him, for he walked with his drawn sword in his hand, keeping both his eyes and ears open as he went.

All that day he pressed onward, and towards evening came to a lonely part of the wood, where the trees for a short space all round closed thickly overhead and shut out the light. He had passed through this spot, and was once more emerging into the open, when three men suddenly sprang out of the thicket and faced him.

Two of them were in the garb of common peasants, and carried, the one a club, the other a knife. Sigurd guessed them at once to be two of the robbers of whom the woodman had warned him. Their companion was a powerful man in the dress of a soldier, and carried a sword. In him, though he knew not the man, Sigurd recognised a soldier of the army of the king, who, as he might guess, had deserted his lawful calling for the life of a bandit.

The party was plainly unprepared to meet a knight fully armed. They had expected rather to find some defenceless merchant, or even woodman, whom they might easily overcome and as easily rob.

They fell back an instant before the noble form of Sigurd, but the next, true to their calling, rushed upon him, shouting to him to surrender and yield up whatever of value he might possess on his person.

Sigurd wasted not a word in replying to this insolent challenge, but defended himself against the sudden assault. At the first onslaught the two bandits were foremost, who thought to bear him down by sheer weight. But Sigurd, stepping back a pace, caught the knife of the one on his shield, while with his own sword he ran his comrade through the body. So quickly was it done, that the soldier, advancing wildly to the attack, stumbled and fell over the body of the prostrate man; and before he could rise again to his feet, a second thrust from Sigurd's sword had laid low the other bandit beside his comrade.

The soldier, therefore, was the only adversary that remained, and of him Sigurd thought to make short work; but in this he judged wrongly, for this robber proved to be a man of extraordinary strength and agility, while Sigurd himself was faint and jaded with his long and painful march.

For an hour that afternoon the woods resounded with the clash of swords. The two men spoke not a word, but fought with teeth set and lips closed. Once and again, by common consent, they halted, leaning on their swords for breath, but as often closed again more furiously than ever. It surprised Sigurd to find an adversary so resolute and dextrous. At another time it might have pleased him, for he loved courage even in an adversary; but now, when every hour lost meant peril to Ulf, his bosom swelled with wrath and disappointment. By force of superior weight he drove his adversary back inch by inch, till at the end of an hour the two stood some yards distant from the spot where the fight began.

Yet, though falling back, the soldier kept a bold guard, and while not inflicting any wound on his enemy, was able to ward off all blows aimed at himself.

At length, when for a moment Sigurd seemed to flag in the combat, the man gathered himself together for one mighty stroke at the hero's head. It fell like a thunderbolt but Sigurd saw it in time and caught it on his uplifted sword, and with such force that the soldier's weapon broke in two, and he himself, overbalanced by the shock, fell backwards to the ground.

Then Sigurd, with a glance of triumph, planted his foot on the body of his prostrate foe, and prepared to avenge the delay of that hour's combat.

The man neither struggled nor called for mercy, but looked boldly up in his victor's face and awaited death with a smile.

The sword of Sigurd did not descend. Some passing memory, perchance, or some soft voice breathing mercy, held it back. He drew back his foot, and sheathing his weapon, said—

"Keep thy life, and return and serve the king thy master."

The man lay for a moment as one bewildered, then springing to his feet, and casting from him his broken sword, he knelt and cried—

"Oh, merciful knight, to thee I owe my life, and it is thee I will serve to the world's end!"

"Peace!" said Sigurd, sternly; "this is no time for parley. I must be in Jockjen this night. Follow me if thou wilt thus far."

And with that he began to stride once more forward with rapid steps, followed closely by his late adversary.

Sigurd uttered not a word, but walked with sword drawn as before, fearing nothing save to arrive too late at Niflheim.

Once, as they neared Jockjen, two other robbers rushed out from the woods as if to attack him, but when they perceived the stalwart champion who followed hasten forward and place himself beside the traveller, they refrained, and departed suddenly the way they came.

And now they were come at last to Jockjen. But when Sigurd made as though he would enter the town, his follower hastened to overtake him, and said—

"My knight, avoid this town, for Ulf, the king, is here, and has commanded that no stranger enter it."

"Is Ulf here?" inquired Sigurd. "They told me he was at Niflheim."

The man looked strangely at him.

"My lord," said he, "you know what only a few know. Ulf is to be at Niflheim."

"When?" demanded Sigurd.

"This night," said the man.

Sigurd answered nothing, but walked on quickly. The man, seeing that he was determined to enter the town, followed cautiously and at a distance, waiting to see what might happen.

It was evening as Sigurd entered Jockjen. The little town, overshadowed by its grim fortress, was astir with unwonted bustle. For the king's marriage on the morrow had brought together many of the country people, who, though they loved not Ulf, loved a pageant, and a holiday to see it in. And besides them many soldiers were there who talked mysteriously at street corners, and seemed to have other business than merry-making on hand.

Sigurd passed unheeded through the streets, keeping his face hid in his cloak, and avoiding all points where the crowd seemed large or curious.

He was hastening thus stealthily down a by-street which led towards Niflheim, when he suddenly became aware of a small group of men before him, under the shadow of a high wall, in eager talk.

He halted, for, by their eager gestures and cautious looks, he judged them to be desperate men, whom it would be well for him to avoid rather then meet. Withdrawing quickly into a deeper shade, he waited with impatience till their conference should be over.

As he waited he heard them speak.

"By this time," said one, "he should have learned what is in store."

"Doubtless," said another. "Yet I am glad it was no earlier, for it will all be over before he can prevent it."

"Ulf once dead," said the first, "Sigurd cannot help being the king, however much he may dislike it."

"Nay, he dislikes not being king, but he is so foolishly tender about his brother."

The other laughed.

"There are others, I trust, will not be foolishly tender with his brother this night. At what hour is the deed to be done?"

"By midnight."

At this Sigurd, who had heard it all, could not refrain from starting where he stood.

The men heard him in an instant, and finding themselves thus discovered, rushed with one accord on the hero.

Before Sigurd could draw his sword or offer any resistance he was overpowered and held fast by his assailants who, for fear he should cry aloud and alarm the town, threw a cloak over his head and led him off quickly to the castle.

Here, when the guards came out and inquired what it all meant, "This man," they said, "we know to be an enemy of the king's, who has come disguised to this town to do him some harm; keep him fast till the morning."

The guard, without so much as uncovering Sigurd's face, hurried him through the gate, and brought him to a dark dungeon, into which they thrust him, turning the key twice upon him.

Then Sigurd cast himself on the floor in despair.

To find himself thus confined, after all the fatigues he had suffered and all the perils he had escaped, was fearful indeed, the more so because he knew his brother was close at hand, and yet must die with no brotherly hand to help him. For himself he cared nought. The men who had cast him there called themselves his friends, and, as he knew, desired only to keep him fast, believing him to be a stranger who might disclose their plot. When all was over and Ulf dead, they would release him and perchance discover who he was.

Sigurd wished he might die before the morning.

