Rachel Harriette Busk

When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had missed the end and object of his journey, he forthwith set out again, without loss of time, or so much as returning to his Master and Teacher, NÂgÂrg'una, but taking only a meal of his cake which never diminished; thus, with similar toils and fears as the first time, he came again at last to the cool grove where lay the child-dead, and among them the SiddhÎ-kÜr. And the SiddhÎ-kÜr rose up before him, and clambered up the mango-tree. And when the Well-and-wise-walking Khan had summoned him with proud sounding words to come down, threatening that otherwise he would hew down the tree with his axe “White Moon,” the SiddhÎ-kÜr came down, rather than that he should destroy the mango-tree. Then he bound him again in his bag of many colours, in which was place to stow away an hundred, and bound the mouth thereof with the cord woven of an hundred threads of different tints, and bore him along to offer to his Master and Teacher, NÂgÂrg'una.

But at the end of many days’ journey, the SiddhÎ-kÜr said,—

“Now, in truth, is the length of this journey like to weary us even to death, as we go along thus without speaking. Wherefore, O Prince! let me entreat thee beguile the way by telling a tale.”

But the Well-and-wise-walking Khan, remembering the words of his Master and Teacher NÂgÂrg'una, which he spoke, saying, “See thou open not thy lips to speak by the way,” remained silent, and answered him never a word. Then the SiddhÎ-kÜr, when he found that he could not be brought to answer him, spake again in this wise: “If thou wilt not tell a tale, then, at least, give some token by which I may know if thou willest that I should tell one, and if thou speak not, at least nod thine head backwards towards me; then will I tell a tale.”

So the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards towards the SiddhÎ-kÜr, and the SiddhÎ-kÜr told this tale, saying,—

The Gold-spitting Prince.

Long ages ago there was a far-off country where a mighty Khan ruled. Near the source of the chief river of this country was a pool, where lived two Serpent-gods1, who had command of the water; and as they could shut off the water of the river when they pleased, and prevent it from overflowing and fertilizing the country, the people were obliged to obey their behest, be it what it might. Now, the tribute they exacted of the country was that of a full grown man, to be chosen by lot, every year; and on whoso the lot fell, he had to go, without redemption, whatever his condition in life. Thus it happened one year that the lot fell on the Khan himself. In all the kingdom there was no one of equal rank who could be received instead of him, unless it had been his only son. When his son would have gone in his stead, he answered him, “What is it to me if the Serpents devour me, so that thou, my son, reignest in peace?” But the son said, “Never shall it be that thou, my Khan and father, shouldst suffer this cruel death, while I remain at home. The thought be far from me. Neither will the land receive harm by my death; is not my mother yet alive? and other sons may be born to thee, who shall reign over the land.” So he went to offer himself as food to the Serpent-gods.

As he went along, the people followed him for a long stretch of the way, bewailing him; and then they turned them back. But one there was who turned not back: it was a poor man’s son whom the Prince had all his life had for his friend; he continued following him. Then the Prince turned and said to him, “Walk thou according to the counsels of thy father and thy mother, and be prosperous and happy on the earth. To defend this noble, princely country, and to fulfil the royal word of the Khan, my father, I go forth to be food to the Serpent-gods.”

But the poor man’s son refused to forsake him. “Thou hast loaded me with goodness and favours,” he said, as he wept; “if I may not go instead of thee, at least I will go with thee.” And he continued following the Prince.

When they got near the pool, they heard a low, rumbling, horrible sound: it was the two Serpent-gods talking together, and talking about them, for they were on the look-out to see who would be sent to them this year for the tribute. The old gold-yellow Serpent was telling the young emerald-green Serpent how the Prince had come instead of his father, and how the poor man, who had no need to come at all, had insisted on accompanying him.

“And these people are so devoted in giving their lives for one another,” said the young emerald-green Serpent, “and have not the courage to come out and fight us, and make an end of paying this tribute at all.”

“They don’t know the one only way to fight us,” answered the gold-yellow old Serpent; “and as all the modes they have tried have always failed, they imagine it cannot be done, and they try no more.”

“And what is the one only way by which they could prevail against us?” inquired the young emerald-green Serpent.

“They have only to cut off our heads with a blow of a stout staff,” replied the old gold-yellow Serpent, “for so has ShÊsa, the Serpent-dÆmon, appointed.”

“But these men carry shining swords that look sharp and fearful,” urged the young emerald-green Serpent.

“That is it!” rejoined the other: “their swords avail nothing against us, and so they never think that a mere staff should kill us. Also, if after cutting off our heads they were to eat them, they would be able to spit as much gold and precious stones as ever they liked. But they know nothing of all this,” chuckled the old gold-yellow Serpent.

Meantime, the Prince had not lost a word of all that the two Serpents had said to each other, for his mother had taught him the speech of all manner of creatures. So when he first heard the noise of the Serpents talking together, he had stood still, and listened to their words. Now, therefore, he told it all again to his follower, and they cut two stout staves in the wood, and then drew near, and cut off the heads of the Serpents with the staves—each of them one; and when they had cut them off, the Prince ate the head of the gold-yellow Serpent, and, see! he could spit out as much gold money as ever he liked; and his follower ate the head of the emerald-green Serpent, and he could spit out emeralds as many as ever he pleased.

Then spoke the poor man’s son: “Now that we have killed the Serpents, and restored the due course of the water to our native country, let us return home and live at peace.”

But the Khan’s son answered, “Not so, for if we went back to our own land, the people would only mock us, saying, ‘The dead return not to the living!’ and we should find no place among them. It is better we betake ourselves to another country afar off, which knows us not.”

So they journeyed on through a mountain pass.

At the foot of the mountains they came to the habitation of a beautiful woman and her daughter, selling strong drink to travellers. Here they stopped, and would have refreshed themselves, but the women asked them what means they had to pay them withal, for they saw they looked soiled with travel. “We will pay whatever you desire,” replied the Prince; and he began to spit out gold coin upon the table. When the women saw that he spat out as much gold coin as ever he would, they took them inside, and gave them as much drink as they could take, making them pay in gold, and at many times the worth of the drink, for they no longer knew what they did; only when they had made them quite intoxicated, and they could not get any thing more from them, in despite of all sense of gratitude or hospitality, they turned them out to pass the night on the road.

When they woke in the morning, they journeyed farther till they came to a broad river; on its banks was a palm-grove, and a band of boys were gathered together under it quarrelling.

“Boys! what are you disputing about?” inquired the Prince.

“We found a cap on this palm-tree,” answered one of the boys, “and we are disputing whose it shall be, because we all want it.”

“And what use would the cap be to you? What is it good for?” asked the Prince.

“Why, that whichever of us gets it has only to put it on,” replied the boy, “and he immediately becomes invisible to gods, men, and dÆmons.”

“I will settle the dispute for you,” rejoined the Prince. “You all of you get you to the far end of this palm-grove, and start back running, all fair, together. Whichever wins the race shall be reckoned to have won the cap. Give it to me to hold the while.”

The boys said, “It is well spoken;” and giving the cap to the Prince, they set off to go to the other end of the grove. But they were no sooner well on their way, than the Prince put on the cap, and then joining hands with his companion, both became invisible to gods, men, and dÆmons; so that when the boys came back at full speed, though they were both yet standing in the same place, none of them could see them. After wandering about to look for them in vain, they at last gave it up in despair, and went away crying with disappointment.

The Prince and his follower continued their journey by the side of the stream till they came to a broad road, and here at the cross-way was a crowd of dÆmons assembled, who were all chattering aloud, and disputing vehemently.

“DÆmons! What are you quarrelling about?” asked the Prince.

“We found this pair of boots here,” answered the dÆmons, “and whoever puts these boots on has only to wish that he might be in a particular place, and immediately arrives there; and we cannot agree which of us is to have the boots.”

“I will settle the dispute for you,” replied the Prince. “You all go up to the end of this road, and run back hither all of you together, and whichever of you wins the race, he shall be reckoned to have won the boots. Give them to me to hold the while.”

So the dÆmons answered, “It is well spoken;” and giving the boots to the Prince, they set off to go to the far end of the road. But by the time they got back the Prince had put on the invisible cap, and joining hands with his companion had become invisible to gods, men, and dÆmons, so that for all their looking there was no trace of them to be found. Thus they had to give up the lucky boots, and went their way howling for disappointment.

As soon as they were gone the Prince and his follower began to examine the boots, and to ponder what they should do with their treasure.

“A great gift and a valuable,” said the latter, “hath been given thee, O Prince, by the favour of fortune, and thy wisdom in acquiring it. Wish now to reach a prosperous place to be happy; but for me I shall not know where thou art gone, and I shall see thy face no more.”

But the Prince said, “Nay, but wheresoever I go, thou shalt go too. Here is one boot for me, and the other for thee, and when we have both put them on we will wish to be in the place where at this moment there is no Khan, and we will then see what is further to be done.”

So the Prince put on the right boot, and his follower the left boot, and they laid them down to sleep, and both wished that they might come to a land where there was no Khan.

When they woke in the morning they found themselves lying in the hollow of an ancient tree, in the outskirts of a great city, overshadowing the place where the election of the Khan was wont to be made. As soon as day broke the people began to assemble, and many ceremonies were performed. At last the people said, “Let us take one of the Baling-cakes out of the straw sacrifice, and throw it up into the air, and on to whosoever’s head it falls he shall be our Khan. So they took the Baling-cake out of the straw sacrifice, and it fell into the hollow tree. And the people said, “We must choose some other mode of divination, for the Baling-cake has failed. Shall a hollow tree reign over us?”

But others said, “Let us see what there may be inside the hollow tree.”

Thus when they came to look into the tree they found the Prince and his follower. So they drew them out and said, “These shall rule over us.” But others said, “How shall we know which of these two is the Khan?” While others again cried, “These men are but strangers and vagabonds. How then shall they reign over us?”

But to the Prince and his follower they said, “Whence are ye? and how came ye in the hollow tree?”

