 Story 3 of the Magic World. This Librivox recording is in the public domain, Recording by Ruth Golding. The Magic World by E. Nesbitt. 3. Accidental Magic, or Don't Tell All You Know. Quentin DeWard was rather a nice little boy, but he had never been with other little boys, and that made him in some ways a little different from other little boys. His father was in India, and he and his mother lived in a little house in the New Forest. The house, it was a cottage, really, but even a cottage as a house, isn't it, was very pretty and thatched, and had a porch covered with honeysuckle and ivy and white roses, and straight red hollyhocks with trained to stand up in a row against the south wall of it. The two lived quite alone, and as they had no one else to talk to, they talked to each other a good deal. Mrs. DeWard read a great many books, and she used to tell Quentin about them afterwards. They were usually books about out-of-the-way things, for Mrs. DeWard was interested in all the things that people are not quite sure about, the things that are hidden and secret, wonderful and mysterious, the things people make discoveries about, so that when the two were having their tea on the little brick terrace in front of the hollyhocks, with the white cloth flapping in the breeze and the wasps hovering round the jam-pot, it was no uncommon thing for Quentin to say thickly through his bread and jam, I say, mother, tell me some more about Atlantis, or, mother, tell me some more about ancient Egypt and the little toy boats they made for their little boys, or, mother, tell me about the people who think Lord Bacon wrote Shakespeare. And his mother always told him as much as she thought he could understand, and he always understood quite half of what she told him. They always talked the things out thoroughly, and thus he learned to be fond of arguing and to enjoy using his brains, just as you enjoy using your muscles in the football field or the gymnasium. Also, he came to know quite a lot of odd out-of-the-way things, and to have opinions of his own concerning the lost kingdom of Atlantis, and the man with the iron mask, the building of Stonehenge, the pre-dynastic Egyptians, cuneiform writings and Assyrian sculptures, the Mexican pyramids, and the shipping activities of Tyre and Sidon. Quentin did no regular lessons such as most boys have, but he read all sorts of books and made notes from them in a large and straggling handwriting. You will already have supposed that Quentin was a prig, but he wasn't, and you would have owned this if you had seen him scampering through the Greenwood on his quiet New Forest pony, or setting snares for the rabbits that would get into the garden and eat the precious lettuces and parsley. Also, he fished in the little streams that run through that lovely land, and shot with a bow and arrows, and he was a very good shot too. Besides this, he collected stamps and bird's eggs and picture-postcards, and kept guinea-pigs and bantams, and climbed trees and tore his clothes in twenty different ways, and once he fought the grocer's boy and got licked and didn't cry, and made friends with the grocer's boy afterwards, and got him to show him all he knew about fighting. So you see, he was really not a mug. He was ten years old, and he had enjoyed every moment of his ten years, even the sleeping ones, because he always dreamed jolly dreams, that he could not always remember what they were. I tell you all this, so that you may understand why he said what he did, when his mother broke the news to him. He was sitting by the stream that ran along the end of the garden, making bricks of the clay that the stream's banks were made of. He dried them in the sun, and then baked them under the kitchen stove. It is quite a good way to make bricks. You might try it sometimes. His mother came out, looking just as usual, in her pink cotton gown and her pink sun-bonnet, and she had a letter in her hand. Hello, boy of my heart! she said. Very busy. Yes, said Quentin, importantly, not looking up and going on with his work. I'm making stones to build Stonehenge with. You all show me how to build it, won't you, mother? Yes, dear, she said absently. Yes, if I can. Of course you can, he said. You can do everything. She sat down on a tuft of grass near him. Quentin, dear, she said, and something in her voice made him look up suddenly. Oh, mother, what is it? he asked. Daddy's been wounded, she said. He's all right now, dear. Don't be frightened. Only I've got to go out to him. I shall meet him in Egypt. And you must go to school in Salisbury, a very nice school, dear, till I come back. Can't I come too? he asked. And when he understood that he could not, he went on with the bricks in silence, with his mouth shut very tight. After a moment he said, Salisbury, then I shall see Stonehenge. Yes, said his mother, pleased that he took the news so calmly. You'll be sure to see Stonehenge some time. He stood still, looking down at the little mould of clay in his hand, so still that his mother got up and came close to him. Quentin, she said, darling, what is it? He leaned his head against her. I won't make a fuss, he said, but you can't begin to be brave the very first minute, or if you do you can't go on being. And with that he began to cry, though he had not cried after the affair of the grossest boy. The thought of school was not so terrible to Quentin as Mrs. DeWard had thought it would be. In fact, he rather liked it, with half his mind, but the other half didn't like it, because it meant parting from his mother, who so far had been his only friend. But it was exciting to be taken to Southampton and have all sorts of new clothes bought for you, and a school trunk, and a little polished box that locked up, to keep your money in and your gold sleeve-links and your watch and chain when you were not wearing them. Also, the journey to Salisbury was made in a motor, which was very exciting, of course, and rather took Quentin's mind off the parting with his mother, as she meant it should. And there was a very grand lunch at the White Heart Hotel at Salisbury, and then, very suddenly indeed, it was goodbye, goodbye, and the motor snorted and hooted and throbbed and rushed away, and mother was gone and Quentin was at school. I believe it was quite a nice school. It was in a very nice house, with a large, quiet garden, and there were only about twenty boys, and the masters were kind, and the boys no worse than other boys of their age. But Quentin hated it from the very beginning. For when his mother had gone, the headmaster said, school will be out in half an hour, take a book to ward, and gave him little Eric and his friends, a mere baby book. It was too silly. He could not read it. He saw on a shelf near him Smith's antiquities, a very old friend of his, so he said, I'd rather have this, please. You should say, sir, when you speak to a master, the head said to him, take the book by all means. To himself the head said, I wish you joy of it, you little prig. When school was over one of the boys was told to show Quentin his bed and his locker. The matron had already unpacked his box, and his pile of books was waiting for him to carry it over. Golly, what a lot of books! said Smithson, minor. What's this, Atlantis? Is it a jolly story? It isn't a story, said Quentin. And just then the classical master came by. What's that about Atlantis? he said. It's a book the new chap's got! said Smithson. The classical master glanced at the book. And how much do you understand of this? he asked, fluttering the leaves. Nearly all I think, said Quentin. You should say, sir, when you speak to a master, said the classical one. And to himself he added, little prig. Then he said to Quentin, I'm afraid you'll find yourself rather out of your element among ordinary boys. I don't think so, said Quentin, calmly, adding as an afterthought. Sir? I'm glad you're so confident, said the classical master, and went. My word, said Smithson, minor, in a rather awed voice. You did answer him back. Of course I did, said Quentin. Don't you answer when you're spoken to? Smithson, minor, informed the interested school that the new chap was a prig. But he had a cool cheek, and that some sport might be expected. After supper the boys had half an hour's recreation. Quentin, who was tired, picked up a book which a big boy had just put down. It was the Midsummer Night's Dream. Ah, you kid, said the big boy, don't pretend you read Shakespeare for fun, that simple swank, you know. I don't know what swank is, said Quentin, but I like the Midsummer, whoever wrote it. Whoever what? Well, said Quentin, there's a good deal to be said for its being bacon who wrote the plays. Of course that settled it. From that moment he was called not Deward, which was strange enough, but Bacon. He rather liked that. But the next day it was pork, and the day after pig, and that was unbearable. He was at the bottom of his class, for he knew no Latin as it is taught in schools, only odd words that English words come from, and some Latin words that are used in science. And I cannot pretend that his arithmetic was anything but contemptible. The book called Atlantis had been looked at by most of the school, and Smithson Major, not nearly such an agreeable boy as his brother, hit on a new nickname. Atlantic pork's a good name for a swanker, he said. You know the rotten meat they have in Chicago. This was in the playground before dinner. Quentin, who had to keep his mouth