But presently, as he lay, he heard a sound of feet on the pavement without approaching his dungeon.

The door slowly opened and a monk stood before him.

The hope that dawned in Sigurd's breast as the door opened faded again as a gruff voice without said—

"Do thy work quickly, father. A short shrift is all the villain deserves."

With that the door closed again, and Sigurd and the monk were left in darkness.

"I am to die, then?" asked the hero of the holy man.

"'Tis reported," said the monk, "you seek the king's life; therefore in the morning you are to die. But," added he, speaking lower, "you shall not die, my lord."

Sigurd started, not at the words, but at the voice that uttered them.

"Who art thou?" he whispered.

"One who owes thee his life, and would repay thee, my lord. I am he whom thou sparedst but lately in the wood."

In the dark Sigurd could not see his face, but he knew he spoke the truth.

"Quick," said the man, throwing off his gown and hood; "off with thy armour, my lord, and don these. There is no time to spare."

For a moment Sigurd paused, amazed at the man's offer. Then the thought of Ulf decided him.

"Brave friend," said he, "Heaven bless you for your aid. For four hours I accept thy deliverance and borrow my freedom. If before then I have not returned, call me a coward and a knave."

"Speak not of borrowing, my lord," said the man. "Heaven forbid I should require again the poor life thou thyself didst give me."

"Peace!" said Sigurd, quickly casting off his armour and covering himself in the monk's garb.

In a few moments the exchange was made. Then Sigurd, grasping the hand of his brave deliverer, pulled the hood low over his face, and stepped to the door and knocked. The guard without unlocked the door, and as he did so the robber, crouching in a distant corner of the dungeon; clanked his arms and sighed.

"Ha, ha! brave monk," said the guard to Sigurd, laughingly. "This villain likes not your news, 'tis clear. You have done your task, the headsman shall soon do his."

Sigurd said nothing, but, with head bent and hands clasped, walked slowly from the cell and on towards the gate.

Here no man stopped him, but some more devout than the rest rendered obeisance, and crossed themselves as he passed.

Once out of the castle Sigurd breathed freely, and with thankful heart quickened his pace through the fast emptying streets in the direction of Niflheim.

A double care now pressed on him. The first on account of his brother's danger, the other lest he himself, in his efforts to save the king, should be detained, and so unable to keep faith with the brave man he had left in his place in the dungeon.

He therefore pressed on with all speed, unheeded by passers-by, to whom the sight of a monk hurrying on some mission of mercy was no strange thing.

In due time, in the dim twilight, the castle of Niflheim rose before him, and he felt that his journey was nearly done.

Late as it was, there was revelling going on in the palace. Knights and ladies crowded the halls, whilst without, in the outer rooms, persons of all degrees congregated to witness the festivities and share in the hospitalities of the royal bridegroom. For though Ulf was hated by all, some, either through fear or greediness, failed not to keep up a show of loyalty and even mirth in the royal presence.

Sigurd entered the palace unchallenged, and mingled with the outer throng of onlookers. No one noticed him, but he, looking round from under his hood, could see many faces that he knew, and amongst them the conspirators whom he had that evening overheard plotting in the streets of Jockjen. The sight of these men doubled his uneasiness, for the appointed hour was nearly come, and unless he fulfilled his errand forthwith he might yet be too late.

He therefore approached a knight whom he knew to be still faithful to the king, and drawing him aside, said—

"Sir, I would speak with the king. I have great news for him."

"You cannot speak to-night, holy friar," said the knight, "for the king is banqueting. Come in the morning."

"It may be too late in the morning," said Sigurd.

"Why, what news have you that is so urgent?" demanded the soldier.

"I bear news of Sigurd, the king's brother, who is approaching, and may be here to-night."

"Ha!" exclaimed the knight, eagerly; "Sigurd advancing! How many has he with him? and does he come in peace or war?"

"You know," said Sigurd, "there is no peace between Ulf and Sigurd; but I pray you take me to the king, for I have more news that will not bear delay."

At this the soldier went, and Sigurd waited anxiously.

The knight soon returned.

"The king," said he, "will see you anon, after he shall have spoken to four worthy citizens of Jockjen who have craved a secret audience."

So saying he left him and advanced to where the conspirators stood expecting to be summoned.

Then Sigurd could contain himself no longer. With hurried strides, pushing his way among the crowd, he followed and overtook the knight before he could deliver his summons. Seizing him fiercely by the arm, in a way which made the man of war start in amazement, he led him aside, and said eagerly—

"Sir, I must see the king before those men." The knight, in anger at being thus handled, cast him off roughly. But Sigurd would not be daunted.

"Bring me to the king," he said, "or I will go to him without thy leave."

The knight, amazed at being thus spoken to, looked round, and made as though he would summon the guard; but Sigurd seeing it, and now grown desperate, caught him by the neck, and putting his mouth to his ear, whispered something, which done, he drew back, and for a moment lifted the hood from his face.

The knight started in amazement, but quickly recovering his presence of mind, stepped aside with Sigurd.

Then Sigurd, knowing the man to be loyal and trustworthy, hurriedly told him all, and charged him to be secret, and see to his brother's safety.

The knight begged him to remain and see the king; but Sigurd, fearing all delay, and feeling that his task at the castle was done, would not stay, but departed forthwith.

Before he had well left the place the four conspirators were arrested, and lodged in the deepest dungeon of the fortress. The guards, especially such as stood near the person of the king, were enlarged, the guests were quietly dispersed, and that night Ulf slept secure at Niflheim, little dreaming of the peril he had escaped or of the brother who had saved him.

Sigurd, meanwhile, light at heart, sped on the wings of the wind back to Jockjen. People wondered at the wild haste of the monk as he passed. But he looked neither right nor left till he stood once more at the great gate of the castle.

The guard stood at the entrance as before.

"Thou art returned betimes, holy father," said he, "for our prisoner is like to want thee for a last shrift presently."

Great was Sigurd's joy to learn that he was in time, and that the man he had left behind lived still.

"When is he to die?" he inquired.

"Before an hour is past," said the guard.

"For what crime?"

The guard laughed. "You are a stranger in Ulf's kingdom, monk, if you think a man needs to be a criminal in order to die. But, in truth, the king knows nothing of it."

"What is the man's name?" said Sigurd.

"I know not."

"Did you see his face or hear his voice?"

"No; why should we? We could believe those who brought him here."

"And were they the king's officers?"

"The king's that is now," said the guard.

"Why?" exclaimed Sigurd; "what do you mean? Is not Ulf the king?"

"No," said the man. "When you went out two hours ago he was, but now Sigurd is king."

"False villain!" cried Sigurd, catching the fellow by the throat; "thou art a traitor like all the rest."

The soldier, astonished to be thus assailed by a monk, stood for a moment speechless; and before he could find words Sigurd had cast back the hood from his own head.

The man, who knew him at once, turned pale as ashes, and, trembling from head to foot, fell on his knees.