Then the Prince began spitting gold coin, and his follower precious emeralds. And while the people were busied in gathering the gold and the emeralds they installed themselves in the palace, and made themselves Khan and Chief Minister, and all the people paid them homage.

When they had learned the ways of the kingdom and established themselves well in it, the new Khan said to his Minister that he must employ himself to find a wife worthy of the Khan. To whom the Minister made answer,—

“Behold, beautiful among women is the daughter of the last Khan. Shall not she be the Khan’s wife?”

The Khan found his word good, and desired that she should be brought to him; when he found she was fair to see, he took her into the palace, and she became his wife. But she was with him as one whose thoughts were fixed on another.

Now on the outskirts of the city was a noble palace, well kept and furnished, and surrounded with delicious gardens; but no one lodged there. Only the Minister took note that every third day the Khan’s wife went out softly and unattended, and betook herself to this palace.

“Now,” thought the Minister to himself, “wherefore goes the Khan’s wife every third day to this palace, softly and unattended? I must see this thing.”

So he put on the cap which they had of the boys in the palm-grove, and followed the Khan’s wife as he saw her go the palace, and having found a ladder he entered by a window as she came up the stairs. Then he followed her into a sumptuous apartment all fitted with carpets and soft cushions, and a table spread with delicious viands and cooling drinks. The Khan’s wife, however, reclined her on none of these cushions, but went out by a private door for a little space, and when she returned she was decked as never she had been when she went before the Khan. The room was filled with perfume as she approached, her hair was powdered with glittering jewels, and her attire was all of broidered silk, while her throat, and arms, and ankles were wreathed with pearls. The Minister hardly knew her again; and with his cap, which made him invisible to gods, men, and dÆmons, he approached quite near to look at her, while she, having no suspicion of his presence, continued busy with preparations as for some coming event. On a vast circle of porphyry she lighted a fire of sandal wood, over which she scattered a quantity of odoriferous powders, uttering words the while which it was beyond the power of the Minister to understand. While she was thus occupied, there came a most beautiful bird with many-coloured wings swiftly flying through the open window, and when he had soared round three times in the soft vapour of the sweet-scented gums the Princess had been burning, there appeared a bird no longer, but Cuklaketu, the beautiful son of the gods, surpassing all words in his beauty. The transformation was no sooner effected, than they embraced each other, and reclining together on the silken couches, feasted on the banquet that was laid out.

After a time, Cuklaketu rose to take leave, but before he went, he said, “Now you are married to the husband heaven has appointed you, tell me how it is with him.”

At these words the Minister, jealous for his master, grew very attentive that he might learn what opinion the Khan’s wife had of his master and what love she had for him. But she answered prudently, “How it will be with him I know not yet, for he is still young; I cannot as yet know any thing of either his merits or defects.”

And with that they parted; Cuklaketu flying away in the form of a beautiful bird with many-coloured wings as he had come, and the Khan’s wife exchanging her glittering apparel for the mantle in which she came from the Khan’s palace.

The next time that she went out to this palace, the Minister put on his cap and followed her again and witnessed the same scene, only when Cuklaketu was about to take leave this time, he said, “To-morrow, I shall come and see what your husband is like.” And when she asked him, “By what token shall I know you?” he answered, “I will come under the form of a swallow, and will perch upon his throne.” With that they parted; but the Minister went and stood before the Khan and told him all that he had seen.

“But thou, O Khan,” proceeded the Minister, “Cause thou a great fire to be kept burning before the throne; and I, standing there with the cap rendering me invisible to gods, men, and dÆmons, on my head, will be on the look out for the swallow, and when he appears, I will seize him by the feathers of his tail and dash him into the fire; then must thou, O Khan, slay him, and hew him in pieces with thy sword.”

And so it was, for the next morning early, while the Khan and his Consort were seated with all their Court in due order of rank, there came a swallow, all smirk and sprightly, fluttering around them, and at last it perched on the Khan’s throne. The Princess watched his every movement with delighted eyes, but the Minister, who waited there wearing his cap which made him invisible to gods, men, and dÆmons, no sooner saw him perch on the throne, than he seized him by the feathers of his tail and flung him on the fire. The swallow succeeded in fluttering out of the fire, but as the Khan had drawn his sword to slay him and hew him in pieces, the Princess caught his arm and held it tight, so that the swallow just managed to fly away with his singed wings through the open window. Meantime, the Princess was so overcome with fear and excitement that she fainted away into the arms of the attendants, who were struck with wonder that she should care so much about an injury done to a little bird.

As soon as the day came round for her to go to the palace in the outskirts of the city, again the Minister did not fail to follow closely on her steps. He observed that she prepared every thing with greater attention than before and decked herself out with more costly robes and more glittering gems. But when the minutes passed by and the beautiful bird still appeared not, her fear waxed stronger and stronger, and she stood gazing, without taking her eyes off the sky. At last, and only when it was already late, Cuklaketu came flying painfully and feebly, and when he had exchanged his bird disguise for the human form, the traces of the treatment the Minister had given him were plainly visible in many frightful blisters and scars.

When the Princess saw him in this evil plight, she lifted up her voice, and wept aloud. But the Prince comforted her with his great steadfastness under the infliction, only he was obliged to tell her that both his human body and his bird feathers being thus marred, it would be impossible for him to come and visit her more. “But,” he said, “the Khan, thy husband, has proved himself to exceed me in his might, therefore he has won thee from me.” So after much leave-taking, they parted; and Cuklaketu flew away as well as his damaged wings would carry him.

It was observed that after this the Princess grew much more attached to her husband, and the Khan rejoiced in the sagacity and faithfulness of his Minister.

Nor was this the only use the Minister made of his cap, which made him invisible to gods, men, and dÆmons. He was enabled by its means to see many things that were not rightly conducted, to correct many evils, punish many offenders who thought to escape justice, and learn many useful arts.

One day as he was walking with this cap upon his head, he came to a temple where, the door being closed, a servant of the temple, thinking himself alone, began disporting himself after the following manner: First, he took out from under a statue of Buddha a large roll of paper, on which was painted a donkey. Having spread it out flat on the floor of the temple, he danced round it five times; and immediately on completing the fifth turn, he became transformed into a donkey like the one that was painted on the paper. In this form he pranced about for some time, and brayed till he was tired, then he got on to the paper again, on his hind legs, and danced round five times as before, and immediately he appeared again in his natural form. When at last he grew tired of the amusement he rolled up his paper, and replaced it under the image of Buddha, whence he had taken it. He had no sooner done so than the Minister, under cover of his cap, which made him invisible to gods, men, and dÆmons, possessed himself of the paper which had such mysterious properties, and betook himself with it to the dwelling of the beautiful woman and her daughter who sold strong drink to travellers, who had treated his master and him so shamefully at the outset of their travels.

When they saw him approach, for he now no longer wore the invisible cap, they began to fear he had come to bring them retribution, and they asked him with the best grace they could assume what was his pleasure. But he, to win their confidence, that he might the better carry out his scheme, replied,—

“To reward you for your handsome treatment of me and my companion, therefore am I come.” And at the same time he gave them a handful of gold coin.

And they, recollecting what profit they had derived from his companion before, and deeming it likely there might be means for turning the present visit to similar good account, asked him what were his means for being able to be so lavish of the precious metal.

“Oh, that is easily told,” replied the Minister. “It is true I have not the faculty of spitting gold coin out of my mouth like my companion, as you doubtless remember, but I have another way, equally efficacious, of coming into possession of all the money I can possibly desire.”

“And what may that way be?” inquired mother and daughter together in their eagerness.

“I have only to spread out this roll of paper on the ground,” and he showed them the roll that he had taken from under the image of Buddha in the temple, “and dance five times round it, and immediately I find myself in possession of as much gold as I can carry.”

“What a treasure to possess is that same roll of paper,” cried the women, and they exchanged looks expressing the determination each had immediately conceived, of possessing themselves of it.

“But now,” proceeded the Minister, not appearing to heed their mutual signs, though inwardly rejoicing that they had shown themselves so ready to fall into his snare,” but now pour me out to drink, for I am weary with the journey, and thirsty, and your drink I remember is excellent.”

The women, on their part, were equally rejoiced that he had given them the opportunity of plying him, and did not wait to be asked twice. The Minister continued to drink, and the women to pour out drink to him, till he was in a state of complete unconsciousness.

They no sooner found him arrived at this helpless condition than they took possession of the mysterious roll, and forthwith spreading it out on the ground, proceeded to dance round it five times after the manner prescribed.

When the Minister came to himself, therefore, he found his scheme had fully taken effect, and the woman and her daughter were standing heavy and chapfallen in the form of two asses. The Minister put a bridle in their mouth, and led them off to the Khan, saying,—

“These, O Khan, are the women who sell strong drink to travellers, and who entreated us so shamefully at the time when having slain the dragons we went forth on our travels. I have transformed them by my art into two asses. Now, therefore, shall there not be given them burdens of wood, and burdens of stone to carry, heavy burdens, so that they may be punished for their naughtiness?”

And the Khan gave orders that it should be done as he had said. But when at the end of five years, they were well weighed down with the heavy burdens, and the Khan saw them wearied and trembling, and human tears running down from their eyes, he called the Minister to him, and said,—

“Take these women, and do them no more harm, for their punishment is enough.”

So the Minister fetched the paper, and having spread it out on the ground, placed the women on it, making them stand on their hind legs, and led them round it five several times till they resumed their natural form. But with the treatment they had undergone, both were now so bowed, and shrunk, and withered, that no one could know them for the beautiful women they had been.

---

“As well might he have left them under the form of asses, as restore their own shape in such evil plight,” here exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the SiddhÎ-kÜr replied,—

“Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

---

Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the second chapter, concerning the deeds of the Gold-spitting Prince and his Minister.