shut, varied tight these days, because of course a boy of ten cannot cry before other chats, shut the book he was reading and looked up. I won't be called that, he said quietly. Who said you wouldn't? said Smithson Major, who after all was only twelve. I say you will. If you call me that, I shall hit you, said Quentin, as hard as I can. A roar of laughter went up, and cries of poor old Smithson, apologise Smithy, and leave the omnibus. And what should I be doing while you were hitting me?" asked Smithson contemptuously. I don't know, and I don't care, said Quentin. Smithson looked round. No master was in sight. It seemed an excellent opportunity to teach Young de Ward his place. Atlantic pig swine, he said very deliberately, and Quentin sprang at him, and instantly it was a fight. Now Quentin had only once fought, really fought, before. Then it was the grossest boy, and he had been beaten. But he had learned something since, and the chief conclusion he now drew from his memories of that fight, was that he had not hit half-hard enough, an opinion almost universal among those who have fought and not won. As the fist of Smithson Major described a half-circle and hurt his ear very much, Quentin suddenly screwed himself up, and hit out with his right hand straight and with his whole weight behind the blow as the grossest boy had shown him. All his grief for his wounded father, his sorrow at the parting from his mother, all his hatred of his school, and his contempt for his school fellows, went into that blow. It landed on the point of the chin of Smithson Major, who fell together like a heap of rags. Oh! said Quentin, gazing with interest at his hand, it hurt a good deal, but he looked at it with respect. I'm afraid I've hurt him. He had forgotten for a moment that he was in an enemy's country, and so apparently had his enemies. Well done, Piggy! Bravo, young'un! Well, hit by Jove! Friendly hands thumped him on the back. Smithson Major was no popular hero. Quentin felt, as his school fellows would have put it, bucked. It is one thing to be called Piggy in enmity and derision, another to be called Piggy, an affectionate diminutive, after all, to the chorus of admiring smacks. Get up, Smithy! cried the ring. Want any more? It appeared that Smithy did not want any more. He lay not moving at all, and very white. I say! the crowd's temper veered. You've killed him, I expect! I wouldn't like to be you, Bacon! Pig, you notice, for aggravation. Piggy in enthusiastic applause. In the moment of possible tragedy, the more formal Bacon. I haven't," said Quentin, very white himself, but if I have, he began by calling names. Smithson moved and grunted. A sigh of relief swept the ring as a breeze sweeps a cornfield. He's all right, a fair knockout. Piggy's got the use of them, do Smithy good. The voices hushed suddenly. A master was on the scene, the classical master. Fighting, he said, the new boy, who began it? I did, said Quentin, but he began with calling names. Sneak! murmured the entire school, and Quentin, who had seen no reason for not speaking the truth, perceived that one should not tell all one knows, and that once more he stood alone in the world. You'll go to your roomed award," said the classical master, bending over Smithson, who, having been knocked silly, still remained in that condition, and the headmaster will consider your case tomorrow. He will probably be expelled. Quentin went to his room and thought over his position. It seemed to be desperate. How was he to know that the classical master was even then saying to the head, He's got something in him, prig or no prig, sir. You were quite right to send him to his room," said the head. Discipline must be maintained, as Mr. Duckett says, but it will do Smithson major a world of good. A boy who reads Shakespeare for fun and has views about Atlantis and can knock out a bully as well, he'll be a par in the school, but we mustn't let him know it. That was rather a pity, because Quentin furious at the injustice of the whole thing. Smithson, the aggressor, consoled with, himself punished, expulsion threatened, was maturing plans. If mother had known what it was like, he said to himself, she would never have left me here. I've got the two pounds she gave me. I shall go to the White Heart at Salisbury. No, they'd find me then. I'll go to Lindhurst and write to her. It's better to run away than to be expelled. Quentin Derwood would never have waited to be expelled from anywhere. Of course Quentin Derwood was my hero's hero. It could not be otherwise, since his own name was so like that of the Scottish guardsman. Now the school in Salisbury was a little school for little boys, boys who were used to schools, and took the rough with the smooths. But Quentin was not used to schools, and he had taken the rough very much to heart, so much that he did not mean to take any more of it. His dinner was brought up on a tray, bread and water. He put the bread in his pocket. Then, when he knew that everyone was at dinner in the long dining-room at the back of the house, he just walked very quietly down the stairs, opened the side door, and marched out, down the garden path, and out at the tradesman's gate. He knew better than to shut either gate or door. He went quickly down the street, turned the first corner he came to, so as to get out of sight of the school. He turned another corner, went through an archway, and found himself in an in-yard, very quiet indeed. Only a liver-coloured lurcher-dog wagged a sleepy tail on the hot flagstones. Quentin was just turning to go back through the arch, for there was no other way out of the yard, when he saw a big, covered cart, whose horse wore a nose-bag, and looked as if there was no hurry. The cart bore the name Miles, Carrier, Lindhurst. Quentin knew all about lifts. He had often begged them and got them. Now there was no one to ask, but he felt he could very well explain later that he had wanted a lift much better than now, in fact, when he might be caught at any moment by someone from the school. He climbed up by the shaft. There were boxes and packages of all sorts in the cart, and at the back an empty crate with sacking over it. He got into the crate, pulled the sacking over himself, and settled down to eat his bread. Presently the Carrier came out, and there was talk, slow, long-drawn talk. After a long while, the cart shook to the Carrier's heavy climb into it. After the harness rattled, the cart lurched, and the wheels were loud and bumpy over the cobblestones of the yard. Quentin felt safe. The glow of anger was still hot in him, and he was glad to think how they would look for him all over the town, in vain. He lifted the sacking at one corner so that he could look out between the canvas of the cart's back and side, and hoped to see the Classical Master distractedly looking for him. But the streets were very sleepy. Everyone in Salisbury was having dinner, or in the case of the affluent, lunch. The black horse seemed as sleepy as the streets and went very slowly. Also it stopped very often, and wherever there were parcels to leave, there were slow, long talkings to be exchanged. I think perhaps Quentin dozed a good deal under his sacks. At any rate it was with a shock of surprise that he suddenly heard the Carrier's voice saying, as the horse stopped with a jerk, there's a crate for you, Mrs. Barrack, returned empty, and knew that that crate was not empty, but full, full of boy. I'll go and call Joel, said a voice, Mrs. Barrack's Quentin supposed, and slow feet stumped away over stones. Mr. Miles leisurely untied the tail of the cart, ready to let the crate be taken out. Quentin spent a paralytic moment. What could he do? And then, luckily or unluckily, a reckless motor tore past and the black horse plunged, and Mr. Miles had to go to its head and talk pretty to it for a minute. And in that minute Quentin lifted the sacking and looked out. It was low sunset, and the street was deserted. He stepped out of the crate, dropped to the ground, and slipped behind a stout and friendly water-butt that seemed to offer protective shelter. Joe came, and the crate was taken down. You haven't seen nothing of that there runaway boy by chance? Said a new voice, Joe's no doubt. What boy? said Mr. Miles. Run away from school, Salisbury, said Joe. Telegrams far near, so they be, little varmin. I ain't seen no boys, not more an ordinary, said Mr. Miles. Big as flies, they be, here, there, and everywhere, drum. Six months, correct. So long, Joe. The cart rattled away. Joe and the crate blundered out of hearing, and Quentin looked cautiously round the water-butt. This was an adventure. But he was cooler now than he had been at starting. His hot anger had died down. He would have been contented he could not help feeling with a less adventurous adventure. But he was in for it now. He felt, as I suppose, people feel when they jump off cliffs with parachutes, that return was impossible. Hastily turning his school cap inside out, the only disguise he could think of, he emerged from the water-butt's seclusion and into the street, trying to look as if there was no reason why he should not be there. He did not know the village, it was not Lindhurst, and, of course, asking the way was not to be thought of. There was a piece of sacking lying on the road, it must have dropped from the carrier's cart. He picked it up and put it over his shoulders. A deeper disguise, he said, and walked on. He walked steadily for a