But Sigurd scornfully bade him rise and summon the guard, which he did. Great was the amazement of the soldiers as they assembled, to see a monk bareheaded stand with his hand on the throat of their comrade. And greater still did it become when they recognised in those stern, noble features their own Prince Sigurd.

Before they could recover their presence of mind, Sigurd held up his hand to enjoin silence, and said—

"Let two men go at once to the dungeon and bring the prisoner out."

While they were gone the group stood silent, as men half dazed, and wondered what would happen next.

In a few moments the two guards returned, bringing with them the prisoner, whom Sigurd greeted with every token of gratitude and joy.

"Brave friend," he exclaimed, "but for thy generous devotion this night might have ended in murder and ruin, and these knaves and their friends might have done their king and me a grievous wrong. Accept Sigurd's thanks."

"What!" exclaimed the prisoner, falling on his knees, "art thou Sigurd? Do I owe my poor life to the bravest of all heroes?"

"I owe my life to thee, rather," said Sigurd; "and not mine only, but my brother's." Then turning to the bewildered and shame-struck soldiers, he said—

"Men!—for I scorn to call you friends!—it remains for you to choose between your duty or the punishment reserved for traitors. You may thank Heaven your wicked plans for this night have been foiled, and that, traitors though you be, you do not stand here as murderers also. Let those who refuse to return to their allegiance stand forward."

Not a man moved.

"Then," said Sigurd, "I demand a pledge of your loyalty."

"We will prove it with our lives!" cried the men, conscience-struck, and meaning what they said.

"All I ask," said Sigurd, "is, that not a man here breathes a word of this night's doing. Besides yourselves, one man only knows of my being at Niflheim, and he has vowed secrecy. Do you do the same?"

The soldiers eagerly gave the required pledge.

"I leave you now," said Sigurd, "at the post of duty. Let him who would serve me, serve my king."

"We will! we will!" cried the men.

Sigurd held up his hand.

"It is enough," said he; "I am content. And you, friend," said he to the late prisoner, "will you accompany me home?"

The man joyfully consented, and that same night those two departed to the sea, and before morning were darting over the waves towards the Castle of the North-West Wind.

Sigurd's secret was safely kept. Ulf, to the day of his death, knew nothing of his brother's journey to Niflheim; nor could he tell the reason why the loyalty of his soldiers revived from that time forward. He died in battle not long after, yet he lived long enough to repent of his harshness towards his brother, and to desire to see him again. Messengers from him were on their way to the Tower of the North-West Wind at the time when he fell on the field of Brulform. Sigurd's first act after becoming king was to erect a monument on the spot where Ulf fell, with this simple inscription, which may be read to this day, "To my Brother."



CHAPTER SIX.

Sub-Chapter I.

MY FIRST TRAGEDY.

FOREWORD.

I have admired tragedy from my earliest days. I believe I must have acted in it in the nursery—at least the scenes I have in my mind appeared to me to be tragic at the time, although it was not of my own will that I participated in them. The occasions, for instance, when I was stood in the corner for misconduct at table, or thrashed by my big brother for my "cheek," or dosed with castor oil by the doctor for "mulligrubs," all stand out in my memory as tragic, and no doubt prepared me to appreciate tragedy later on as a fine art.

As soon as I went to school I found still more extended opportunities for studying that art. Tragedy dogged my footsteps and marked me for her own from the first. I was bullied; that was bad enough. I was caned; that was worse. I had to learn Latin verbs; that was worst of all. I was a practised tragedian at seven. Acts one, two, and three were performed as a rule once a day, and now and then encored.

The worst of it was that the person who got most of the applause was not the wretched actor, but the author. I was quite overlooked. This convinced me early that it is more profitable to make tragedies for other people to act than to act in them oneself; and at a tender age, therefore, I set before myself the profession of a tragic author.

For long enough, however, I had to wait my inspiration. I was kept so busy in the capacity of actor (from which my special talents would not permit me to retire as early as I should myself have wished) that it was comparatively late in life—I mean I had turned twelve—before the grand idea of writing a tragedy dawned in my ardent breast. Even then it was destined to simmer for three or four years, owing to pressure of other work and the still more pressing lack of a subject.

Meanwhile, however, I read tragedies ardently. I read Shakespeare, more or less, and admired him rather, although I could see his weak points, and thought him considerably overrated. I had also read the nursery rhymes carefully, and most of the harrowing stories of history and fiction, particularly the latter. I had, moreover, recently made a tragic acquaintance with the Greek Drama in the person of a scoundrel called Aeschylus, whose sickening lucubrations I was forced to learn by heart, and now and then to copy out, a hundred lines at a time, till I grew to detest him.

All these circumstances combined decided me to write a tragedy on my own account; which, while following Shakespeare in his good points, should avoid his weaknesses, which should embody the best features of the nursery rhymes, and which should avoid like poison the shockingly debased style of Aeschylus.

After mature reflection I hit upon a theme which I flattered myself was original and suggestive. Shakespeare had kept off it, and it was after Aeschylus' time; and as far as I knew I was the first to clothe it in a tragic garb. I refer to the story of Romulus and Remus. It was classical, sanguinary, and sounded well on a title-page. Besides, as very little was known about it, there was plenty of scope for original treatment, and no one could say whether I was wrong in my facts, because no one was in a position to contradict me. In addition to that, as the story related to boys and athletic sports (both of which subjects I knew something about), it seemed the very theme of a good tragedy, which might make my name immortal, and rank to all generations as an English classic.

It might have, but somehow it didn't. However, I have kept the copy still, and this book shall be the fortunate medium of introducing the tragedy to the world.

In case any of my readers, as is possible, should be unacquainted with the story of Romulus and Remus, let me say that I believe (but am not quite sure) that they were two twin brothers, both boys, left orphans at an early age, and nursed by a stepmother in the shape of a wolf. They were subsequently discovered, and having grown to manhood, it occurred to Romulus to build Rome. For this modest undertaking Remus chaffed his brother, and practised the high jump over his walls, naturally damaging them considerably. Whereupon Romulus knocked him on the head, and lived happily ever afterwards.

This, briefly, is the story. Now for the tragedy:—

Romulus and Remus; Or, Catching Him On The Hop.

(The sub-title was a concession to the democratic tastes of the present generation, who like to have their curiosity excited without being told too much.)

Dramatis Persona.

Men. Romulus (a boy). Remus (his brother). John (a shepherd). Faustulus (a policeman).

Women. A Wolf. Mary Ann (a maiden of forty).

Chorus, Soldiers, Sailors, Volunteers, Bricklayers, Boys, Maidens, and Lictors.

Act I.

Scene I.—A Wood near Rome.

Enter She-wolf with two boys in her mouth, John following.

John. She-monster, tell me, what have you got there?

Wolf. Two kids, my John; and dinner-time is near.

Rom. and Rem. Oh my! alas! help! hi! Will no one hear?

John (smacking his lips). Say, gentle Lupus, where didst find them both?

Wolf. Listen! I'll tell you while you lay the cloth.

(Sings).