When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that once again he had missed the end and object of his labour, he set out anew without loss of time and without hesitation, and journeyed through toil and terror till he came to the cool grove where rested the bodies of the dead. The SiddhÎ-kÜr at his approach ran away before his face, and clambered up the mango-tree; but when the Well-and-wise-walking Khan had threatened to fell it, the SiddhÎ-kÜr came down to him rather than that he should destroy the precious mango-tree. Then he bound him in his bag and laded him on to his shoulder, and bore him away to offer to the Master and Teacher NÂgÂrg'una.

But after they had journeyed many days and spoken nothing, the SiddhÎ-kÜr said, “See, we are like to die of weariness if we go on journeying thus day by day without conversing. Tell now thou, therefore, a tale to relieve the weariness of the way.”

The Well-and-wise-walking Khan, however, mindful of the word of his Master and Teacher NÂgÂrg'una, saying, “See thou speak never a word by the way,” answered him nothing, neither spake at all.

Then said the SiddhÎ-kÜr, “If thou wilt not tell a tale, at least give me some token by which I may know that thou willest I should tell one, and without speaking, nod thy head backwards towards me, and I will tell a tale.”

So the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards, and the SiddhÎ-kÜr told this tale saying,—

How the Schimnu-Khan was Slain.

Long ages ago there lived on the banks of a mighty river a man who had no wife, and no family, and no possessions, but only one cow; and when he mourned because he had no children, and his cow had no calf, and that he had no milk and no butter to live upon, his cow one day gave birth, not to a calf, but to a monster, which seemed only to be sent to mock him in his misery and distress; for while it had the head, and horns, and long tail of a bull, it had the body of a man. Never was such an ugly monster seen, and when the poor man considered it he said, “What shall I now do with this monster? It is not good for him to live; I will fetch my bow and arrows, and will make an end of him.” But when he had strung his bow and fixed his arrow, Massang of the bull’s head, seeing what he was going to do, cried out, “Master, slay me not; and doubt not but that your clemency shall have its reward.”

At these words the poor man was moved to clemency, and he put up his arrows again, and let Massang live, but he turned away his face from beholding him. When Massang saw that his master could not look upon him, he turned him and fled into the woods, and wandered on till he came to a place where was a black-coloured man sitting at the foot of a tree. Seeing him, Massang said, “Who and whence art thou?”

And the black-coloured man made answer, “I am a full-grown man of good understanding, born of the dark woods.”

And Massang said, “Whither goest thou? I will go with thee and be thy companion.”

And the black-coloured man got up, and they wandered on together till they came to a place in the open meadow, where they saw a green-coloured man sitting on the grass. Seeing him, Massang said, “Who and whence art thou?”

And the green-coloured man replied, “I am a full-grown man of good understanding, born of the green meadows; take me with you too, and I will be your companion.”

And he wandered on with the other two, Massang and the black-coloured man, till they came to a place where was a white-coloured man sitting on a crystal rock. Seeing him, Massang said, “Who and whence art thou?”

And the white-coloured man replied, “I am a full-grown man of good understanding, born of the crystal rock; take me with you, and let me be your companion.”

And he wandered on with the other three, Massang, and the black-coloured man, and the green-coloured man, till they came to a stream flowing between barren sandy banks; and farther along was a grass-clad hill with a little dwelling on the top. Of this dwelling they took possession, and inside it they found provisions of every kind; and in the yard cattle and all that was required to maintain life. Here, therefore, they dwelt; three of them going out every day to hunt, and one staying at home to keep guard over the place.

Now the first day, Massang went to the hunt, and took with him the white-coloured man and the green-coloured man; the black-coloured man being thus left in charge of the homestead, set himself to prepare the dinner. He had made the butter, and sat with the milk simmering, cooking the meat1, when he heard a rustling sound as of one approaching stealthily. Looking round to discover who came there, he saw a little old woman not more than a span high, carrying a bundle no bigger than an apple on her back, coming up a ladder she had set ready for herself, without asking leave or making any sort of ceremony.

“Lackaday!” cried the little old woman, speaking to herself, “methinks I see a youngster cooking good food.” But to him she said in a commanding tone, “Listen to me now, and give me some of thy milk and meat to taste.”

Though she was so small, she wore such a weird, uncanny air that the black-coloured man, though he had boasted of being a full-grown man of good understanding, durst not say her “Nay;” though he contented himself with keeping to the letter of her behest, and only gave her the smallest possible morsel of the food he had prepared, only just enough, as she had said, “to taste.” But lo and behold! no sooner had she put the morsel to her lips than the whole portion disappeared, meat, milk, pot and all; and, more marvellous still, the little old wife had disappeared with them.

Ashamed at finding himself thus overmatched by such a little old wench, he reasoned with himself that he must invent something to tell his companions which should have a more imposing sound than the sorry story of what had actually occurred. Turning over all his belongings to help himself to an idea, he found two horse’s-hoofs, and with these he made the marks as of many horsemen all round the dwelling, and then shot his own arrow into the middle of the yard.

He had hardly finished these preparations when his companions came home from the hunt.

“Where is our meal?” inquired they. “Where is the butter you were to have made, and the meat you were to have cooked?”

“Scarcely had I made all ready,” replied the black-coloured man, “than a hundred strange men, on a hundred wild horses, came tearing through the place; and what could I do to withstand a hundred? Thus they have taken all the butter, and milk, and meat, and me they beat and bound, so that I have had enough to do to set myself free, and scarcely can I move from the effect of their blows. Go out now and see for yourselves.”

So they went out; and when they saw the marks of the horses’-hoofs all round the dwelling, and the arrow shot into the middle of the courtyard, they said, “He hath spoken true things.”

The next day Massang went to the hunt, and took with him the black-coloured man and the white-coloured man. The green-coloured man being thus left in charge of the homestead, set himself to prepare the dinner; and it was no sooner ready than the little old wife came in, as she had done the day before, and played the same game.

“This is doubtless how it fell out with the black-coloured man,” said he to himself, as soon as she was gone; “but neither can I own that I was matched by such a little old wife, nor yet can I tell the same story about the horsemen. I know what I will do: I will fetch up a yoke of oxen, and make them tramp about the place, and when the others come home, I will say some men came by with a herd of cattle, and, overpowering me, carried off the victuals.” All this he did; and when his companions came home, and saw for themselves the marks the oxen had made in tramping up the soil, they said, “He hath spoken true things.”

The day after, Massang went hunting, and took with him the black-coloured man and the green-coloured man. The white-coloured man being left in charge of the homestead, set himself to prepare the dinner. Nor was it long before the same little old woman who had visited his companions made her appearance; and soon she had made an end of all the provisions. “This is doubtless how it fell out with the green-coloured man yesterday, and the black-coloured man the day before,” said the white-coloured man to himself; “but neither can I own any more than they that I was overmatched by such a little old wife, nor yet can I tell the same story as they.” So he fetched a mule in from the field, and made it trot all round the dwelling, that when his companions came in he might tell them that a party of merchants had been by, with a file of mules carrying their packs of merchandize, who had held him bound, and eaten up the provisions.

All this he did; and when his companions came home, and saw for themselves the marks of the mule-hoofs all round the dwelling, they said, “He hath spoken true things.”

The next day it was Massang’s turn to stay at home, nor did he neglect the duty which fell upon him of cooking the food against the return of the rest. As he sat thus occupied, up came the little old woman, as on all the other days.

“Lackaday!” she exclaimed, as she set eyes on him. “Methinks I see a youngster cooking good food!” And to him she cried, in her imperious tone, “Listen to me now, and give me some of thy milk and meat to taste.”

When Massang saw her, he said within himself, “Surely now this is she who hath appeared to the other three; and when they said that strangers had broken in, and overpowered them, and stolen the food, was it not that she is a witch-woman and enchanted it away. She only asks to taste it; but if I do her bidding, who knows what may follow?” So he observed her, that he might discover what way there was of over-matching her; thus he espied her bundle, and bethought him it contained the means of her witcheries. To possess himself of it he had first to devise the means of getting her to go an errand, and leave it behind her.

“Belike you could help me to some fresh water, good wife,” he said, in a simple, coaxing tone; and she, thinking to serve her purpose by keeping on good terms with him, replied,—

“That can I; but give me wherewithal to fetch it.”

To keep her longer absent, he gave her a pail with a hole in it, with which she went out. Looking after her, he saw that she made her way straight up to the clouds, and squeezed one into her pail, but no sooner was it poured in, than it ran out again. Meantime, he possessed himself of her bundle, and turned it over; withal it was not so big as an apple, it contained many things: a hank of catgut, which he exchanged for a hank of hempen cord; an iron hammer, which he exchanged for a wooden mallet; and a pair of iron pincers, which he exchanged for wooden ones.

He had hardly tied up the bundle again, when the old woman came back, very angry with the trick that had been played upon her with the leaking pail, and exclaiming, “How shall water be brought in a pail where there is a hole?” Then she added further, and in a yet angrier key, “If thou wilt not give me to taste of thy food, beware! for then all that thou hast becomes mine.” And when she found that he heeded her not, but went on with what he was doing, just as if she had not spoken, she cried out, furiously,—

“If we are not to be on good terms, we must e’en match our strength; if we are not to have peace, we must have war; if I may not eat with you, I will fight you.”

“That I am ready for,” answered Massang, as one sure of an easy victory.

“Not so confident!” replied the old one. “Though I am small and thou so big, yet have I overcome mightier ones than thou.”

“In what shall we match our strength?” said Massang, not heeding her banter.

“We will have three trials,” replied the old one; “the cord proof, the hammer proof, and the pincers proof. And first the cord proof. I will first bind thee, and if thou canst burst my bonds, well; then thou shalt also bind me.”

Then Massang saw that he had done well to possess himself of her instruments, but he gave assent to her mode of proof, and let her bind him as tight as ever she would; but as she had only the hempen cord to bind him with, which he had put in her bundle in place of the catgut, he broke it easily with his strength, and set himself free again. Then he bound her with the catgut, so that she was not able by any means to unloose herself.

“True, herein thou hast conquered,” she owned, as she lay bound and unable to move, “but now we will have the pincers proof.” And as he had promised to wage three trials with her, he set her free.