long, long way, as it seemed, and the world got darker and darker. But he kept on. Surely he must presently come to some village or some signpost. Anyhow, whatever happened he could not go back. That was the one certain thing. The broad stretches of country to right and left held no shapes of houses, no glimmer of warm candle-light. They were bare and bleak, only broken by circles of trees that stood out like black islands in the misty grey of the twilight. I shall have to sleep behind a hedge, he said, bravely enough. But there did not seem to be any hedges. And then, quite suddenly, he came upon it. A scattered building, half transparent, as it seemed, showing black against the last faint pink and primrose of the sunset. He stopped, took a few steps off the road on short, crisp turf that rose in a gentle slope. And at the end of a dozen paces he knew it. Stonehenge. Stonehenge he had always wanted so desperately to see. Well, he saw it now, more or less. He stopped to think. He knew that Stonehenge stands all alone on Salisbury plain. He was very tired. His mother had told him about a girl in a book who slept all night on the altar-stone at Stonehenge. So it was a thing that people did to sleep there. He was not afraid, as you or I might have been, of that lonely, desolate ruin of a temple of long ago. He was used to the forest, and compared with the forest any building is home-like. There was just enough light left amid the stones of the wonderful broken circle to guide him to its centre. As he went, his hand brushed a plant. He caught at it, and a little group of flowers came away in his hand. Saint John's worked, he said, that's the magic flower. And he remembered that it is only magic when you pluck it on Midsummer Eve. And this is Midsummer Eve, he told himself, and put it in his buttonhole. I don't know where the altar-stone is, he said, but that looks a cosy little crack between those two big stones. He crept into it and lay down on a flat stone that stretched between and under two fallen pillars. The night was soft and warm. It was Midsummer Eve. Mother isn't going till the twenty-sixth, he told himself. I shall not bother about hotels. I shall send her a telegram in the morning and get a carriage at the nearest stables and go straight back to her. No, she won't be angry when she hears all about it. I'll ask her to let me go to sea instead of to school. It's much more manly. Much more manly. Much, much more. Much. He was asleep, and the wild west wind that swept across the plain spared the little corner where he lay asleep, curled up in his sacking with the inside-out school cap doubled twice for pillow. He fell asleep on the smooth, solid, steady stone. He awoke on the stone in a world that rocked as sea-boats rock on a choppy sea. He went to sleep between fallen, moveless pillars of a ruin older than any world that history knows. He awoke in the shade of a purple awning through which strong sunlight filtered and purple curtains that flapped and strained in the wind, and there was a smell, a sweet, familiar smell of tarred ropes and the sea. I say, said Quentin to himself, here's a run, go! He had learned that expression in a school in Salisbury a long time ago, as it seemed. The stone on which he lay dipped and rose to a rhythm which he knew well enough, he had felt it when he and his mother went in a little boat from Keyhaven to Alam Bay in the Isle of Wight. There was no doubt in his mind he was on a ship. But how? But why? Who could have carried him all that way without waking him? Was it magic? Accidental magic? The St. John's work, perhaps? And the stone, it was not the same. It was new, clean cut, and where the wind displaced a corner of the curtain dazzlingly white in the sunlight, there was the pat-pat of bare feet on the deck, a dull sort of shuffling as though people were arranging themselves. And then people outside the awning began to sing. It was a strange song, not at all like any music you or I have ever heard. It had no tune, no more tune than a drum has or a trumpet, but it had a sort of wild, rough, glorious, exciting splendour about it, and gave you the sort of intense, all alive feeling that drums and trumpets give. Quentin lifted a corner of the purple curtain and looked out. Instantly the song stopped, drowned in the deepest silence Quentin had ever imagined. It was only broken by the flip-flapping of the sheets against the masts of the ship. For it was a ship, Quentin saw that as the bulwark dipped to show him an unending waste of sea broken by bigger waves than he had ever dreamed of. He saw also a crowd of men, dressed in white and blue and purple and gold. Their right arms were raised towards the sun, half of whose face showed across the sea, but they seemed to be, as my old nurse used to say, struck so, for their eyes were not fixed on the sun, but on Quentin. And not in anger, he noticed curiously, but with surprise, and could it be that they were afraid of him? Quentin was shivering with the surprise and newness of it all. He had read about magic, but he had not wholly believed in it, and yet now, if this was not magic, what was it? You go to sleep on an old stone in a ruin. You wake on the same stone quite new, on a ship. Magic, magic, if ever there was magic in this wonderful, mysterious world. The silence became awkward, someone had to say something. Good morning, said Quentin, feeling that he ought perhaps to be the one. Instantly everyone in sight fell on his face on the deck. Only one, a tall man with a black beard and a blue mantle, stood up and looked Quentin in the eyes. Who are you? he said. Answer I adjure you by the sacred towel. Now this was very odd, and Quentin could never understand it, but when this man spoke, Quentin understood him perfectly, and yet at the same time he knew that the man was speaking a foreign language, so that his thought was not, hello you speak English, but hello I can understand your language. I am Quentin DeWard, he said. A name from other stars, how came you here? Asked the blue mantled man. I don't know, said Quentin. He does not know, he did not sail with us. It is by magic that he is here, said Blue Mantle. Rise all and greet the chosen of the gods. They rose from the deck, and Quentin saw that they were all bearded men, with bright, earnest eyes, dressed in strange dress of something like jersey and tunic and heavy golden ornaments. Hail chosen of the gods, cried Blue Mantle, who seemed to be the leader. Hail chosen of the gods, echoed the rest. Thank you very much, I'm sure, said Quentin. And what is this stone? asked Blue Mantle, pointing to the stone on which Quentin sat. And Quentin, anxious to show off his knowledge, said, I'm not quite sure, but I think it's the altar stone of Stonehenge. It is proved, said Blue Mantle, thou art the chosen of the gods. Is there anything my lord needs? he added, humbly. I'm rather hungry, said Quentin. It's a long time since dinner, you know. They brought him bread and bananas and oranges. Take, said Blue Mantle, of the fruits of the earth, and specially of this which gives drink and meat and ointment to man, suddenly offering a large coconut. Quentin took with appropriate thank yous and your very kinds. Nothing, said Blue Mantle, is too good for the chosen of the gods. All that we have is yours to the very last day of your life. You have only to command and we obey. You will like to eat in seclusion, and afterwards you will let us behold the whole person of the chosen of the gods. Quentin retired into the purple tent with the fruits and the coconut. As you know, a coconut is not handy to get at the inside of at the best of times, so Quentin set that aside, meaning to ask Blue Mantle later on for a gimlet and a hammer. When he had had enough to eat, he peeped out again. Blue Mantle was on the watch and came quickly forward. Now, said he, very crossly indeed, tell me how you got here. This chosen of the gods business is all very well for the vulgar, but you and I know that there is no such thing as magic. Speak for yourself, said Quentin, if I am not here by magic, I am not here at all. Yes you are, said Blue Mantle. I know I am, said Quentin, but if I am not here by magic, what am I here by? Stowawayishness, said Blue Mantle. If you think that, why don't you treat me as a stowaway? Because of public opinion, said Blue Mantle, rubbing his nose in an angry sort of perplexedness. Very well, said Quentin, who was feeling so surprised and bewildered that it was a real relief to him to bully somebody. Now look here. I came here by magic, accidental magic. I belong to quite a different world from yours. But perhaps you are right about my being the chosen of the gods. And I shan't tell you anything about my world, but I command you by the sacred towel— he had been quick enough to catch and remember the word—to tell me who you are and where you come from and where you are going. Blue Mantle shrugged his shoulders. Oh, well, he said, if you invoke the sacred names of power, but I don't call it fair play, especially as you know perfectly well, and just want to browbeat me into telling lies, I shall not tell lies, I shall tell you the truth. I hoped you would, said Quentin, gently. Well, then, said Blue Mantle, I am a priest of Poseidon, and I come from the great and immortal kingdom of Atlantis. From the temple where the gold statue is, with the twelve seahorses in gold, Quentin asked eagerly. Ah, I knew you knew all about it, said Blue Mantle, so I don't need