I'm a wolf, I'm a wolf, in this big lonely wood, And I live in a hole in a tree, And I daily prowl forth in my free, hungry mood To look for my dinner and tea. I never object to the wing of a man, Or a tender young lamb gives me joy; But what I like best is a slice off the breast, Or the leg, or the arm, of a boy. To-day I'm in luck, as you plainly may see By the morsels that kick in my maw; Fetch a knife, fork, and spoon, John, for you and for me. Dinner's ready! Young boys taste best raw.

Rom. Oh, impious monster, hold thy howling jaw! And you, John, to your flocks return once more. Forbear to talk of eating me and Remus, You ugly, wicked, ill-conditioned schemers.

1. Here I should remark that to be strictly accurate my tragedy should be called a tragic opera. It abounds in songs calculated to stir familiar chords in the breasts of a popular and juvenile audience.

2. It may here be objected that my heroes are at this time only a few weeks old. But instances of precocious children (especially in tragic drama) are not unheard of; and after careful inquiry the author is not satisfied that in the present case the young persons in question did not speak fluently. Allowance must, of course, be made for youthful inexperience in the matter of rhymes.

Remus. D'you hear, you cads? Shut up, and let us be. You shall not dine off Romulus and me!

John (in alarm). Upon my word! What if the boys are right? Friend Lupus, thanks—I'd rather not to-night.

Wolf (scornfully). What? Do you funk it? Well, I call that rough.

John. Fact is, I can't help thinking they'd taste tough.

Rom. and Rem. (excitedly). We would! we would! we're awful tough to eat; We're only skin and bone and gristle; and no meat. (They sing). Two little kids from nurse are we, Skinny as two kids can be; Never a bite since yesterday, Two little kids from nurse.

Dropped we were by our cruel ma (With full consent of our awful pa) Into the stream of the river Tiber - Two little kids from nurse.

We were nearly drowned, when the stream stood still And left us dry (and hungry) till This old she-wolf came to take her fill Of two little kids from nurse. You let us be, or we'll tell our ma, And she'll inform our awful pa; If he comes round, you'll catch a Tartar— Two little kids from nurse.

Wolf (turning pale). Your words alarm me! Gentle lads, behold, I'll be your nurse until you're two years old. Then if you have not found your pa or ma, I will adopt you. What say you?

Rom. and Rem.. Hurrah!

John. So now that's settled, let's chant one more strain, And after that I'll to my home again.

Song.

Rom.. Who ran to gulp me where I lay, And took me in her mouth away, And talked of eating me to-day? The she-wolf.

Rem.. Who scrunched my arm and clawed my side, And would not heed me when I cried, But whispered, "Won't he taste prime fried?" The she-wolf.

John. Who wouldn't spare two pretty boys, Until they kicked and made a noise? Who ever thus her time employs? The she-wolf.

Wolf. Who's not as bad as people say? Who's going to nurse you night and day, And wash your face and help you play? The she-wolf?

(Exeunt dancing.)

Scene II.

The Same. Six Years Later.

Enter Romulus and Remus, fighting with boxing-gloves. The wolf knitting and looking on and encouraging.

Wolf. Your little hands were never made To black each other's eyes, And yet you do it very well For youngsters of your size. Keep down your guard. Good! Hit out fair, That's one for Remus' nose! Ha, Romulus, you caught it there (Keep steady with your toes!). Don't lose your tempers—it's not right.

The author's motive in thus lightly treating the opening scenes of his hero's career is to postpone the gloom of the tragedy to a later period.

Time! Let 'em blow a bit. My! how I like to see 'em fight! It sends me, in a fit.

(Has a fit and suddenly exit)

Rom. (discovering her absence). Alas, my brother! orphans once again, We're left in this lone world of woe and pain. Our step-dame's gone, and left us no address. What's to be done? We're in a pretty mess.

Rem. Let's sit and howl, and howl till some one hears. You do the howling, and I'll do the tears.

(They sit and howl for twenty minutes)

Enter Faustulus (an old, old policeman).

Faust.. Oh dear, what can the matter be? Romulus, Remus, what can the matter be? Remus, Romulus, what can the matter be? Why do you sit there and howl? You really do make such a horrible noise, You naughty, bad, dirty-faced blubbering boys! Why don't you run home to your ma and your toys? Come, clear out of this, and move on.

Rom. (screwing his knuckles into his eyes). We 'ain't got no home and we 'ain't got no ma, We 'ain't got no notion whose childer we are, And our old nuss has sloped without saying "Ta ta." Bo-ho and bo-hoo and bo-how!

Faust, (starts and drops his truncheon). Why, these are the lost 'uns! My eyes and my stars! Wasn't Ilia your ma's name, and your pa's name was Mars? There's a dollar reward for who finds you, my dears! Hurra and hurroo and hooray!

(They all rejoice and sing.)

It will be perceived that in addressing a policeman Romulus adopts a mode of speech which a person accustomed to deal with the lower orders would more readily understand than classical English.

Chorus. Oh, what a surprise! Won't they open their eyes? To see us two back? Oh, and won't they look black? Oh, what a surprise!

Faust. The fact is, young gents, if you'll excuse me addressing you in prose, which I ain't a heddicated cove myself, but my gal's 'usband's uncle was a schoolmaster, only he caught cold in 'is eyes and went on the pension; very comfortable his place is in the harmsouses, which they do keep them neat and tidy enough to make one afeared to step over the door, and being long steps, 'tain't so easy for an old chap as 'as spent forty-three years come next Michaelmas in the country's service, bar six months for the dropsy and four for a broken leg, all on account of a homblibus slipping to the horf side and ketching me—

Rem. Never mind about all that. What is the fact?

Faust. Ah, I forgot. The fact is, young gents, if you'll—

Rom. Go on, go on, or we'll kick you.

Faust. The fact is, young gents, as I was saying when you threatened to kick me, you've been rather shabbily used. There's a chap of the name of Amulius. Know him?

Rom. and Rem. What, our uncle? Rather.

Faust. Well—[you'll find all about it in Smith's Classical Dictionary]—the fact is, it's 'im as done it. It's 'im as chucked yer into the river. I 'elped 'im—no, no, I don't mean that—I was passing by and see 'im at it.

Rom. (kicking him). You did? Why didn't you get us out?

Faust, (rubbing his leg). Don't do that; it hurts. Why, it was this way. When I married my old woman about forty years ago, I said to myself, says I, if ever I grow up to be a man, I shall either go into the force or else take to the sheep-farming. Oh, young gentleman, if you kick me again I shall arrest you for assault. Really I will.

Rom. and Rem.. Cut your story short. What about Amulius?

Faust. Only he's collared your crowns—that's all. Don't mention it. Take my advice and go and crack his. Rom. and Rem. Certainly. We'll do it at once.

(They do it at once)

Act II.

Scene I.

On the Banks of the Tiber. Ten Years Later.

Enter Romulus, Remus, bricklayers, maidens, and others.