Then with her pincers she took him by the breast; but, as he had changed her iron pincers for the wooden ones, he hardly felt the pinch, and she did him no harm. But when, with her iron pincers, he seized her, she writhed and struggled so that he pulled out a piece of flesh as big as an earthen pot, and she cried out in great pain.—

“Of a truth thou art a formidable fellow, but now we will have the hammer proof,” and she made Massang lie down; but when she would have given him a powerful blow on the chest with her iron hammer, the handle of the wooden mallet Massang had given her in its stead broke short off, and she was not able to hurt him. But Massang made her iron hammer glowing hot in the fire, and belaboured her both on the head and body so that she was glad to escape at the top of her speed and howling wildly.

As she flew past, Massang’s three companions came in from hunting and said, “Surely now you have had a trial to endure.” And Massang answered,—

“Of a truth you are miserable fellows all, and moreover have spoken that which is not true. Was it like men to let yourselves be overmatched by a little old wife? But now I have tamed her, let be. Let us go and seek for her corpse; maybe we shall find treasure in the place where she lays it.”

When they heard him speak of treasure they willingly went out after him, and, following the track of blood which had fallen from the witch-woman’s wounds as she went along, they came to a place where was an awful cleft in a mighty rock, and peeping through they saw, far below, the bloody body of the old witch-woman, lying on a heap of gold and jewels and shining adamant armour and countless precious things.

Then Massang said, “Shall you three go down and hand me up the spoil by means of a rope of which I will hold the end, or shall I go down and hand it up to you?”

But they three all made answer together, “This woman is manifestly none other but a Schimnu2. We dare not go near her. Go you down.”

So Massang let himself down by the rope, and sent up the spoil by the same means to his companions, who when they had possession of it said thus to one another,—

“If we draw Massang up again, we cannot deny in verity that the spoil is his, as he has won it in every way, but if we leave him down below it becomes ours.” So they left him below, and when he looked that they should have hauled him up they gave never a sign or sound. When he saw that, he said thus to himself, “My three companions have left me here that they may enjoy the spoil alone. For me nothing is left but to die!”

But as it grieved him so to die in his health and strength, he cast about him to see whether in all that cave which had been so full of valuables there was not something stored that was good for food, yet found he nothing save three cherry-stones.

So he took the cherry-stones and planted them in the earth, saying, “If I be truly Massang, may these be three full-grown cherry-trees by the time I wake; but if not, then let me die the death.” And with that he laid him down to sleep with the body of the Schimnu for a pillow.

Being thus defiled by contact with the corpse, he slept for many years. When at last he woke, he found that three cherry-trees had sprung up from the seeds he planted and now reached to the top of the rock. Rejoicing greatly therefore, he climbed up by their means and reached the earth.

First he bent his steps to his late dwelling, to look for his companions, but it was deserted, and no one lived therein. So, taking his iron bow and his arrows, he journeyed farther.

Presently he came to a place where there were three fine houses, with gardens and fields and cattle and all that could be desired by the heart of man. These were the houses which his three companions had built for themselves out of the spoil of the cave. And when he would have gone in, their wives said—for they had taken to them wives also—“Thy companions are not here; they are gone out hunting.” So he took up his iron bow and his arrows again, and went on to seek them, and as he went by the way he saw them coming towards him with the game they had taken with their bows. Then he strung his iron bow and would have shot at them; but they, falling down before him, cried out, “Slay us not. Only let us live, and behold our houses, and our wives, and our cattle, and all that we have is in thine hand, to do with it as it seemeth good to thee.”

Then he put up his arrows again, and said to them only these words, “In truth, friends, ye dealt evilly with me in that ye left me to perish in the cave.”

But they, owning their fault, again begged him that he would stay with them and let their house be his house, and they entreated him. But he would not stay with them, saying,—

“A promise is upon me, which I made when my master would have killed me and I entreated him to spare my life, for I said to him that I would repay his clemency to him if he spared me. Now, therefore, let me go that I may seek him out.”

Then, when they heard those words, they let him go, and he journeyed on farther to find out his master.

One day of his journey, as he was wearied with walking, he sat down towards evening by the side of a well, and as he sat an enchantingly beautiful maiden came towards the well as if to draw water, and as she came along he saw with astonishment that at every footstep as she lifted up her feet a fragrant flower sprang up out of the ground3, one after another wherever she touched the ground. Massang stretched out his hand to offer to draw water for her, but she stopped not at the fountain but passed on, and Massang, in awe at her beauty and power, durst not speak to her, but rose up and followed behind her the whole way she went.

On went the maiden, and ever on followed Massang, over burning plain and through fearful forest, past the sources of mighty rivers and over the snow-clad peaks of the everlasting mountains4, till they reached the dwelling of the gods and the footstool of dread Churmusta5.

Then spoke Churmusta,—

“That thou art come hither is good. Every day now we have to sustain the fight with the black Schimnu; to-morrow thou shalt be spectator of the fray, and the next day thou shall take part in it.”

The next day Massang stood at the foot of Churmusta’s throne, and the gods waited around in silence. Massang saw a great herd as of black oxen, as it were early in the morning, driven with terror to the east side by a herd as of white oxen; and again he saw as it were late in the evening, the herd as of white oxen driven to the west side by the herd as of black oxen.

Then spoke the great Churmusta,—

“Behold the white oxen are the gods. The black oxen are the Schimnus. To-morrow, when thou seest the herd as of black oxen driving back the white, then string thine iron bow, and search out for thy mark a black ox, bearing a white star on his forehead. Then send thine arrow through the white star, for he is the Schimnu-Khan.

Thus spoke the dread Churmusta.

The next day Massang stood ready with his bow, and did even as Churmusta had commanded. With an arrow from his iron bow he pierced through the white star on the forehead of the black ox, and sent him away roaring and bellowing with pain.

Then spake the dread Churmusta,—

“Bravely hast thou dealt, and well hast thou deserved of me. Therefore thou shalt have thy portion with me, and dwell with me for ever.”

But Massang answered,—

“Nay, for though I tarried at thy behest to do thy bidding, a promise is upon me which I made when my master would have taken my life. For I said, ‘Spare me now, and be assured I will repay thy clemency.’”

Then Churmusta commended him, and bid him do even as he had said. Furthermore he gave him a talisman to preserve him by the way, and gave him this counsel,—

“Journeying, thou shalt be overcome by sleep, and having through sleeping forgotten the way, thou shalt arrive at the gate of the Schimnu-Khan. Then beware that thou think not to save thyself by flight. Knock, rather, boldly at the door, saying, ‘I am a physician.’ When they hear that they will bring thee to the Schimnu-Khan that thou mayest try thine art in drawing out the arrow from his forehead. Then place thyself as though thou wouldst remove it, but rather with a firm grasp drive it farther in, so that it enter his brain, first offering up with thine hand seven barley-corns to heaven; and after this manner thou shalt kill the Schimnu-Khan.”

Thus commanded the dread Churmusta.

Then Massang came down from the footstool of Churmusta and the dwelling of the gods, and went forth to seek out his master. But growing weary with the length of the day, and lying down to sleep, when he woke he had forgotten the direction he had to take, so he pursued the path which lay before him, and it led him to the portal of the Schimnu palace.

When he saw it was the Schimnu palace, he would have made good his escape from its precincts, but remembering the words of Churmusta, he knocked boldly at the door. Then the Schimnus flocked round him, and told him he must die unless he could do some service whereby his life might be redeemed; and Massang made answer, “I am a physician.” Hearing that, they took him in to the Schimnu-Khan, that he might pluck the arrow out of his forehead.

Massang stood before the Schimnu-Khan; but when he should have pulled out the arrow, he only pulled it out a little way, and the Schimnu-Khan said,—

“Thus far is the pang diminished.”

Then, however, first casting seven barley-corns on high towards heaven, he plunged it in again even to the centre of his brain, so that he fell down at his feet dead. And as the seven barley-corns reached the heavens, there came down by their track an iron chain with a thundering clang which the dread Churmusta sent down to Massang, and Massang climbed up by the chain to the dwelling of the gods. But there stood by the throne of the Schimnu-Khan a female Schimnu, out of whose mouth came forth forked flames of fire, and when she saw Massang ascending to heaven by the chain, she raised an iron hammer high in air to strike it, and cleave it in two. But when she struck it, there issued seven bright sparks, which floated up to heaven, and remained fixed in the sky; and men called them the constellation of the Pleiades.

“Thus, for all his promise, and after all his sacrifices, Massang never went back to repay his master’s clemency!” exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him the SiddhÎ-kÜr replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips!” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift, out of sight.

Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the third chapter, showing how the Schimnu-Khan was slain.

Then, when he saw he had again missed the end and object of his journey, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan again set out as at the first, till with toil and terror he reached the cool grove where lay the dead. At his approach the SiddhÎ-kÜr clambered up into the mango-tree, but rather than let the tree be destroyed he came down at the word of the Khan threatening to fell it. Then the Khan bound him in his bag and bore him away to offer to the Master and Teacher NÂgÂrg'una.

But when they had proceeded many days the SiddhÎ-kÜr said, “Tell, now, a tale, seeing the way is long and weary, and we are like to die of weariness if we go on thus speaking never a word between us.” But the Khan, mindful of the monition of his Master and Teacher NÂgÂrg'una, answered him nothing. Then said the SiddhÎ-kÜr, “If thou wilt not tell a tale, at least give me the token by which I may know that thou willest I should tell one.”

So the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards towards him, and the SiddhÎ-kÜr told this tale, saying,—

The Pig’s Head Soothsayer.

Long ages ago a man and his wife were living on the borders of a flourishing kingdom. The wife was a good housewife, who occupied herself with looking after the land and the herds; but the husband was a dull, idle man, who did nothing but eat, drink, and sleep from morning to night and from night to morning. One day, when his wife could no longer endure to see him going on thus indolently, she cried out to him, “Leave off thus idling thyself; get up and gird thyself like a man, and seek employment. Behold, thy father’s inheritance is well nigh spent; the time is come that thou find the means to eke it out.”