to tell you that I am taking the sacred stone on which you are sitting, profanely if you are a mere stowaway and not the chosen of the gods, to complete the splendid structure of a temple built on a great plain in the second of the islands which are our colonies in the north-east. Tell me all about Atlantis, said Quentin, and the priest, protesting that Quentin knew as much about it as he did, told. And all the time the ship was plowing through the waves, sometimes sailing, sometimes rode by hidden rowers with long oars, and Quentin was served in all things as though he had been a king. If he had insisted that he was not the chosen of the gods, everything might have been different, but he did not, and he was very anxious to show how much he knew about Atlantis, and sometimes he was wrong, the priest said, but much more often he was right. We are less than three days journey now from the eastern isles, Blue Mantle said one day, and I warn you that if you are a mere stowaway you had better own it, because if you persist in calling yourself the chosen of the gods, you will be expected to act as such to the very end. I don't call myself anything, said Quentin, though I am not a stowaway anyhow, and I don't know how I came here, so of course it was magic. It's simply silly you're being so cross, I can't help being here. Let's be friends." Well, said Blue Mantle, much less crossly, I never believed in magic, though I am a priest, but if it is, it is. We may as well be friends, as you call it. It isn't for very long, anyway, he added mysteriously. And then, to show his friendliness, he took Quentin all over the ship, and explained it all to him. And Quentin enjoyed himself thoroughly, though every now and then he had to pinch himself to make sure that he was awake. And he was fared well all the time, and all the time made much of, so that when the ship reached land he was quite sorry. The ship anchored by a stone key most solid and serviceable, and everyone was very busy. Quentin kept out of sight behind the purple curtains. The sailors and the priests and the priest's attendants and everybody on the boat had asked him so many questions, and been so curious about his clothes, that he was not anxious to hear any more questions asked, or to have to invent answers to them. And after a very great deal of talk, almost as much as Mr. Miles's carrying had needed, the altar stone was lifted, Quentin, curtains, awning, and all, and carried along a gangway to the shore. And there it was put on a sort of cart, more like what people in Manchester call a lurry than anything else I can think of. The wheels were made of solid circles of wood bound round with copper, and the cart was drawn by not horses or donkeys or oxen or even dogs, but by an enormous creature more like an elephant than anything else, only it had long hair, rather like the hair worn by goats. You, perhaps, would not have known what this vast creature was, but Quentin, who had all sorts of out-of-the-way information packed in his head, knew at once that it was a mammoth. And by that he knew, too, that he had slipped back many thousands of years, because, of course, it is a very long time indeed since there were any mammoths alive and able to draw lurries. And the car and the priest and the priest's retinue and the stone and Quentin and the mammoth journeyed slowly away from the coast, passing through great green forests and among strange grey mountains. Where were they journeying? Quentin asked the same question you may be sure, and Blue Mantle told him, to Stonehenge. And Quentin understood him perfectly, though Stonehenge was not the word Blue Mantle used or anything like it. The great temple is now complete, he said, all but the altar stone. It will be the most wonderful temple ever built in any of the colonies of Atlantis, and it will be consecrated on the longest day of the year. Mid-summer day, said Quentin thoughtlessly, and as usual anxious to tell all he knew, I know the sun strikes through the arch onto the altar stone at sunrise. Hundreds of people go to see it. The ruins are quite crowded sometimes, I believe. Ruins? said the priest in a terrible voice. Crowded ruins? I mean, said Quentin hastily, the sun will still shine the same way even when the temple is in ruins, won't it? The temple, said the priest, is built to defy time. It will never be in ruins. That's all you know, said Quentin, not very politely. It is not by any means all I know, said the priest. I do not tell all I know, nor do you. I used to, said Quentin, but I shan't any more. It only leads to trouble. I see that now. Now, though Quentin had been intensely interested in everything he had seen in the ship and on the journey, you may be sure he had not lost sight of the need there was to get back out of this time of Atlantis into his own time. He knew that he must have got into these Atlantean times by some very simple accidental magic, and he felt no doubt that he should get back in the same way. He felt almost sure that the reverse action, so to speak, of the magic would begin when the stone got back to the place where it had lain for so many thousand years before he happened to go to sleep on it and to start, perhaps by the St. John's word, the accidental magic. If only when he got back there he could think of the compelling the magic word. And now the slow procession wound over the downs, and far away across the plain, which was almost just the same then as it is now, Quentin saw what he knew must be Stonehenge. But it was no longer the grey pile of ruins that you have perhaps seen, or have at any rate seen pictures of. From afar one could see the gleam of yellow gold and red copper, the flutter of purple curtains, the glitter and dazzle of shimmering silver. As they drew near to the spot, Quentin perceived that the great stones, he remembered, were overlaid with ornamental work, with vivid bright-coloured paintings. The whole thing was a great circular building, every stone in its place. At a mile or two distant, lay a town, and in that town, with every possible luxury, served with every circumstance of servile homage, Quentin ate and slept. I wish I had time to tell you what that town was like where he slept and ate, but I have not. You can read for yourself some day what Atlantis was like. Plato tells us a good deal, and the colonies of Atlantis must have had at least a reasonable second-rate copy of the cities of that fair and lovely land. That night, for the first time since he had first gone to sleep on the altar stone, Quentin slept apart from it. He lay on a wooden couch, strewn with soft bare skins, and a woollen coverlet was laid over him, and he slept soundly. In the middle of the night, as it seemed, Blue Mantle woke him. Come, he said, chosen of the gods, since you will be that, and no stow away, the hour draws nigh. The mammoth was waiting. Quentin and Blue Mantle rode on its back to the outer porch of the new temple of Stonehenge. Rows of priests and attendants robed in white and blue and purple, formed a sort of avenue, up which Blue Mantle led the chosen of the gods, who was Quentin. They took off his jacket and put a white dress on him, rather like a night-shirt without sleeves, and they put a thick wreath of London pride on his head, and another larger and longer round his neck. If only their chaps at school could see me now, he said to himself proudly, and by this time it was grey dawn. Lie down now, said Blue Mantle. Lie down, O beloved of the gods, upon the altar stone, for the last time. I shall be able to go then," Quentin asked. This accidental magic was he perceived a tricky thing, and he wanted to be sure. You will not be able to stay, said the priest. If going is what you desire, the desire of the chosen of the gods is fully granted. The grass on the plain, far and near, rustled with the tread of many feet, the cold air of dawn, thrilled to the awed murmur of many voices. Quentin lay down with his pink wreaths and his white robe, and watched the quickening pinkiness of the east, and slowly the great circle of the temple filled with white-robed folk, all carrying in their hands the faint pinkiness of the flowers which we nowadays call London pride. And all eyes were fixed on the arch through which, at sunrise on Midsummer Day, the sun's first beam should fall upon the white, new, clean altar stone. The stone is still there, after all these thousands of years, and at sunrise on Midsummer Day the sun's first rays still falls on it. The sky grew lighter and lighter, and at last the sun peered redly over the down, and the first ray of the morning sunlight fell full on the altar stone and on the face of Quentin. And, as it did so, a very tall, white-robed priest with a deerskin apron and a curious winged headdress stepped forward. He carried a great bronze knife, and he waved it ten times in the shaft of sunlight that shot through the arch and onto the altar stone. Thus, he cried, thus do I bathe the sacred blade in the pure fountain of all light, all wisdom, all splendour. In the name of the ten kings, the ten virtues, the ten hopes, the ten fears, I make my weapon clean. May this temple of our love and our desire endure for ever, so long as the glory of our Lord the Son is shed upon this earth. May the sacrifice I now humbly and proudly offer be acceptable to the gods by whom it has been so miraculously provided. Chosen of the gods, return to the gods who sent thee. A roar of voices rang through the temple. The