Rom.., 'Tis done. The proud usurper bites the dust. Rem. (It's took us ten good years to do it. That's the wust.) Rom. The tyrant's ashes moulder on the plain. Rem. (You've said that once before. Say it again.) Rom. Remus, my blackguard brother, hold thy tongue. Rem. Romulus, may I be spared to see thee hung. Maidens. Alas! to see two brothers bicker thus is sad, Let's laugh and sport and turn to something glad. Mary Ann (blushing). I'll sing you a simple ballad if you like. (All shuddering). Good gracious! (Aside) Certainly, by all means. Mary Ann. How doth each naughty little lad Delight to snarl and bite, And kick and scratch, It's very bad, It isn't at all right. Oh, don't do this; oh, don't do that, Don't tear each other's hair, But shout and play with ball and bat, Or dance with maidens fair; Play tennis, cricket, kiss-in-the-ring, Rounders or golf or catch, Play baseball, rounders—anything, But please don't fight and scratch.

Run quarter miles, or hurdle race, Jump high or low or wide; Try football tricks, both drop and place, Join us in seek and hide. But please don't squabble, dear boys, It isn't nice to squall; It looks so bad, makes such a noise, It quite upsets us all.

All. Enough, dear Mary Ann, enough, enough; (Did ever mortal hear such stupid stuff?) Who's going to fight? We're here to play, Reserve your lectures for some other day.

(Athletic sports begin. The crowd looks on, as Chorus)

Chorus. Clear the course, ring the bell, Toe the line, start them well. Go it, cripples! on you go! This man's gaining, that's dropped slow! Mind the corner! keep your side! Save your wind! Well run! well tried! One more lap! Stick to it there! Now for a spurt! He's leading clear— No, neck-and-neck! No, leader's done! The best man wins! Well run! well run! Now for the jump—four feet, all clear. Up inch by inch. Ah, very near! Another try. What, missed again? He's not the winning man, that's plain. Up, four foot six! Bravo! Well jumped! See, number four is getting pumped. Good, number six! He's all on springs! Another inch! The tug begins! Up, up, and up! Three men still in - Now only two! Which is to win? Up higher! Ah, there's one miss more! Well jumped! Dead heat at five-feet-four.

(During the song Romulus and Remus run and jump. Romulus wins the race, but the high jump is a dead heat.)

Romulus (in a temper). Remus is a sharper, Remus is a cheat, Remus collared my side, And made it a dead heat. I'll collar Remus' side, Whether he likes or no; I'll not be done by him - At least, without a row.

Remus (derisively). Romulus, he makes a fuss Because he's been licked by his brother. Let him alone, and he'll go home; Who cares for his noise and his bother?

Chorus (reproachfully). This is the way they always go, always go, always go, Quarrel and kick up no end of a row, From the time they get up in the morning. Leave them alone and let them be, let them be, let them be; If they can't be civil, let us agree On this beautiful May-day morning.

(Exeunt dancing, leaving Romulus and Remus fighting.)

Scene II.

On the Site of Rome.

Four Years Later.

Enter Romulus and Remus lovingly, with their arms round each other's necks.

Rom. Good old Remus, ain't I fond of you! Oh, what a brick you are! I love you so!

Rem. I never knew a chap I liked like Romly, So gentle, kind, good-looking, bold and comly.

Rom. You make me blush, my Remy; you're the brick, Through thick and thin I vow to you I'll stick.

Rem. Thank you. Suppose, to mark our vows, We raise a monument or build a house.

Rom. Why, while we're at it, let us build a city, The greatest in the world! List to my ditty: (Sings).

This is the town that Romulus and Remus built.

These are the walls that go round the town that Romulus and Remus built.

These are the boys that built the walls that go round the town that Romulus and Remus built.

These are the poets who sing of the boys that built the walls that go round the town that Romulus and Remus built.

These are the scholars who read the poets who sing of the boys who built the walls that go round the town that Romulus and Remus built.

These are the schoolboys who learn from the scholars who read the poets who sing of the boys who built the walls that go round the town that Romulus and Remus built.

This is the book which is read by the schoolboys who learn from the scholars who read the poets who sing of the boys who built the walls that go round the town that Romulus and Remus built.

Rem. Bravo, Romly. Let's start work at once. You build the walls, I'll manage the finance.

Enter Chorus of Boys derisively.

Remus and Romulus built up a wall.

Romulus and Remus, mind you don't fall. (Strophe) Romulus and Remus, nice pair of schemers, How does your city grow? Bricks and cabbages, sticks and rubbishes, And mud pies all anyhow.

1. The author is not quite sure what strophe and antistrophe mean, but they appear to come in tragically here.

2. Rubbishes is apparently the nearest rhyme to cabbages which the chorus can lay hands on for the moment.

(Antistrophe) Hee-haw, Remus can saw, Romulus tries to make plaster. They shall have a penny a day, What a pity they cannot work faster!

Rom. (throwing stones). Aroint thee! Hold your row! Shut up! Go home. Don't interfere with men who are building Rome.

Rem. (sings). 'Mid damp clay and sandy chalk, and blue slate and loam, Be it ever so Roman, there'll be no town like Rome. So all do your worst, we care not who come, There's no town like Rome, there's no town like Rome. Rome! Rome! Great, great Rome! There's no town like Rome, there's no town like Rome.

Chorus, disgusted. How do these busy little lads Delight to toil and fag, And swagger like a pair of cads, And boast and crow and brag. (Exeunt with their noses in the air.)

Rom. Thank goodness they are gone. Now, old chap, to work. Sit up! you're getting lazy. Come, don't shirk.

Rem. (turning red). I getting lazy! Like your awful cheek! I've done more in a day than you in a week.

Rom. Ha, ha! ho, he! My! that's a pretty joke. Look what I've done. You've hardly done a stroke.

Rem. If that's your tune, you're free to do it all. Your work, indeed! Do you call this a wall? I'd hop it on one foot. Ho, ho! A pretty town. A puff of wind would blow your rampart down.

Rom. Hop it, you ass? I'd like to see you try. I promise you shall know the reason why.

Rem. (laughing). Stupid old Romulus Sat on a tumulus Trying to build a town, There came this young brother, One foot over t'other, And knocked his precious wall down. Hurroo! here goes! stand clear! this for your wall! What care I if from now to Christmas Day you bawl? (Hops over the wall, knocking off the top course.) Missed it! Hard luck! I'll try again! Stand by! I guess I ought to clear what's barely three feet high.

Rom. (aside). I've stood this long enough! The time has come When I or Remus, single-handed, must build Rome. Ho! stay thy impious foot, thou scoffing mule, Or I will slay thee! Cease to play the fool!

Rem. (sings). Over the city wall, over the city wall, See how we bump, hop, skip, and jump, Over the city wall.

(Jumps again)

Rom. (picking up a scaffolding-pole). Thy doom is sealed! I said I'd kill thee! Ha! 'Tis thy last jump! Thou hoppest never more!

(_Knocks him on the head.)

Rem_. I've overdone it! Now I'm slain! Alas! I do repent that I have played the ass!