And when he weakly asked her in return, “Wherein shall I seek to eke it out?” she answered him, “How should I be able to tell this thing, but at least get thee up and make some endeavour; get thee up and look round the place and see what thou canst find,” and with that she went out to her work in the field.

When she had repeated these words many days, he at last went out one day, and, not taking the trouble to bethink him what he should do, he did just what his wife had said, and went to look round the place to see what he could find. As he wandered about, he came to a spot on which a tribe of cattle-herds had lately been encamped1, and a fox, a dog, and a bird were there fighting about something. Approaching to see for what they contended, they all escaped in fear, and he was left in possession of their booty, which was a sheep’s paunch full of butter2. This he brought home and laid up in store. When his wife came home and asked him whence it was, he told her he had found it left on the camping-place of a family of herdsmen who had passed that way seeking pasturage.

“Well it is to be a man!” exclaimed his wife. “I may toil all day without making so much; but you go but out one day of your whole life for one moment of time, and straightway you find all this wealth.”

When the man heard these words, he took courage and thought he should be fit to find better fortune still; so he said to his wife, “Give me now only a good horse and clothes meet, and a dog, and a bow and arrows, and you shall see what I can do.”

The woman was glad to hear him show so much resolution, so she made haste and gave him all the things that he required, and added a thick felt cloak to keep out the rain, and a cap for his head, and helped him to get on his horse, and slung his bow over his shoulder.

Thus he rode out over many a broad plain, but without purpose or knowledge of whither he went, nor did he fall in with any living creature whatever for many days. At last, riding over a vast steppe, he espied at some distance a fox.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, “there is one of my friends of last time. To be sure, there is no sheep’s paunch of butter this time, but if I could only kill him his skin would make a nice warm cap.”

As he had never learnt to draw a bow, his arrows were of no service, so he set his horse trotting after the fox; but the fox got away faster than he could follow, and took refuge in the hole of a marmot3.

“Now I have you!” he cried, and, dismounting from his horse, he took off all his clothes to have freer use of his limbs and bound them on his saddle; the dog he tied to the bridle of the horse, and stopped the mouth of the hole with his cap; then he took a great stone and endeavoured with heavy blows on the earth to crush the fox.

But the fox, taking fright at the noise, rushed out with such impetus that it carried off the cap on its head. The dog, seeing it run, gave chase, and the horse was forced to follow the dog, as they were both tied together; so off he galloped, carrying on his saddle every thing the man had in the world, and leaving him stretched on the ground without a thread of covering.

Getting up, he wandered on to the banks of a river which formed the boundary of the kingdom of a rich and powerful Khan. Going into this Khan’s stable, he laid himself down under the straw and covered himself completely, so that no one could see him. Here he was warmed and well rested.

As he lay there the Khan’s beautiful daughter came out to take the air, and before she went in again she dropped the Khan’s talisman and passed on without perceiving her loss. Though the bauble was precious in itself for the jewels which adorned it, and precious also to the Khan for its powers in preserving his life4, and worthy therefore to claim a reward, the man was too indolent to get up out of the straw to pick it up, so he let it lie.

After sunset the Khan’s herds came in from grazing, and the cow-wench, when she had shut them into the stable, swept up the yard without heeding the talisman, which thus got thrown on to a dung-heap. This the man saw, but still bestirred him not to recover it.

The next day there was great stir and noise in the place; the Khan sent out messengers into every district far and near to say that the Khan’s beautiful daughter had lost his talisman, and promising rewards to whoso should restore it.

After this too, he ordered the great trumpet, which was only blown on occasion of promulgating the laws of the kingdom, to be sounded and proclamation to be made, calling on all the wise men and soothsayers of the kingdom to exercise their cunning art, and divine the place where the talisman should lay concealed.

All this the man heard as he lay under the straw, but yet he bestirred him not. Early in the morning, however, men came to litter the place for the kine with fresh straw; and these men, finding him, bid him turn out. Now that it became a necessity to stir himself, he bethought him of the talisman; and when the men asked him whence he was, he answered “I am a soothsayer come to divine the place where lies the Khan’s talisman.”

Hearing that, they told him to come along to the Khan. “But I have no clothes,” replied the man. So they went and told the Khan, saying, “Here is a soothsayer lying in the straw of the stable, who is come to divine where the Khan’s talisman lies hid, but he cannot appear before the Khan because he has no clothes.”

“Take this apparel to him,” said the Khan, “and bring him hither to me.”

When he came before the Khan, the Khan asked him what he required to perform his divination.

“Let there be given me,” answered the man, “a pig’s head, a piece of silk stuff woven of five colours,5 and a large Baling6; these are the things which I require for the divination.”

All these things being given him, he set up the pig’s head on a pedestal of wood, and adorned it with the silk stuff woven of five colours, and put the Baling-cake in its mouth. Then he sat down over against it, as if sunk in earnest contemplation. Then on the day which had been named in the Khan’s proclamation for the day of divination, which was the third day, all the people being assembled, assuming the air of a diviner of dreams, he wrapped himself in a long mantle, and made as though he was questioning the pig’s head. As all the people passed, he seemed to gain the answer from the pig’s head,—

“The talisman is not with this one,” and “The talisman is not with that one,” so that he had many people on his side glad to be thus pronounced free from all charge of harbouring the Khan’s talisman.

At last he made a sign that this kind of divination was ended; and pronounced that the Khan’s talisman was not in possession of any man.

“And now,” said he, “let us try the divination of the earth.” With that, he set out to make a circuit of the Khan’s dwelling. Stepping on and on from place to place, he continued to seem consulting the pig’s head, till he came to the place in the yard where the dung-heap was; and here, assuming an imposing attitude, he turned round, and said mysteriously, “Here somewhere must be found the Khan’s talisman.” But when he had turned the heap over, and brought the talisman itself to light, the people knew not how to contain themselves for wonderment, and went about crying,—

“The Pig’s head diviner hath divined wonderful things! The Pig’s head diviner hath divined wonderful things!”

But the Khan called to him, and said,—

“Tell me how I shall reward thee for that thou hast restored my talisman to me.”

But he, who did not exert himself to think of any thing but just of what was most present to his mind, answered,—

“Let there be given me, O Khan, the raiment, and the horse, the fox, the dog, and the bow and arrows which I have lost.”

When the Khan heard him ask for nothing save his horse and dog, and raiment, and a fox, and bows and arrows, he said,—

“Of a truth this is a singular soothsayer. Nevertheless, let there be given him over and above the things that he hath required of us two elephants laden with meal and butter.”

So they gave him all the things he had required and two elephants laden with meal and butter to boot. Thus they brought him back unto his own home.

Seeing him yet afar, his wife came out to meet him, carrying brandy. She opened her eyes when she saw the two elephants laden with butter and meal; but knowing that he loved to be left at ease, forbore to question him that night. The next morning she made him tell her the whole story before they got up; but when she heard what little demands he had made after rendering the Khan so great a service as restoring his talisman, she exclaimed,—

“If a man would be called a man, he ought to know better how to use his opportunities.”

And with that she sat to work to write a letter in her husband’s name to the Khan.

The letter was conceived in these words:—

“During the brief moment that thy life-talisman was in my hands, I well recognized that thou hast a bodily infirmity. It was in order that I might conjure it from thee that I required at thy hands the dog and the fox. What reward the Khan is pleased to bestow, this shall be according to the mind of the Khan.”

This letter she took with her own hands to the Khan.

When the Khan had read the letter, he was pleased to think the soothsayer had undertaken to free him of a malady against which he could never have made provision himself, as he had no knowledge of its existence; so he ordered two elephant’s-loads of treasure to be given to the woman, who went back to her husband, and they had therewith enough to live in ease and plenty.

Now this Khan had had six brethren, and it happened that once they had gone out to divert themselves, and in a thick wood they saw a most beautiful maiden playing with a he-goat, whom they stood looking at till they were tired of standing, for of looking at one so beautiful they could never be weary.

At last one of them said to her,—

“Whence comest thou, beautiful maiden?”

And she answered him,—

“By following after this he-goat, thus I came hither.”

“Will you come with us seven brethren, and be our wife,” rejoined the brother, who had spoken first; and when she willingly agreed they took her home with them.

But they both were evil RÂkshasas7, who had only come out to find men whose lives to devour; the male Manggus8, had taken the form of a he-goat, and the female Manggus that of a beautiful maiden, the better to deceive.

When therefore the seven took her home and the goat with her, the two Manggus had ample scope to carry out their design, and every year they devoured the life of one of the brothers, till now there was only the Khan left, and they began to consume the life of him also.

When the ministers saw that all the brothers were dead, and only the Khan left, they held a council, and they said, “Behold, all the other Khans are dead, notwithstanding all the means we have at our command, and despite the arts of all the physicians of this country.” Now there remains no other means for us but to send for the Pig’s head soothsayer who found the Khan’s talisman, and get him to restore the Khan to health.” This counsel was found good, and they all said, “Let us send for the Pig’s head soothsayer.”

Four men were sent off on horseback to call the Pig’s head soothsayer, who laid all the case before him.

When he heard it he was greatly embarrassed, and knew not what to answer, but his vacancy passed, with them, for his being immersed in deep contemplation, and they reverenced him the more. Meantime his wife bid them put up their horses and stay the night.

In the night-time she asked of him what the men had come about, and he told her all his embarrassment.

“True, last time you exerted yourself a little and had good luck,” she replied, “but now that you have been sitting here doing nothing, and looking so stupid all this time, whether you will cut as good a figure, who shall say? But go you must, seeing the Khan has sent for you.”

The next morning he said to the messengers, “In the visions of the night I have learned even how I may help the Khan, and presently I will come with you.”

Then he enveloped himself in a mantle, laid his hair over the crown of his head, took a large string of beads in his left hand, bound the silk stuff woven of five colours round his right arm, and carrying the pigs’ head set out with them.