bronze knife was raised over Quentin. He could not believe that this horror was the end of all these wonderful happenings. No, no! he cried. It's not true. I'm not the chosen of the gods. I'm only a little boy that's got here by accidental magic. Silence! cried the priest. Chosen of the immortals, close your eyes. It will not hurt. This life is only a dream. The other life is the real life. Be strong. Be brave. Quentin was not brave, but he shut his eyes. He could not help it. The glitter of the bronze knife in the sunlight was too strong for him. He could not believe that this could really have happened to him. Everyone had been so kind, so friendly to him, and it was all for this. Suddenly a sharp touch at his side told him that for this indeed it had all been. He felt the point of the knife. Mother! he cried and opened his eyes again. He always felt quite sure afterwards that mother was the master-word, the spell of spells. For when he opened his eyes there was no priest, no white-robed worshippers, no splendour of colour and metal, no chosen of the gods, no knife. Only a little boy, with a piece of sacking over him, damp with the night-dues, lying on a stone amid the grey ruins of Stonehenge, and all about him a crowd of tourists who had come to see the sun's first shaft strike the age-old altar of Stonehenge on Midsummer Day in the morning. And instead of a knife-point at his side there was only the feral of the umbrella of an elderly and retired tea-merchant in a Macintosh and an alpine hat, a feral which had prodded the sleeping boy so unexpectedly surprised on the very altar-stone where the sun's ray now lingered. And then, in a moment, he knew that he had not uttered the spell in vain, the word of compelling, the word of power. For his mother was there, kneeling beside him. I am sorry to say that he cried as he clung to her. We cannot all of us be brave always. The tourists were very kind and interested, and the tea-merchant insisted on giving Quentin something out of a flask, which was so nasty that Quentin only pretended to drink out of politeness. His mother had a carriage waiting, and they escaped to it while the tourists were saying, How romantic! and asking each other whatever in the world had happened. But how did you come to be there, darling? said his mother, with warm hands comfortingly round him. I've been looking for you all night. I went to say goodbye to you yesterday. Oh, Quentin, and I found you'd run away. How could you? I'm sorry, said Quentin, if it worried you, I'm sorry. Very, very. I was going to telegraph today. But where have you been? What have you been doing all night?" she asked, caressing him. Is it only one night? said Quentin. I don't know exactly what's happened. It was accidental magic, I think, mother. I'm glad I thought of the right word to get back, though. And he told her all about it. She held him very tightly and let him talk. Perhaps she thought that a little boy to whom accidental magic happened all in a minute, like that, was not exactly the right little boy for that excellent school in Salisbury. Anyhow, she took him to Egypt with her to meet his father, and on the way they happened to see a doctor in London who said, Which is a poor name for accidental magic, and Quentin does not believe it means the same thing at all. Quentin's father is well now, and he has left the army, and father and mother and Quentin live in a jolly little old house in Salisbury, and Quentin is a day-boy at that very same school. He and Smithson Minor are the greatest of friends, but he has never told Smithson Minor about the accidental magic. He has learned now, and learned very thoroughly, that it is not always wise to tell all you know, if he had not owned that he knew that it was the Stonehenge Altarstone. You may think that the accidental magic was all a dream, and that Quentin dreamed it because his mother had told him so much about Atlantis, but then how do you account for his dreaming so much that his mother had never told him? You think that that part wasn't true? Well, it may have been true for anything I know, and I am sure you don't know more about it than I do. End of Story 3. Recording by Ruth Golding. Story 4 of The Magic World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ruth Golding. The Magic World by E. Nesbit. 4. The Princess and the Hedge Pig. But I don't see what way to do, said the Queen for the twentieth time. Whatever we do will end in misfortune, said the King gloomily. You'll see it will. They were sitting in the honeysuckle arbor, talking things over, while the nurse walked up and down the terrace with the new baby in her arms. Yes, dear, said the poor Queen, I've not the slightest doubt I shall. Misfortune comes in many ways, and you can't always know beforehand that a certain way is the way misfortune will come by. But there are things misfortune comes after as surely as night comes after day. For instance, if you let all the water boil away, the kettle will have a hole burnt in it. If you leave the bath taps running and the waste pipe closed, the stairs of your house will sooner or later resemble Niagara. If you leave your purse at home, you won't have it with you when you want to pay your tram fare. And if you throw lighted wax matches at your muslin curtains, your parent will most likely have to pay five pounds to the fire engines for coming round and blowing the fire out with a wet hose. Also, if you are a king and do not invite the wicked fairy to your christening parties, she will come all the same. And if you do ask the wicked fairy, she will come, and in either case it will be the worst for the new princess. So what is a poor monarch to do? Of course there is one way out of the difficulty, and that is not to have a christening party at all. But this offends all the good fairies, and then where are you? All these reflections had presented themselves to the minds of King Ozymandias and his queen, and neither of them could deny that they were in a most awkward situation. They were talking it over for the hundredth time on the palace terrace where the pomegranates and oleanders grew in green tubs, and the marble balustrade is overgrown with roses, red and white and pink and yellow. On the lower terrace the royal nurse was walking up and down with the baby princess that all the fuss was about. The queen's eyes followed the baby admiringly. The darling, she said, Ozymandias, don't you sometimes wish we'd been poor people? Never, said the king decidedly. Well, I do, said the queen, then we could have had just you and me and your sister at the christening, and no fear of—oh, I thought of something. The king's patient expression showed that he did not think it likely that she would have thought of anything useful, but at the first five words his expression changed. You would have said that he pricked up his ears if kings had ears that could be pricked up. What she said was, let's have a secret christening. How? asked the king. The queen was gazing in the direction of the baby with what is called a far-away look in her eyes. Wait a minute, she said slowly. I see it all. Yes. We'll have the party in the cellars. You know they're splendid. My great-grandfather had them built by Lancashire men, yes, interrupted the king. We'll send out the invitations to look like bills. The baker's boy can take them. He's a very nice boy. He made baby laugh yesterday when I was explaining to him about the standard bread. We'll just put one loaf three, a remittance that your earliest convenience will oblige. That'll mean that one person is invited for three o'clock, and on the back we'll write where and why, in invisible ink, lemon juice, you know. And the baker's boy shall be told to ask to see the people, just as they do when they really mean earliest convenience, and then he shall just whisper, deadly secret, lemon juice, hold it to the fire, and come away. Oh, dearest, do say you approve. The king laid down his pipe, set his crown straight, and kissed the queen with great and serious earnestness. You are a wonder, he said. It is the very thing. But the baker's boy is very small. Can we trust him? He is nine, said the queen, and I have sometimes thought that he must be a prince in disguise. He is so very intelligent. The queen's plan was carried out. The cellars, which were really extraordinarily fine, were secretly decorated by the king's confidential man and the queen's confidential maid, and a few of their confidential friends whom they knew they could really trust. You would never have thought they were cellars when the decorations were finished. The walls were hung with white satin and white velvet, with reeds of white roses, and the stone floors were covered with freshly cut turf with white daisies brisk and neat growing in it. The invitations were duly delivered by the baker's boy. On them was written in plain blue ink. The royal baker is one loathed threpence. An early remittance will oblige. And when the people held the letter to the fire, as they were whisperingly instructed to do by the baker's boy, they read in a faint brown writing. King Ozymandias and Queen Eliza invite you to the christening of their daughter, Princess Ozyliza, at three on Wednesday in the palace cellars. P.S. We are obliged to be very secret and careful because of wicked fairies, so please come disguised as a tradesman with a bill, calling for the last time before it leaves your hands. You will understand by this that the king and queen were not