(Dies.)

Rom. (sings). Remus he would a-fooling go (Heigh-ho! says Romly), Whether his brother could stand it or no, With a Romly, Remy, Roman, and Grecian. (Heigh-ho! says Romulus Romly.)

Enter She-wolf suddenly.

Wolf. Hullo, my lad! I've caught you then at last! I've waited twenty years to break my fast. It's hungry work. But now I've got you. Come. Don't kick, 'twill hurt the more. Fe, fi, fo, fum!

1. A classical quotation having special reference to the anticipation of a good square meal.

Rom. Oh, please it wasn't me! See, there's my brother, He's far more on his bones than me, my dear stepmother!

Wolf (perceiving Remits). Humph! I may want you both. But if you wish I'll start on Remus for my opening dish.

Rom. Do, gentle step-dame; then when he is done, Come back and claim your sole surviving son.

Wolf. Agreed! But lest you should forget your promise, dear, I'll take, if you'll allow, my first course here. I shan't be long; and as your turn comes next, Don't keep me waiting—I should be so vexed.

(Proceeds to devour Remus with relish.)

Rom. (aside). Ah, ha, old glutton! Ha, not much you don't!

If I can help it, dine off me you won't. (Stabs the wolf from behind.)

Wolf. Alack, I die, my banquet, half untasted! To think of so much dainty dinner wasted!

Rom. (dances and sings) - Who killed old Remus? I, said his brother, likewise his step-mother, I killed old Remus. Who saw him fall? Not a man-jack saw him drop on his back; None saw him fall. Who's all right now? I, says the Roman; I'm rid of my foeman, I'm all right now.

Enter Chorus (with a band and flags).

Great Romulus, we're glad to see you licked him (Sing hey the jolly Roman and his ma); We're jolly glad you punched his head and kicked him (Sing hey the jolly Roman that you are).

Then hail to you, great Roman! We yield to you or no man, (Sing hey the jolly Roman and his ma). We beg you'll let us help you build the city (Sing hey the jolly city that he rears); We'll be your loyal subjects; show us pity (Sing hey the jolly city and three cheers). Then hail the jolly city, To you we chant our ditty, (Sing hey the jolly city and three cheers).

Rom. Friends, thank you one and all; excuse my tear, Domestic trouble makes me feel so queer; But if you like, to celebrate this day I sing you here one final roundelay.

(Sings.) When Romulus from Tiber's stream escaped, His infant footsteps to the woodland shaped, He sort of vowed, if ever he grew big, He would the walls of a great city dig. This was his object; here he takes his stand, Romans ever, ever, ever I'll command.

Chorus (all going)— Rule, old Roma, Roma rule the land, Romans ever, ever, ever he'll command.

(Exeunt omnes.)



CHAPTER SEVEN.

A NIGHT WITH THE CROWNED HEADS.

Sub-Chapter I.

THE ARREST.

It was a ferociously hot day at the beginning of the summer vac. I, as in duty bound, had been spending my first day as a well-conducted, newly broken-up schoolboy should.

Being fully impressed with the importance of combining self-improvement with all my recreations, I had been in the morning to the Zoo, where I had eaten buns with the elephant, cracked jokes and nuts with the monkeys, prodded the hippopotamus, got a rise out of the grizzly, made the lions roar, had a row with the chimpanzee, and generally enjoyed myself.

Then I had done the Tower. This only took ten minutes, as the place was horribly slow, and fellows looked after you wherever you went.

After that I had had a turn at the circus, to study the habits of the horse in a state of nature. I should have liked this more if the clown had not been such a muff. He wasn't half up to his business, and consequently the place was not as improving as it ought to have been. So I shook off the dust of it from my feet, and, after laying some apples and other things aboard, took an omnibus to Madame Tussaud's, where I knew I should see some fellows of my acquaintance, and be able to improve my mind in good company.

You must know I had pulled off the third history prize in our division last term, and therefore felt more or less friendly disposed to the kings and queens generally, and was even a little curious to see what they looked like, now that I was supposed to know more about them than most fellows do.

To tell the truth, although I had several times been to Madame Tussaud's before, I had invariably cut these grand people and devoted myself to another part of the establishment, which boys are usually supposed to understand better. Even on the present occasion it was necessary to pay a visit to those regions, since several celebrated historical figures were kept down there, which I felt I must on no account miss seeing.

But after I had thoroughly explored that portion, making the acquaintance of all the new-comers, putting my head into the guillotine, taking a turn in the condemned cell, sitting in Napoleon's carriage, and otherwise informing myself concerning the seamy side of human nature, I determined to be virtuous and devote at least half an hour to the study of the royalties in the Great Hall.

The enterprise was not to be undertaken without refreshment. I therefore took a preliminary excursion to the ground floor, where the historical costumes are kept, and, close beside them, the ices, buns, Victoria sandwiches, ginger-beer, Turkish delight, lemon squashes, and other wholesome aids to historical research. Here I dallied a little— just long enough to repair the ravages of nature—and then, feeling very much as Little Jack Horner did after he had partaken of refreshment, I mounted once more the marble stairs and set myself to do the crowned heads.

I set myself literally, for it occurred to me I could do their Majesties just as well sitting as standing. And, as the afternoon was hot, and the sofa near the door was comfortable, and as, moreover, I was slightly oppressed with my study of the costumes downstairs, and considerably soothed by the strains of Madame Tussaud's orchestra, it so fell out that, just as I was nodding how-do-you-do to William the Conqueror, I dropped asleep.

How long I slept I must leave it to those of my readers who have come through the same exertions of mind and body to guess. I had never intended to exceed a short forty winks, because I was aware that only half an hour was left before the time for closing arrived. But when I awoke it was with a start, to find that the place was silent, dark, and deserted. The music had gone, the shuffling of footsteps on the stairs had ceased, the hum of voices had died away. All was so quiet that my own breathing sounded loud and noisy.

I rubbed my eyes and looked round. Yes, I was on the same seat, but not a soul was left in the place—only I—I and the wax figures.

The lights were out, all except one solitary gas-jet over the door of the Chamber of Horrors, which sent a flickering gleam my way, and danced weirdly in and out among the motionless images around me. It was not a comfortable position to be in, and I confess I did not like it. Of course a wax image in the dark is the same as a wax image in the day. Still, thought I, I would sooner be outside, and—

What was it made me stop short, and sit up in my seat, petrified, and with the blood curdling in my veins?

My eyes, while I meditated, had turned towards William the Conqueror, to whom, as I have already said, I had been in the act of nodding in a friendly way when I dropped asleep.

To my horror, I now perceived that he was, in a most unmistakable manner, nodding at me! Yes, by the feeble light I could see, not only his head move, but even his eyes too! I was helpless and speechless. I could no more move, or call out, or take my eyes off him, than if I had been a wax figure myself.

Presently I saw his hands move slowly to the arms of his chair, and then, keeping his eyes still on me, he rose to his feet. I could hear the clank of the sword against his greaves as he stepped off his platform on to the floor of the hall and advanced a step towards me. Then, as I sat quaking there, I felt his eyes upon mine, and knew that he was staring at me from head to toe.