When he arrived with this strange aspect at the Khan’s dwelling both the Manggus were much alarmed. They thought he must be some cunning soothsayer who knew all about them; they had heard, too, of his success in finding the Khan’s talisman.

But the man continuing to support his character of soothsayer, ordered a Baling as big as a man to be brought to the head of the Khan’s bed, and placed the pig’s head on top of it, and then sat himself down over against it, murmuring words of incantation9.

The Manggus, thinking all these preparations showed that he was a cunning soothsayer, went away to take counsel together, and the Khan being thus delivered for the time from their evil arts, his pains began to yield and he fell into a tranquil sleep. Seeing this his attendants thought favourably of the cure, and trusting therefore the more in the soothsayer’s powers they left him in entire charge of the patient. Being thus freed from observation he ventured to leave his position of apparent absorption in contemplation, and to take a stolen glance at the Khan. When he saw him in such a deep sleep a great fear took him, thinking he must be very bad indeed, and he did all he could to wake him, crying aloud,—

“O great Khan! O mighty Khan!”

Finding that the Khan remained speechless he thought he must be dead, and resolved that his best part was to run away. This was not so easy, for the first open door he found to take refuge in was that of the Treasury, and the guard called out “Stop thief!” and when from thence he tried to bestow himself in the store-chamber, the guard sang out “Stop thief!” At last he went into the stable, to hide himself there, but close by the door-way stood the he-goat, whom he feared to pass, lest he should goad him with his horns. However, summoning up all his courage, he got behind him, and sprang on his back, and gave him three blows on his head; but instantly, even as the blue smoke column is carried in a straight direction by the wind, so sped the he-goat straight off to the Khanin leaving his rider stretched upon the ground. As soon as he had got up again he ran after the he-goat, to see whither he went so fast; following him, he came to the door of the Khanin’s apartment, and heard the he-goat talking to her within. The two Manggus spoke thus:—

“The Pig’s head soothsayer is a soothsayer indeed,” said the he-goat; “he divined that I was in the stable, and he came there after me, and sprang upon my back, giving me three mighty blows, by which I know the weight of his arm. The best thing we can do is to make good our escape.”

The Khanin made answer, “I, also, am of the same mind. I saw when he first came in that he recognized us for what we are. We have had good fortune hitherto, but it has forsaken us now; it were better we got away. I know what he will do; in a day or two, when he has cured the Khan by not letting us approach him to devour his life, he will assemble together all the men of the place with their arms, and all the women, telling them to bring each a faggot of wood for burning. When all are assembled he will say, ‘Let that he-goat be brought to me,’ so they will bind thee and take thee before him. Then will he say to thee, ‘Lay aside thine assumed form,’ and it will be impossible for thee not to obey. When he has shown thee thus in thine own shape they will all fall upon thee, and put thee to death with swords and arrows, and burn thee in the fire. And afterwards with me will he deal after the same manner. Now, therefore, to-morrow or the next day we will be beforehand with him, and will go where we shall be safe from his designs.”

When the man heard all this, he left off from following the goat, and went back with good courage, to take up his place again over against the pig’s head by the side of the Khan’s couch.

In the morning the Khan woke, refreshed with his slumber; and when they inquired how he felt, the Khan replied that the soothsayer’s power had diminished the force of the malady.

“If this be even so,” here interposed the soothsayer, “and if the Khan has confidence in the word of his servant, command now thy ministers that they call together all thy subjects—the men with their arms, and the women each with a faggot of wood for burning.” Then the Khan ordered that it should be done according to his word. When they were all assembled, the pretended soothsayer, having set up his pig’s head, commanded further that they should bring the he-goat out of the stable before him; and when they had bound him and brought him, that they should put his saddle on him. Then he sprang on to his back, and gave him three blows with all his strength, and dismounted. Then with all the power of voice he could command, he cried out to him, “Lay aside thine assumed form!”

At these words the he-goat was changed before the eyes of all present into a horrible Manggus, deformed and hideous to behold. With swords and sticks, lances and stones, the whole people fell upon him, and disabled him, and then burnt him with fire till he was dead.

Then said the soothsayer, “Now, bring hither the Khanin.” So they went and dragged down the Khanin to the place where he stood, with yelling and cries of contempt.

With one hand on the pig’s head, as if taking his authority from it, the soothsayer cried out to her, in a commanding voice,—

“Resume thine own form!”

Then she too became a frightful Manggus, and they put her to death like the other.

The soothsayer now rode back to the Khan’s palace, all the people making obeisance to him as he went along—some crying, “Hail!” some strewing the way with barley, and some bringing him rich offerings. It took him nearly the space of a day to make his way through such a throng.

When at last he arrived, the Khan received him with a grateful welcome, and asked him what present he desired of him. The soothsayer answered, with his usual simplicity, “In our part of the country we have none of those pieces of wood which I see you put here into the noses of the oxen: let there be given me a quantity of them to take back with me.” The Khan then ordered there should be given him three sacks of the pieces of wood for the oxen, and seven elephants laden with meal and butter to boot.

When he arrived home, his wife came out to meet him with brandy, and when she saw the seven elephants with their loads, she extolled him highly; but when she came to learn how great was the deliverance he had rendered to the Khan, she was indignant that he had not asked for higher reward, and determined to go the next day herself to the Khan.

The next day she went accordingly, disguised, and sent in a letter of the following purport to the Khan:—

“Although I, the Pig’s head soothsayer, brought the Khan round from his malady, yet some remains of it still hang about him. It was in order to remove these that I asked for the pieces of wood for the oxen; what guerdon has been earned by this further service it is for the Khan to decide.”

Such a letter she sent in to the Khan.

“The man has spoken the truth,” said the Khan, on reading the letter. “For his reward, let him and his wife, his parents and friends, all come over hither and dwell with me.”

When they arrived, the Khan said, “When one has to show his gratitude, and dismisses him to whom he is indebted with presents, that does not make an end of the matter. That I was not put to death by the Manggus is thy doing; that the kingdom was not given over to destruction was thy doing; that the ministers were not eaten up by the Manggus was thy doing: it is meet, therefore, that we share between us the inheritance, even between us two, and reign in perfect equality.” With such words he gave him half his authority over the kingdom, and to all his family he gave rich fortunes and appointments of state. And thus his wife became Khanin; so that while he could indulge himself in the same idle life as before, she also enjoyed rest from her household and pastoral cares10.

“Though the woman despised her husband’s understanding,” exclaimed the Khan, “yet was it always his doings which brought them wealth after all!”

And as he let these words escape him, the SiddhÎ-kÜr replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips. “And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed the end and object of his journey, without hesitation or loss of time he once more betook himself to the cool grove, and summoned the SiddhÎ-kÜr to come with him, threatening to hew down the mango-tree.

But as he bore him along, bound in his bag of many colours, in which was place to stow away an hundred, the SiddhÎ-kÜr spoke thus, saying, “Tell thou now a tale to beguile the weariness of the way.” But the Well-and-wise-walking Khan answered him nothing. Then said the SiddhÎ-kÜr again, “If thou wilt not tell a tale, at least give the token that I may know thou willest I should tell one.”

So the Khan nodded his head backwards and the SiddhÎ-kÜr told this tale, saying,—

How the Serpent-gods were propitiated.

Long ages ago there reigned over a flourishing province, a Khan named Kun-snang1. He had a son named “Sunshine” by his first wife who afterwards died. He also had a second son named “Moonshine,” by his second wife. Now the second wife thought within herself, “If Sunshine is allowed to live, there is no chance of Moonshine ever coming to the throne. Some means must be found of putting Sunshine out of the way.”

With this object in view she threw herself down upon her couch and tossed to and fro as though in an agony of pain. All the night through also instead of sleeping, she tossed about and writhed with pain. Then the Khan spake to her, saying, “My beautiful one! what is it that pains thee, and with what manner of ailment art thou stricken?” And she made answer,—

“Even when I was at home I suffered oftwhiles after the same manner, but now is it much more violent; all remedies have I exhausted previous times, there remains only one when the pain is of this degree, and that means is not available.”

“Say not that it is not available,” answered the Khan, “for all means are available to me. Speak but what it is that is required, and whatever it be shall be done, even to the renouncing of my kingdom. For there is nothing that I would not give in exchange for thy life.”

But for a long time she made as though she would not tell him, then finally yielding to his repeated inquiries, she said, “If there were given me the heart of a Prince, stewed in sesame-oil2, I should recover: it matters not whether the heart of Sunshine or of Moonshine, but that Moonshine being my own son, his heart would not pass through my throat. This means, O Khan, is manifestly not available, for how should it be done to take the life of Prince Sunshine? Therefore say no more, and let me die.”

But the Khan answered, “Of a truth it would grieve me to take the life of Prince Sunshine. Nevertheless, if there be no other means of saving thy life, the thing must be done. I have not to consider ‘Shall the life of the Prince be spared or not?’ but, ‘Which shall be spared, the life of the Prince, or the life of the Khanin?’ And in this strait who could doubt, but that it is the life of the Khanin that must be spared by me? Therefore, be of good cheer, beautiful one, for that the heart of Prince Sunshine shall be given thee cooked in sesame-oil.”

This, he said, intending in his own mind to have the heart of a kid of the goats prepared for her in sesame-oil, saying, “Behold, here is the heart of Prince Sunshine,” but to send away the Prince into a far country that she might not know he was not dead. Only when she was restored to health again, then he purposed to fetch back his son. But Moonshine being in his mother’s apartments overheard this promise which the Khan had given, and he ran and told his brother all that the Khan, his father, had said, saying, “When the Khan rises he will give the order to put thee to death; how shall this thing be averted?” and he wept sore, for he loved his brother Sunshine even as his own life.

Then Sunshine answered, saying, “Seeing this is so, remain thou with our parents, loving and honouring them, and being loved by them. For me, it is clear the time is come that I must get me away to a far country. Farewell, my brother!”