as well off as they could wish, so that tradesmen calling at the palace with that sort of message was the last thing likely to excite remark. But as most of the king's subjects were not very well off either, this was merely a bond between the king and his people. They could sympathise with each other and understand each other's troubles in a way impossible to most kings and most nations. You can imagine the excitement in the families of the people who were invited to the christening party and the interest they felt in their costumes. The Lord Chief Justice disguised himself as a shoemaker. He still had his old blue brief bag by him, and a brief bag and a boot bag are very much alike. The Commander-in-Chief dressed as a dog's meat man and wheeled a barrow. The Prime Minister appeared as a tailor. This required no change of dress, and only a slight change of expression. And the other courtiers all disguised themselves perfectly. So did the Good Fairies, who had, of course, been invited, first of all. Benevola, Queen of the Good Fairies, disguised herself as a moon-beam, which can go into any palace and no questions asked. Serena, the next-in-command, dressed as a butterfly, and all the other fairies had disguises equally pretty and tasteful. The Queen looked most kind and beautiful, the King very handsome and manly, and all the guests agreed that the new Princess was the most beautiful baby they had ever seen in all their born days. Everybody brought the most charming christening presents concealed beneath their disguises. The fairies gave the usual gifts, beauty, grace, intelligence, charm, and so on. Everything seemed to be going better than well. But, of course, you know it wasn't. The Lord High Admiral had not been able to get a cook's dress large enough completely to cover his uniform. A bit of an epaulet had peaked out, and the wicked fairy Malevola had spotted it as he went past her to the palace backdoor, near which she had been sitting disguised as a dog without a collar, hiding from the police, and enjoying what she took to be the trouble the royal household were having with their tradesmen. Malevola almost jumped out of her dog-skin when she saw the glitter of that epaulet. Hello! she said, and sniffed quite like a dog. I must look into this! said she, and disguising herself as a toad, she crept unseen into the pipe by which the copper emptied itself into the palace moat. For, of course, there was a copper in one of the palace cellars as there always is in cellars in the North Country. Now this copper had been a great trial to the decorators. If there is anything you don't like about your house, you can either try to conceal it or make a feature of it. And as concealment of the copper was impossible, it was decided to make it a feature by covering it with green moss and planting a tree in it, a little apple-tree all in bloom. It had been very much admired. Malevola hastily altering her disguise to that of a mole, dug her way through the earth that the copper was full of, got to the top, and put out a sharp nose, just as Benevola was saying in that soft voice which Malevola always thought so affected. The princess shall love and be loved all her life long. So she shall, said the wicked fairy, assuming her own shape amid the screams of the audience. Be quiet, you silly cuckoo! she said to the Lord Chamberlain, whose screams were specially piercing. Or I'll give you a christening present, too! Instantly there was a dreadful silence. Only Queen Eliza, who had caught up the baby at Malevola's first word, said feebly, Oh, don't, dear Malevola! And the king said, It isn't exactly a party, don't you know? Quite informal, just a few friends dropped in, eh what? So I perceive! said Malevola, laughing that dreadful laugh of hers which makes other people feel as though they would never be able to laugh anymore. Well, I've dropped in, too. Let's have a look at the child. The poor queen dared not refuse, she tottered forward with the baby in her arms. Heh! said Malevola, Your precious daughter will have beauty and grace, and all the rest of the tougheny, hapeny, rubbish, Those nimminy, pimminy minxes have given her, but she will be turned out of her kingdom. She will have to face her enemies without a single human being to stand by her, And she shall never come to her own again until she finds Malevola hesitated. She could not think of anything sufficiently unlikely. Until she finds! she repeated. A thousand spears to follow her to battle! said a new voice. A thousand spears devoted to her and to her alone. A very young fairy fluttered down from the little apple-tree where she had been hiding among the pink and white blossom. I am very young, I know," she said, apologetically, And I've only just finished my last course of fairy history. So I know that if a fairy stops more than half a second in a curse, she can't go on, and someone else may finish it for her. That is so, Your Majesty, isn't it?" she said, appealing to Benevola. And the Queen of the Fairy said, Yes, that was the law, only it was such an old one most people had forgotten it. You think yourself very clever," said Malevola, But as a matter of fact, you're simply silly. That's the very thing I've provided against. She can't have anyone to stand by her in battle. So she'll lose her kingdom and everyone will be killed, and I shall come to the funeral. It will be enormous," she added, rubbing her hands at the joyous thought. If you've quite finished," said the King politely, And if you're sure you won't take any refreshment, may I wish you a very good afternoon? He held the door open himself, and Malevola went out, chuckling. The whole of the party then burst into tears. Never mind," said the King at last, wiping his eyes with the tails of his ermine. It's a long way off, and perhaps it won't happen after all. But of course it did. The King did what he could to prepare his daughter for the fight in which she was to stand alone against her enemies. He had her taught fencing and riding and shooting both with the crossbow and the longbow, as well as with pistols, rifles and artillery. She learned to dive and to swim, to run and to jump, to box and to wrestle, so that she grew up as strong and healthy as any young man, and could indeed have got the best of her fight with any prince of her own age. But the few princes who called at the palace did not come to fight the princess, and when they heard that the princess had no dowry except the gifts of the fairies, and also what Malevola's gift had been, they all said they had just looked in as they were passing and that they must be going now. Thank you. And went. And then the dreadful thing happened. The tradesman, who had for years been calling for the last time before, etc., really decided to place the matter in other hands. They called in a neighbouring king, who marched his army into Ozymandias's country, conquered the army, the soldiers' wages hadn't been paid for years. Turned out, the king and queen paid the tradesman's bills, had most of the palace walls papered with the receipts and set up housekeeping there himself. Now, when this happened, the princess was away on a visit to her aunt, the Empress of Oriculture, half the world away, and there is no regular post between the two countries, so that when she came home, travelling with a train of fifty-four camels, which is rather slow work, and arrived at her own kingdom, she expected to find all the flags flying and the bells ringing and the streets decked in roses to welcome her home, instead of which nothing of the kind. The streets were all as dull as dull, the shops were closed because it was early closing day and she did not see a single person she knew. She left the fifty-four camels laden with the presents her aunt had given her outside the gates, and rode alone on her own pet camel to the palace, wondering whether perhaps her father had not received the letter she had sent on ahead by carrier pigeon the day before. And when she got to the palace and got off her camel and went in, there was a strange king on her father's throne and a strange queen sat in her mother's place at his side. Where's my father? said the princess, bold as brass, standing on the steps of the throne. And what are you doing there? I might ask you that, said the king. Who are you, anyway? I am the princess Ozzy Liza, said she. Oh, I've heard of you, said the king. You've been expected for some time. Your father's been evicted, so now you know. No, I can't give you his address. Just then someone came and whispered to the queen that fifty-four camels laden with silks and velvets and monkeys and parakeets and the richest treasures of Oriculture were outside the city gate. She put two and two together and whispered to the king, who nodded and said, I wish to make a new law. Everyone fell flat on his face. The law is so much respected in that country. No one called Ozzy Liza is allowed to own property in this kingdom, said the king, turn out that stranger. So the princess was turned out of her father's palace and went out and cried in the palace gardens where she had been so happy when she was little. And the baker's boy, who was now the baker's young man, came by with the standard bread and saw someone crying among the oleanders and went to say cheer up to whoever it was. And it was the princess. He knew her at once. Oh, princess, he said, cheer up. Nothing is ever so bad as it seems. Oh, baker's boy, said she, for she knew him, too. How