By a superhuman effort I dug my fingers into the plush of the sofa, and ejaculated a frantic "Oh!"

The cry resounded fearfully through the building, and seemed to wake echoes which certainly had nothing in common with my voice. It was as if every one in the place had suddenly caught sight of me at the same moment and was giving vent to his or her astonishment.

I had better have remained silent! For, as I gave one scared look round, I saw King John lay down his pen, and, rising hastily, walk towards me. He scowled viciously at me, and then, as I collapsed in a heap on to the floor, I saw him turn inquiringly to William the Conqueror.

Whatever the question he asked was, William answered it in the affirmative, whereupon John turned round to the rest of the company, and beckoned with his hand.

Instantly William Rufus, Henry the First, Stephen, Matilda, Henry the Second, and Richard Coeur de Lion, came forward. William the Second turned me over with his foot, and stooped down to look at my face.

"That's him!" said he.

"That's he, you mean," said Henry Beauclerk.

"I mean nothing of the kind," said Rufus. "I mean him. So now, old lampreys!"

"They were not lampreys," said Henry sulkily; "they were oysters."

"Yes, yes," said Matilda. "But what business has he here?"

"Him?" said Rufus doggedly.

"You'd better ask him," said Stephen, with a sneer. "The chances are he'll want to know what business you have here."

"I'm as much an empress as you," said Matilda, spitefully.

"I know that; which means you're no empress at all."

"Look here," said Henry the Second, "don't you cheek me, Steevie. She let you have it pretty hot, you know."

"Hot? I like that," said Stephen. "It was cold enough that day she made tracks in the snow. I've had rheumatism ever since."

"By the way," said Henry the Second, "I can put you up to a capital cure for rheumatism. Tried it myself. It was after that little affair about Beckett, you know. I was a good deal run down; and I got a fellow to touch me up on the shoulder with a cat. You've no notion how it picks a fellow up. Quite my own notion, too. Come, and I'll give you a dose."

"Don't mind the governor." said Richard; "he will have his joke. Did you ever read the Talisman, Tilly?—jolly story!—all about yours truly. You can get it for 4 pence ha'penny. I say, what's to be done with this chap, Johnny? He's a little like Arthur of Brittany, isn't he? Suppose, just to keep your hand in—"

Here John turned very red, and got into a towering rage, and threatened to tear up the Magna Charta to spite them all. Whereat they all laughed.

All this time I lay, bewildered and speechless, on the floor. It was a long time before they could bring their minds to decide what was to be done with me; and, indeed, I began half to hope they had forgotten me in their own squabbles, when a great burly form pushed his way into the group, and asked what all the noise was about.

"As if I haven't noise enough in my place with all my six wives talking at the same time," said he, "without your row. What is it? Can't you settle it and be done?"

William Rufus turned me over again with his foot.

"That thing's the matter," said he.

King Hal stooped down, with his hands on his knees, and stared at me. Then he gave a low whistle.

"Whew!" said he. "That's a catch and a half. Where did you get him?"

"Here, a quarter of an hour ago," said William the Conqueror. "It was me nobbled him."

"Not me—I," said Henry the First.

"You!" exclaimed the Conqueror. "Why, what do you expect if you tell lies like that?"

"I didn't mean I got him," explained Henry. "I meant you should say it was I."

"I shan't say it was you, when it was me," said William. "I'm not given to that style of thing, I can tell you."

"No, no," began Henry again. "What I mean is, that instead of saying it was me—"

"Who said it was you? I said it was me."

"Yes, and that's where you make a mistake. You should say—"

"Look here," said Henry the Eighth, "suppose you settle that outside. The thing is—whoever nobbled him, as William says—hadn't we better give him a cold chop, now we've got him?"

"Better try him first," said John. "I make a strong point of that in Magna Charta, you know."

"Much easier to take the chop first," said Henry.

"I prefer stakes myself," said Queen Mary, joining the party.

"Well, well, any way you like," said King Hal; "anything for a quiet life. The ladies are worrying me to give them a day out, and an Old Bailey trial will be a nice variety for them. Only, let's have it done in proper state, if we have it at all. I suppose you'd like me to be judge, eh?"

Nobody seemed particularly pleased at this proposal; and Richard said—

"You'd better ask Elizabeth, hadn't you?"

"Oh, good gracious, no!" exclaimed Henry in alarm. "Don't say a word about it to her, or there'll be a terrible rumpus. I assure you I have studied law all my life. Come along. Bring him downstairs and let's begin. Here, Teddy," cried he to a nice-looking boy not far off, who must have been Edward the Fifth. "Here, Teddy, run and tell Catherine, and Annie, and Janie, and Annie Cleeves, and Kitty Howard, and Kitty Parr—let's see, is that all?" said he, counting them over on his fingers; "yes, six—tell 'em all to hurry up, and not to let Elizabeth see them, whatever they do. Oh, and you can tell all the lot of Majesties after Johnny here they'd better come, too. Come, look alive, my lad."

"All, very well," said Teddy; "how am I to look alive after the way I've been served? Besides, I can never remember all their names."

"Well, look them up in the catalogue—they're all down there. Tell them, the big dock downstairs. And if we're lucky and get the job over in time, I don't mind standing treat all round in the refreshment-room afterwards. That will fetch them, I fancy; eh, what?"

Sub-Chapter II.

THE TRIAL.

The room suddenly grew dim and silent again, and I began to think that after all I had been only dreaming. But when I lifted my head and looked round, the place of the kings was empty. There was William the Conqueror's footstool where he had upset it; and there lay the pen and ink on the floor under King John's chair. As for the big group in the middle, not a soul was left there except Chaucer and William Caxton, who had taken possession of the two easiest chairs, and were deep in a game of chess.

As I picked myself slowly up off the floor, I became aware of the gleam of a lantern approaching me, and heard a footstep coming down the hall. It was too dark to see who it was till he was close up; then, with a gasp, I recognised Marwood, the hangman!

"Oh," said he pleasantly, "you're the young party, are you? Come, cheer up. You've got to be tried first. The fact is, they couldn't find the regular police, and asked me to step up for you. Come, my lad," said he, proceeding to pinion me with the cord in his hand, "this will brace you up wonderfully. You may depend on me to do the job neatly. I've just invented a new noose, and have been wanting a light weight to try it on, so you're in luck. Come along, and don't keep them waiting."

And he proceeded to conduct me to the Chamber of Horrors. As we passed along the hall, one or two of the figures nodded to us; and Oliver Cromwell requested in Marwood to let him know when his part of the business was going to begin, as he should like to be present.

"I don't care about the trial, you know," said he. "Seen plenty of that sort of thing. But I'd like to see how you do your job, you know; so don't forget." And he slipped a shilling into Marwood's hand.

"You've no idea of the civility I receive from some of these gentlemen," said the latter to me with emotion. "Little drops of kindness like this always touch me. You shall have a little drop too, my boy, presently."