But Moonshine answered, “Nay, brother, for if thou goest, I also go with thee. How should I live alone here, without thee, my brother?” Therefore they rose quickly before the Khan could get up, and going privately to a priest in a temple hard by, that no one else might hear of their design and betray it to the Khan, they begged of him a good provision of baling-cakes3, to support life by the way; and he gave them a good provision, even a bag-full, and they set out on their journey while it was yet night. It was the fifteenth of the month, while the moon shed abroad her light, and they journeyed towards the East, not knowing whither they went. But after they had journeyed many days over mountain and plain, and come to a land where was no water, but a muddy river the water whereof could not be drunk, and where was no habitation of man, Moonshine fell down fainting by the way. Sunshine therefore ran to the top of a high hill to see if he could discern any stream of water, but found none. When he came back Moonshine was dead! Then he fell down on the ground, and wept a long space upon his body, and at nightfall he buried it with solicitude under a heap of stones, crying, “Ah! my brother, how shall I live without thee, my brother?” And he prayed that at Moonshine’s next re-birth4 they might again live together.

Journeying farther on, he came to a pass between two steep rocks, and in one of them was a red door. Going up to the door, he found an ancient Hermit living in a cave within, who addressed him, saying, “Whence art thou, O youth, who seemest oppressed with recent grief?” And Sunshine told him all that had befallen him. Without again speaking the Hermit put into the folds of his girdle a bottle containing a life-restoring cordial, and going to the spot where Moonshine lay buried, restored him to life. Then said he to the two princes, “Live now with me, and be as my two sons.” So they lived with him, and were unto him as his two sons.

The desert where this Hermit lived belonged to the kingdom of a Khan dazzling in his glory and resistless in might. Now it was about the season when the Khan and his subjects went every year to direct the flowing of water over the country for fructifying the grain-seeds; but it was the custom every year at this season first, in order to make the Serpent-gods5 who lived at the water-head propitious, to sacrifice to them a youth of a certain age; and on this occasion it fell to the lot of a youth born in the Tiger-year6. When the Khan had caused search to be made through all the people no youth was found among them all born in the Tiger-year. At last certain herdsmen came before him, saying, “While we were out tending our cattle, behold we saw in a cave nigh to a pass between two steep rocks a Hermit who has with him two sons, and one of them born in the Tiger-year.”

When the Khan had listened to their word he immediately sent three envoys to fetch the Hermit’s son for the sacrifice7.

When the three envoys of the Khan had come and stood knocking before the red door of the Hermit’s cave, the Hermit cried out to them, asking what they wanted of him. Then answered the chief of them, “Because thou hast a son living with thee born in the Tiger-year, and the Khan hath need of him for the sacrifice; therefore are we come, even that we may bring him to the Khan.”

When the Hermit had heard their embassage, he answered them, “How should a Hermit have a son with him out here in the desert?” But he took Sunshine, who was the youth born in the Tiger-year, and motioned him into a farther hole of the cave where was a great vessel of pottery; into this vessel he made him creep, then fastening the mouth of the vessel with earth, he made it to appear like to a jar of rice-brandy8. Meantime, however, the Khan’s envoys had broken down the door, and began searching through every recess of the cave. Finding nothing, they were filled with fury, and in their anger beat the Hermit on whose account they had come a bootless errand. But when Sunshine heard the men ill-treating the Hermit who had been to him as a father, he could not refrain himself, and called out from within the brandy-jar, “Unhand my father!” Then the envoys immediately left off beating his father, but they turned and seized him and carried him off to the Khan, while the Hermit was left weeping with great grief at the loss of his adopted son, even as one like to die.

As the envoys dragged Sunshine along before the palace, the Khan’s daughter was looking out of window, and when she heard that the handsome youth was destined for the Serpent-sacrifice, she was filled with compassion. She went therefore to the men who had the charge to throw him into the water, saying, “See how comely he is! He is worthy to be saved, throw him not into the water. Or else if you will throw him in, throw me in also with him.” Then the men went and showed the Khan her words; whereupon the king was wroth, and said, “She is not worthy to be called the Khan’s daughter; let them therefore be both sewn up into one bullock’s skin, and so cast into the water.” The men therefore did according to the Khan’s bidding, and sewing them both up in one bullock-hide together, cast them into the water to the Serpent-gods.

Then began Sunshine to say, “That they should throw me to the Serpent-gods, because I was the only youth to be found who was born in the Tiger-year, was not so bad; but that this beautiful maiden, who hath deigned to lift her eyes on me, and to love me, should be so sacrificed also, this is unbearable!”

And the Khan’s daughter in like manner cried, “That I who am only a woman should be thrown to the Serpent-gods, is not so bad; but that this noble and beautiful youth should be so sacrificed also, this is unbearable!”

When the Serpent-gods heard these laments, and saw how the prince and the maiden vied with each other in generosity, they sent and fetched them both out of the water, and gave them freedom. Also as soon as they were set free, they let the water gently flow over the whole country, just as the people desired for their rice irrigation.

Meantime, Sunshine said to the Khan’s daughter, “Princess, let us each now return home. Go thou to thy father’s palace, while I go back to the Hermitage, and visit my adopted father, who is like to die of grief for the loss of me. After I have fulfilled this filial duty, I will return to thee, and we will live for ever after for each other alone.”

The princess then praised his filial love, and bid him go console his father, only begging him to come to her right soon, for she should have no joy till he came back.

Sunshine went therefore to the Hermit, whom he found so worn with grief, that he was but just in time to save him from dying; so having first washed him with milk and water, he consoled him with many words of kindness.

The princess, too, went home to the palace, where all were so astonished at her deliverance that at first she could hardly obtain admission. When they had made sure it was herself in very truth, the people all came round her, and congratulated her with joy, for never had any one before been delivered from the sacrifice to the Serpent-gods.

Then said the Khan, “That the Khan’s daughter should be spared by the Serpent-gods was to be expected. They have the youth born in the Tiger-year for their sacrifice.”

But the princess answered, “Neither has he fallen sacrifice. Him also they let free; and indeed was it in great part out of regard for his abnegation and distress over my suffering that we were both let free.”

Then answered the Khan, “In that case is our debt great unto this youth. Let him be sought after, and besought that he come to visit us in our palace.”

So they went again to the cave in the rocky pass, and fetched Sunshine; and when he came near, the Khan went out to meet him, and caused costly seats to be brought, and made him sit down thereon beside him.

Then he said to him, “That thou hast delivered this country from the fear of drought, is matter for which we owe thee our highest gratitude; but that thou and this my daughter also have escaped from death is a marvellous wonder. Tell me now, art thou in very truth the son of the Hermit?”

“No,” replied Sunshine, “I am the son of a mighty Khan; but my step-mother, seeking to make a difference between me and this my brother standing beside me, who was her own born son, and to put me to death, we fled away both together; and thus fleeing we came to the Hermit, and were taken in by his hospitality.”

When the Khan had heard his words, he promised him his daughter in marriage, and her sister, to be wife to Moonshine. Moreover, he endowed them with immeasurable riches, and gave them an escort of four detachments of fighting-men to accompany them home. When they had arrived near the capital of the kingdom, they sent an embassage before them to the Khan, saying,—

“We, thy two sons, Sunshine and Moonshine, are returned to thee.”

The Khan and the Khanin, who had for many years past quite lost their reason out of grief for the loss of their children, and held no more converse with men, were at once restored to sense and animation at this news, and sent out a large troop of horsemen to meet them, and conduct them to their palace. Thus the two princes returned in honour to their home.

When they came in, the Khan was full of joy and glory, sitting on his throne; but the Khanin, full of remorse and shame at the thought of the crime she had meditated, fell down dead before their face.

“That wretched woman got the end that she deserved!” exclaimed the Khan.

“Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips,” said the SiddhÎ-kÜr. And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the fifth chapter, showing how the Serpent-gods were appeased.

When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed the end and object of his journey, he proceeded once more by the same manner and means to the cool grove. And, having bound the SiddhÎ-kÜr in his bag, bore him on his shoulder to present to his Master and Teacher NÂgÂrg'una.

But by the way the SiddhÎ-kÜr asked him to tell a tale, and when he would not answer begged for the token of his assent that he should tell one, which when the Khan had given he told this tale, saying,—

The Turbulent Subject.

Long ages ago there lived in a district called Brschiss1 a haughty, turbulent man. As he feared no man and obeyed no laws, the Khan of that country sent to him, saying, “Since thou wilt obey no laws, thou canst not remain in my country. Get thee gone hence, or else submit to the laws!”

But the turbulent man chose rather to go forth in exile than submit to the laws. So he went wandering forth till he came to a vast plain covered with feather-grass, and a palm-tree standing in the midst, with a dead horse lying beneath it. Under the shade of the palm-tree2 he sat down, saying, “The head of this horse will be useful for food when my provisions are exhausted.” So he bound it into his waist-scarf and climbed up into the palm-tree to pass the night.

He had scarcely composed himself to sleep when there was a great noise of shouting and yelling, which woke him up; and behold there came thither towards the palm-tree, from the southern side of the steppe, a herd of dÆmons, having ox-hide caps on their heads, and riding on horses covered with ox-hides. Nor had they long settled themselves before another herd of dÆmons came trooping towards the palm-tree from the northern side of the steppe, and these wore paper caps and rode on horses wearing paper coverings.

All these dÆmons now danced and feasted together with great howling and shouting. The man looked down upon them from the tree-top full of terror, but also full of envy at their enjoyment. As he leant over to watch them, the horse’s head tumbled out of his girdle right into their midst and scattered them in dire alarm in every direction, not one of them daring to look up to see whence it came. It was not till the morning light broke, however, that the man ventured to come down. When he did so, he said, “Last night there was much feasting and drinking going on here, surely there must be something left from such a banquet.” Searching through the long feather-grass all about, he discovered a gold goblet full of brandy3, from which he drank long draughts, but it continued always full. At last he turned it down upon the ground, and immediately all manner of meats and cakes appeared. “This goblet is indeed larder and cellar!” said the man, and taking it with him he went on his way.