can I cheer up? I am turned out of my kingdom. I haven't got my father's address, and I have to face my enemies without a single human being to stand by me. That's not true at any rate, said the baker's boy, whose name was Erenaesias. You've got me. If you'll let me be your squire, I'll follow you round the world and help you to fight your enemies. You won't be let, said the princess sadly, but I thank you very much all the same. She dried her eyes and stood up. I must go, she said, and I've nowhere to go, too. Now, as soon as the princess had been turned out of the palace, Erenaesias said, you'd much better have beheaded her for treason. And the king said, I'll tell the archers to pick her off as she leaves the grounds. So, when she stood up, out there among the oleanders, someone on the terrace cried, There she is! and instantly a flight of winged arrows crossed the garden. At the cry Erenaesias flung himself in front of her, clasping her in his arms and turning his back to the arrows. The royal archers were a thousand strong and all excellent shots. Erenaesias felt a thousand arrows sticking into his back. And now my last friend is dead, cried the princess. But being a very strong princess, she dragged him into the shrubbery out of sight of the palace, and then dragged him into the wood and called aloud on Benevala, queen of the fairies. And Benevala came. They've killed my only friend, said the princess. At least, shall I pull out the arrows? If you do, said the fairy, he'll certainly bleed to death. And he'll die if they stay in, said the princess. Not necessarily, said the fairy. Let me cut them a little shorter. She did with her fairy pocket-knife. Now, she said, I'll do what I can, but I'm afraid it'll be a disappointment to you both. Erenaesias, she went on, addressing the unconscious baker's boy with the stumps of the arrows still sticking in him. I command you, as soon as I have vanished, to assume the form of a hedge-pick. The hedge-pick, she exclaimed to the princess, is the only nice person who can live comfortably with a thousand spikes sticking out of him. Yes, I know there are porcupines, but porcupines are vicious and ill-mannered. Goodbye. And with that, she vanished. So did Erenaesias, and the princess found herself alone among the oleanders, and on the green turf was a small and very prickly brown hedge-pick. Oh, dear! she said, now I'm all alone again, and the baker's boy has given his life for mine, and mine isn't worth having. It's worth more than all the world, said a sharp little voice at her feet. Oh, can you talk? she said, quite cheered. Why not? said the hedge-pick, sturdily. It's only the form of the hedge-pick, I've assumed. I'm Erenaesias inside, all right enough. Pick me up in a corner of your mantel, so as not to prick your darling hands. You mustn't call names, you know, said the princess. Even your hedge-pickiness can't excuse such liberties. I'm sorry, princess," said the hedge-pick, but I can't help it. Only human beings speak lies, all other creatures tell the truth. Now I've got a hedge-pick's tongue, it won't speak anything but the truth, and the truth is that I love you more than all the world. Well, said the princess thoughtfully, since you're a hedge-pick, I suppose you may love me, and I may love you, like pet dogs or goldfish. Dear little hedge-pick, then— Don't, said the hedge-pick. Remember, I'm the baker's boy in my mind and soul. My hedge-pickiness is only skin deep. Pick me up, dearest of princesses, and let us go to seek our fortunes. I think it's my parents I ought to seek," said the princess. However—she picked up the hedge-pick in the corner of her mantel, and they went away through the wood. They slept that night at a woodcutter's cottage. The woodcutter was very kind, and made a nice little box of beech wood for the hedge-pick to be carried in, and he told the princess that most of her father's subjects were still loyal, but that no one could fight for him, because they would be fighting for the princess too, and however much they might wish to do this, Malevala's curse assured them that it was impossible. So the princess put her hedge-pick in its little box, and went on, looking everywhere for her father and mother, and, after more adventures than I have time to tell you, she found them at last, living in quite a poor way in a semi-detached villa at Tooting. They were very glad to see her, but when they heard that she meant to try to get back the kingdom, the king said, I shouldn't bother my child, I really shouldn't, we're quite happy here. I have the pension always given to deposed monarchs, and your mother is becoming a really economical manager. The queen blushed with pleasure, and said, Thank you, dear, but if you should succeed in turning that wicked usurper out, Ozzy-Lyzer, I hope I shall be a better queen than I used to be. I am learning housekeeping at an evening-class at the Crownmaker's Institute. The princess kissed her parents, and went out into the garden to think it over. But the garden was small and quite full of wet washing hung on lines, so she went into the road, but that was full of dust and perambulators. Even the wet washing was better than that, so she went back and sat down on the grass in a white alley of tablecloths and sheets, all marked with a crown in indelible ink. And she took the hedge-pig out of the box. It was rolled up in a ball, but she stroked the little bit of soft forehead that you can always find if you look carefully at a rolled-up hedge-pig, and the hedge-pig uncurled and said, I'm afraid I was asleep, princess dear, did you want me? You are the only person who knows all about everything, said she. I haven't told father and mother about the arrows. Now, what do you advise? Erynaeceus was flattered at having his advice asked, but unfortunately he hadn't any to give. It's your work, princess, he said. I can only promise to do anything a hedge-pig can do. It's not much. Of course I could die for you, but that's so useless. Quite, said she. I wish I were invisible, he said dreamily. Oh, where are you? cried Ozzy Liza, for the hedge-pig had vanished. Here, said a sharp little voice, you can't see me, but I can see everything I want to see, and I can see what to do. I'll crawl into my box and you must disguise yourself as an old French governess with the best references, and answer the advertisement that the wicked king put yesterday in the usurper's journal. The queen helped the princess to disguise herself, which of course the queen would never have done if she had known about the arrows, and the king gave her some of his pension to buy a ticket with, so she went back quite quickly by train to her own kingdom. The usurping king at once engaged the French governess to teach his cook to read French cookery books, because the best recipes are in French. Of course he had no idea that there was a princess, THE princess, beneath the governessial disguise. The French lessons were from six to eight in the morning, and from two to four in the afternoon, and all the rest of the time the governess could spend as she liked. She spent it walking about the palace gardens, and talking to her invisible hedge-pig. They talked about everything under the sun, and the hedge-pig was the best of company. How did you become invisible? she asked one day, and it said, I suppose it was benevolous doing, only I think everyone gets one wish granted if they only wish hard enough. On the fifty-fifth day the hedge-pig said, Now, princess dear, I'm going to begin to get you back your kingdom. And next morning the king came down to breakfast in a dreadful rage, with his face covered up in bandages. This palace is haunted, he said. In the middle of the night a dreadful spiked ball was thrown in my face. I lighted a match, there was nothing. The queen said, Nonsense, you must have been dreaming. But next morning it was her turn to come down with a bandaged face. And the night after the king had the spiky ball thrown at him again, and then the queen had it, and then they both had it, so that they couldn't sleep at all and had to lie awake with nothing to think of but their wickedness. And every five minutes a very little voice whispered, Who stole the kingdom? Who killed the princess? Till the king and queen could have screamed with misery. And at last the queen said, We needn't have killed the princess. And the king said, I've been thinking that too. And next day the king said, I don't know that we ought to have taken this kingdom. We had a really high class kingdom of our own. I've been thinking that too, said the queen. By this time their hands and arms and necks and faces and ears were very sore indeed, and they were sick with want of sleep. Look here, said the king. Let's chuck it. Let's write to Ozymandias and tell him he can take over his kingdom again. I've had jolly well enough of this. Let's, said the queen. But we can't bring the princess to life again. I do wish we could. And she cried a little through her bandages into her egg for it was breakfast time. Do you mean that? said a little sharp voice, though there was no one to be seen in the room. The king and queen clung to each other in terror, upsetting the urn over the toast rack. Do you mean it? said the voice again. Answer, yes or no? Yes, said the queen. I don't know who you are, but yes, yes, yes. I can't think how we could have been so wicked. Nor I, said the king. Then send for the French governess, said the voice. Ring the bell, dear, said