I tried feebly to laugh at the joke; but I couldn't, whereupon he got very sulky, and bundled me down the stairs without another word.

By the dim light of a few candles placed about the room I could see that the Chamber of Horrors was packed by a dense crowd of sightseers, who occupied seats on the floor of the court, and sat impatiently whispering together, expecting my arrival.

As I stumbled up the steps of the Old Bailey dock (where room had been made for me between Burke and Hare) the usual thrill of sensation passed round the court. I could see Henry the Eighth and his wives opposite me in the small dock, while the other crowned heads jostled one another on the platform of the guillotine. There, too, was the old hermit peeping out through the bars of his cage, and the warder in charge of the condemned cell was sweeping his place out and changing the sheets on the bed.

"Now then," said Henry the Eighth, when all the bustle had subsided, "wire in, somebody! Let's begin."

"You'd better get a jury first," said King John. "That's one of the first things I insist upon in Magna Charta."

"Order in the court!" cried Henry, "and Magna Charta be bothered! I shall do as I like!"

"Do have a jury, love," said Catherine Parr; "it's such fun when they come in with their verdict!"

"Oh, all right; have it your own way. I should have thought, though, I could come in with a verdict as well as they. Now then, you there!" said he, addressing the convicts round me, "answer to your names."

And he proceeded to call the names out from the catalogue.

When a dozen had answered, Anne of Cleeves said, "That's enough, Henry dear; we've got twelve."

"Oh, have we?" said he. "You can have more if you like, you know; there's plenty left."

The ladies, however, decided that a dozen was enough, and the trial began.

"Prisoner at the bar," said Edward the Black Prince, who was acting as usher, "are you guilty or not guilty?"

"What's the use of asking him that," said Henry the Eighth, "when everybody knows, eh?"

John here began to explain that he had arranged the matter in Magna Charta, whereupon the judge exclaimed—

"Oh, gracious! if we're to have that up every two minutes I'll adjourn the court! Now, you there!" said he to me; "why don't you answer?"

I tried in dumb show to explain that I was not aware what I was being tried for; but as no one saw the point of my answer, I tremblingly pleaded "Not guilty."

"Oh," said Henry, growing very red in the face, "all right! Now, somebody, let's have the indictment!"

To my horror, I suddenly saw reflected on a screen, in large characters, at the far end of the room, my recent examination paper, with all my answers appended thereto! As I staggered back in terror, Henry laughed.

"Too late now," said he; "you've said 'Not guilty', so you've got to be tried—got to be tried. Eh, what? Now start away; begin at the top. What's that he says about Alfred the Great? Where is Alf, by the way?"

"Oh," said Edward the Third, "he can't come. The fact is, they've taken him and dressed him up as a French General, and he's so awfully busy, he says, you'd better let his part of the thing slide."

"All serene!" replied Henry. "Lucky job for you, prisoner. I know what a rage he'd be in over that toast-and-muffin story you've been telling about him. He'd have done you brown, my boy, I can promise you! Never mind. Now let's go on to the next. Read it out, Nigger."

Edward the Black Prince, who answered to this genial pet name, accordingly read—

"'William the Conqueror was a cruel tyrant. He made many homes desolate, and wrote Doomsday Book in the year 1087.'"

"There!" cried the Conqueror, coming to the rail of the guillotine and striking it in a passion with his gauntlet; "what do you think of that? I wrote Doomsday Book! It's a lie. My lords and gentlemen of the jury, I can stand anything else, but when he says I wrote Doomsday Book, I say it's a lie, and I hope to see him hung!"

"Hanged," suggested Henry the First.

"All right, all right," said Henry the Eighth, "keep cool, and you shall see him hung, and Henry shall see him hanged. We'll oblige all parties. So you mean to say, Willie, you never did such a thing?"

"No, never; I hope I know my place better," said the Conqueror; "and I'm surprised at you for asking such a question."

"Got that all down, Nigger?" asked the judge.

"Yes. Forge ahead!" said the Black Prince. "Now we come to the next, 'William the Second, surnamed Rufus, shot in the New Forest, by Walter Tyrrell.'"

"Eh?" shouted Rufus, pushing his father aside, and coming to the front. "What's that? Me shot by Walter? Me—"

"Do say I," suggested Henry the First.

The Red King rounded on him at once.

"Oh!" he cried, "it was you, then, was it? You're the one that did it! I guessed as much! I knew you were at the bottom of it all along. What do you think of that, my lords and gentlemen?"

"The thing is," drawled Edward the Second, "did Walter—"

"Order in the court!" cried Henry the Eighth. "Kindly allow me to conduct my own case. All you've got to say, Rufus, is whether it's true what he says, that Walter Tyrrell shot you?"

"Him!" cried Rufus. "He couldn't hit a haystack a yard off, if he tried."

"Then he didn't do it? That's all right. Why couldn't you have said so at once? All down, Nigger? That makes two lies. Now call up the next."

"Henry the First, surnamed Beauclerk, never smiled again after his son was lost, and died of a surfeit of lampreys," read the prince.

"Oh, those lampreys!" groaned Henry; "I am perfectly sick of them. I assure you, my lords and gentlemen, they were no more lampreys—"

"No, not after you'd done supper," growled Rufus.

"In that case, William," retorted Beauclerk, "I should have said 'there,' and not 'they.' But I do assure you, gentlemen, I never saw a lamprey in my life; and as for smiling again," added he, in quite an apologetic way, "I did it often, when nobody was by; really I did."

"Are you sure?" asked the judge. "Show us how you did it."

Whereupon Henry the First favoured the court with a fascinating leer, which left no doubt on any one's mind that he had been falsely accused.

So two more lies were set down against me; and the Black Prince called over the next.

"'Stephen usurped the throne on Henry's death.'"

"Quite right, quite right," said Matilda; "perfectly correct."

"'Matilda, after a civil war, in which her bad temper made her many enemies—'"

"Oh you story!" exclaimed the empress. "Oh! you wicked young man!"

"Address the judge, please," said Henry the Eighth.

"Oh, you wicked young man," repeated the empress, turning to the bench; "I'd like to scratch you, I would!"

"Don't do that," said Henry: "I get quite enough of that at home, I assure you. Anyhow, Nigger can chalk it down a lie for you, eh?"

"And one for me, too, please," said Stephen. "How can a fellow usurp what belongs to him?"

"Give it up," said Coeur de Lion. "Ask another."

"Silence in the court," cried the judge. "Put it down, Nigger, and for mercy sake drive on, or we shall be here all night."

"'Henry the Second murdered Thomas a Becket, and was served right by having a family of bad sons,'" read the usher.

"That's nice!" said Henry, advancing. "Bad sons, indeed! Never had a better lot in all my life. Really, my lord, that ought to count for four lies right off. The idea of calling my Johnny a bad boy. Why, my lord, he was his father's own boy. You've only to look at him; and if he was a bit of a romp, why, so were you and I in our day."