the queen. I'm sure what it says is right. It is the voice of conscience. I've often heard of it, but I've never heard it before. The king pulled the richly-jeweled bell-rope and ten magnificent green and gold footmen appeared. Please ask ma'am Zeld to step this way, said the queen. The ten magnificent green and gold footmen found the governess beside the marble basin, feeding the goldfish, and bowing their ten green backs, they gave the queen's message. The governess, who everyone agreed was always most obliging, went at once to the pink satin breakfast-room where the king and queen were sitting, almost unrecognisable in their bandages. Yes, your majesties, said she, curtsying. The voice of conscience, said the queen, told us to send for you. Is there any recipe in the French books for bringing shot princesses to life? If so, will you kindly translate it for us? There is one, said the princess thoughtfully, and it is quite simple. Take a king and a queen and the voice of conscience. Place them in a clean pink breakfast-room with eggs, coffee, and toast. Add a full-sized French governess. The king and queen must be thoroughly pricked and bandaged, and the voice of conscience must be very distinct. Is that all? asked the queen. That's all, said the governess, except that the king and queen must have two more bandages over their eyes, and keep them on till the voice of conscience has counted fifty-five very slowly. If you would be so kind, said the queen, as to bandage us with our table napkins, only be careful how you fold them, because our faces are very sore, and the royal monogram is very stiff and hard, owing to its being embroidered in seed pearls by special command. I will be very careful, said the governess kindly. The moment the king and queen were blindfolded, the voice of conscience began, one, two, three, and Ozyliza tore off her disguise, and under the fussy black and violet-spotted alpaca of the French governess was the simple, slim cloth of silver dress of the princess. She stuffed the alpaca up the chimney, and the grey wig into the tea-cozy, and had disposed of the mittens in the coffee-pot and the elastic-side boots in the coal-scuttle, just as the voice of conscience said fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five, and stopped. The king and queen pulled off the bandages, and there, alive and well, with bright clear eyes and pinky cheeks, and a mouth that smiled, was the princess, whom they supposed to have been killed by the thousand arrows of their thousand archers. Before they had time to say a word, the princess said, Good morning, your majesties! I am afraid you have had bad dreams, so have I. Let us all try to forget them. I hope you will stay a little longer in my palace. You are very welcome. I am so sorry you have been hurt. We deserved it, said the queen, and we want to say we have heard the voice of conscience, and do please forgive us. Not another word, said the princess, do let me have some fresh tea made, and some more eggs. These are quite cold, and the urn's been upset. We'll have a new breakfast, and I am so sorry your faces are so sore. If you kissed them, said the voice which the king and queen called the voice of conscience, their faces would not be sore any more. May I, said Oziliza, and kissed the king's ear and the queen's nose, or she could get at through the bandages, and instantly they were quite well. They had a delightful breakfast. Then the king caused the royal household to assemble in the throne room, and there announced that as the princess had come to claim the kingdom, they were returning to their own kingdom by the 317 train on Thursday. Everyone cheered like mad, and the whole town was decorated and illuminated that evening. Flags flew from every house, and the bells all rang just as the princess had expected them to do that day when she came home with the fifty-five camels. All the treasure these had carried was given back to the princess, and the camels themselves were restored to her hardly at all the worse for wear. The usurping king and queen were seen off at the station by the princess, and parted from her with real affection. You see, they weren't completely wicked in their hearts, but they had never had time to think before, and being kept awake at night forced them to think, and the voice of conscience gave them something to think about. They gave the princess the receded bills with which most of the palace was papered in return for board and lodging. When they were gone, a telegram was sent off. Ozymandias Rexesquire, Chatsworth, Delamere Road, Tooting, England. Please come home at once. Palace vacant. Tenants have left. Ozyliza Peay. And they came immediately. When they arrived, the princess told them the whole story, and they kissed and praised her, and called her their deliverer and the saviour of her country. I haven't done anything, she said. It was erinaceous who did everything, and—but the fairy said, interrupted the king, who was never clever at the best of times, that you couldn't get the kingdom back till you had a thousand spears devoted to you, to you alone. There are a thousand spears in my back, said a little sharp voice, and they are all devoted to the princess and to her alone. Don't! said the king irritably. That voice coming out of nothing makes me jump. I can't get used to it either, said the queen. We must have a gold cage built for the little animal, but I must say I wish it was visible. So do I, said the princess earnestly. And instantly it was. I suppose the princess wished it very hard, for there was the hedge-pig with its long, spiky body and its little pointed face, its bright eyes, its small round ears, and its sharp turned-up nose. It looked at the princess, but it did not speak. Say something now, said Queen Eliza. I should like to see a hedge-pig speak. The truth is, if speak I must. I must speak the truth, said Eronaceous. The princess had thrown away her life-wish to make me visible. I wish she had wished instead for something nice for herself. Oh! was that my life-wish? cried the princess. I didn't know, dear hedge-pig. I didn't know. If I'd only known, I would have wished you back into your proper shape. If you had, said the hedge-pig, it would have been the shape of a dead man. Remember that I have a thousand spears in my back, and no man can carry those and live. The princess burst into tears. Oh! you can't go on being a hedge-pig forever! she said. It's not fair. I can't bear it. Oh, mama! Oh, papa! Oh, Benevala! And there stood Benevala before them, a little dazzling figure with blue butterflies' wings and a wreath of moonshine. Well, she said. Well? Oh, you know! said the princess, still crying. I've thrown away my life-wish, and he's still a hedge-pig. Can't you do anything? I can't, said the fairy, but you can. Your kisses are magic kisses. Don't you remember how you cured the king and queen of all the wounds the hedge-pig made by rolling itself onto their faces in the night? But she can't go kissing hedge-pigs, said the queen. It would be most unsuitable. Besides, it would hurt her. But the hedge-pig raised its little pointed face, and the princess took it up in her hands. She had long since learned how to do this without hurting either herself or it. She looked in its little bright eyes. I would kiss you on every one of your thousand spears, she said, to give you what you wish. Kiss me once, it said, where my fur is soft. That is all I wish and enough to live and die for. She stooped her head and kissed it on its forehead where the fur is soft, just where the prickles begin. And instantly she was standing with her hands on a young man's shoulders and her lips on a young man's face, just where the hair begins and the forehead leaves off. And all round his feet lay a pile of fallen arrows. She drew back and looked at him. Erinaceous, she said, you're different from the baker's boy, I mean. When I was an invisible hedge-pig, he said, I knew everything. Now I have forgotten all that wisdom, save only two things. One is that I am a king's son. I was stolen away in infancy by an unprincipled baker, and I am really the son of that usurping king whose face I rolled on in the night. It is a painful thing to roll on your father's face when you are all spiky, but I did it, Princess, for your sake and for my father's too. And now I will go to him and tell him all and ask his forgiveness. You won't go away, said the Princess. Oh, don't go away! What shall I do without my hedge-pig? Erinaceous stood still, looking very handsome and like a prince. What is the other thing that you remember of your hedge-pig wisdom? asked the queen curiously. And Erinaceous answered not to her, but to the Princess. The other thing, Princess, is that I love you. Isn't there a third thing, Erinaceous? said the Princess, looking down. There is, but you must speak that, not I. Oh! said the Princess, a little disappointed. Then you knew that I loved you. Hedge-pigs are very wise little beasts, said Erinaceous, but I only knew that when you told it me. I told you? When you kissed my little pointed face, Princess, said Erinaceous, I knew then. My goodness gracious me, said the King. Quite so, said Benevala, and I wouldn't ask anyone to the wedding. Except you, dear, said the Queen. Well, as I happened to be passing, there's no time like the present, said Benevala briskly. Suppose you give orders for the wedding-bells to be rung now? At once! End of Story 4. Recording by Ruth Golding