Farther on he met a man brandishing a thick stick as he walked.

“What is your stick good for that you brandish it so proudly?” asked the turbulent man.

“My stick is so much good that when I say to it, ‘Fly, that man has stolen somewhat of me, fly after him and kill him and bring me back my goods,’ it instantly flies at the man and brings my things back.”

“Yours is a good stick, but see my goblet; whatsoever you desire of meat or drink this same goblet provides for the wishing. Will you exchange your stick against my goblet?”

“That will I gladly,” rejoined the traveller.

But the turbulent man, having once effected the exchange, cried to the stick, “Fly, that man has stolen my goblet, fly after him and kill him and bring me back my goblet! “Before the words had left his lips the stick flew through the air, killed the man, and brought back the goblet. Thus he had both the stick and the goblet.

Farther on he saw a man coming who carried an iron hammer.

“What is your hammer good for?” inquired he as they met.

“My hammer is so good,” replied the traveller, “that when I strike it nine times on the ground immediately there rises up an iron tower nine storeys high.”

“Yours is a good hammer,” replied the turbulent man, “but look at my goblet; whatever you desire of meat or drink this same goblet provides for the wishing. Will you change your hammer against my goblet?”

“That will I gladly,” replied the wayfarer.

But the turbulent man, having once effected the exchange, cried to the stick, “Fly, that man has stolen my goblet, fly after him and kill him and bring me back the goblet.” The command was executed as soon as spoken, and the turbulent man thus became possessed of the hammer as well as the stick and the goblet.

Farther on he saw a man carrying a goat’s leather bag.

“What is your bag good for?” inquired he as they met.

“My bag is so good that I have but to shake it and there comes a shower of rain, but if I shake it hard then it rains in torrents.”

“Yours is a good bag,” replied the turbulent man, “but see my goblet; whatsoever you desire of meat or drink it provides you for the wishing. Will you exchange your bag against my goblet?”

“That will I gladly,” answered the traveller.

But no sooner had the turbulent man possession of the bag than he sent his stick as before to recover the goblet also.

Provided with all these magic articles, he had no fear in returning to his own country in spite of the prohibition of the Khan. Arrived there about midnight, he established himself behind the Khan’s palace, and, striking the earth nine times with his iron hammer, there immediately appeared an iron fortress nine storeys high, towering far above the palace.

In the morning the Khan said, “Last night I heard ‘knock, knock, knock,’ several times. What will it have been?” So the Khanin rose and looked out and answered him, saying, “Behold, a great iron fortress, nine storeys high, stands right over against the palace.”

“This is some work of that turbulent rebel, I would wager!” replied the Khan, full of wrath. “And he has brought it to that pass that we must now measure our strength to the uttermost.” Then he rose and called together all his subjects, and bid them each bring their share of fuel to a great fire which he kindled all round the iron fortress; all the smiths, too, he summoned to bring their bellows and blow it, and thus it was turned into a fearful furnace.

Meantime the turbulent man sat quite unconcerned in the ninth storey with his mother and his son, occupied with discussing the viands which the golden goblet provided. When the fire began to reach the eighth storey, the man’s mother caught a little alarm, saying, “Evil will befall us if this fire which the Khan has kindled round us be left unchecked.” But he answered, “Mother! fear nothing; I have the means of settling that.” Then he drew out his goat’s-leather bag, went with it up to the highest turret of the fortress, and shook it till the rain flowed and pretty well extinguished the fire; but he also went on shaking it till the rain fell in such torrents that presently the whole neighbourhood was inundated, and not only the embers of the fire but the smiths’ bellows were washed away, and the people and the Khan himself had much ado to escape with their lives. At last the gushing waters had worked a deep moat round the fortress, in which the turbulent man dwelt henceforth secure, and the Khan durst admonish him no more.

“Thus the power of magic prevailed over sovereign might and majesty,” exclaimed the Khan; and as he uttered these words the SiddhÎ-kÜr said, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the sixth chapter, of how it fell out with the Turbulent Subject.

When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed the end and object of his labour, he proceeded again by the same manner and means to the cool grove, and having bound the SiddhÎ-kÜr in his bag, bore him on his shoulder to present to his Master and Teacher NÂgÂrg'una.

But by the way the SiddhÎ-kÜr asked him to tell a tale; and when he would not answer, craved the token of his assent that he should tell one, which when the Khan had given, he told this tale, saying,—

The White Bird and his Wife.

Long ages ago, there lived in a land called Fair-flower-garden, a man, who had three daughters, who minded his herds of goats1, the three alternately.

One day, when it was the turn of the eldest sister to go with them, she fell asleep during the mid-day heat, and when she awoke, she found that one of the goats was missing. While she wandered about seeking it, she came to a place where was a great red door. When she had opened this, she found behind it, a little farther on, a great gold door. And when she had opened this, she found farther on another door all of shining mother-o’-pearl. She opened this, and beyond it again there was an emerald door, which gave entrance to a splendid palace full of gold and precious stones, dazzling to behold. Yet in all the whole palace there was no living thing save one white bird perched upon a costly table in a cage.

The bird espying the maiden, said to her, “Maiden, how camest thou hither?” And she replied, “One of my father’s goats has escaped from the flock, and as I dare not go home without it, I have been seeking it every where; thus came I hither.” Then the White Bird said, “If thou wilt consent to be my wife2, I will not only tell thee where the goat is, but restore it to thee. If, however, thou refuse to render me this service, the goat is lost to thy father’s flock for ever.” But the maiden answered, “How can I be thy wife, seeing thou art a bird? Therefore is my father’s goat lost to his flock for ever.” And she went away weeping for sorrow.

The next day, when the second daughter took her turn with the herds, another goat escaped from the flock; and when she went to seek it, she also came to the strange palace and the white bird; but neither could she enter into his idea of her becoming his wife; and she therefore came home, sorrowing over the loss to the herd under her care.

The day following, the youngest daughter went forth with the goats, and a goat also strayed from her. But she, when she had come to the palace, and the white bird asked her to become his wife, with the promise of restoring her goat in case of her consent, answered him, “As a rule, creatures of the male gender keep their promises; therefore, O bird! I accept thy conditions.” Thus she agreed to become his wife.

One day there was to be a great gathering, lasting thirteen days, in a temple in the neighbourhood. And when all the people were assembled together, it was found that it was just this woman, the wife of the white bird, who was more comely than all the other women. And among the men there was a mighty rider, mounted on a dappled grey horse, who was so far superior to all the rest, that when he had trotted thrice round the assembly and ridden away again, they could not cease talking of his grace and comeliness, and his mastery of his steed.

When the wife came back home again to the palace in the rock, the white bird said to her, “Among all the men and women at the festival, who was regarded to have given the proofs of superiority?” And she answered, “Among the men, it was one riding on a dappled grey horse; and among the women, it was I.” Thus it happened every day of the festival, neither was there any, of men or women, that could compete with these two.

On the twelfth day, when the woman that was married to the white bird went again to the festival, she had for her next neighbour an ancient woman, who asked her how it had befallen the other days of the feast; and she told her, saying, “Among all the women none has overmatched me; but among the men, there is none to compare with the mighty rider on the dappled grey horse. If I could but have such a man for my husband, there would be nothing left to wish for all the days of my life!” Then said the ancient woman, “And why shouldst thou not have such a man for thy husband?” But she began to weep, and said, “Because I have already promised to be the wife of a white bird.” “That is just right!” answered the ancient woman. “Behold, to-morrow is the thirteenth day of the assembly; but come not thou to the feast, only make as though thou wert going: hide thyself behind the emerald door. When thou seemest to be gone, the white bird will leave his perch, and assuming his man’s form, will go into the stable, and saddle his dappled grey steed, and ride to the festival as usual. Then come thou out of thy hiding-place, and burn his perch, and cage, and feathers; so will he have henceforth to wear his natural form.” Thus the ancient woman instructed the wife of the white bird.

The next day the woman did all that she had been told, even according to the words of the ancient woman. But as she longed exceedingly to see her husband return, she placed herself behind a pillar where she could see him coming a long way. At last, as the sun began to sink quite red towards the horizon, she saw him coming on his dapple-grey horse. “How is this?” he exclaimed, as he espied her. “You got back sooner than I, then?” And she answered, “Yes, I got home the first.” Then inquired he further, “Where is my perch and cage?” And she made answer, “Those have I burned in the fire, in order that thou mightest henceforth appear only in thy natural form.” Then he exclaimed, “Knowest thou what thou hast done? In that cage had I left not my feathers only, but also my soul3!” And when she heard that, she wept sore, and besought him, saying, “Is there no means of restoration? Behold there is nothing that I could not endure to recover thy soul.” And the man answered, “There is one only remedy. The gods and dÆmons will come to-night to fetch me, because my soul is gone from me; but I can keep them in perpetual contest for seven days and seven nights. Thou, meantime, take this stick, and with it hew and hew on at the mother-o’-pearl door without stopping or resting day or night. By the close of the seventh night thou shalt have hewn through the door, and I shall be free from the gods and dÆmons; but, bear in mind, that if thou cease from hewing for one single instant, or if weariness overtake thee for one moment, then the gods and dÆmons will carry me away with them—away from thee.” Thus he spoke. Then the woman went and fetched little motes of the feather-grass, and fixed her eyelids open with them, that she might not be overtaken by slumber; and with the stick that her husband had given her she set to work, when night fell, to hew and hew on at the mother-o’-pearl door. Thus she hewed on and on, nor wearied, seven days and seven nights: only the seventh night, the motes of grass having fallen out of one of her eyes so that she could not keep the lid from closing once, in that instant the gods and dÆmons prevailed against her husband, and carried him off.

Inconsolable, she set forth to wander after him, crying, “Ah! my beloved husband. My husband of the bird form!” Notwithstanding that she had not slept or left off toiling for seven days and seven nights, she set out, without stopping to take rest, searching for him every where in earth and heaven4.

At last, as she continued walking and crying out, she heard his voice answering her from the top of a mountain. And when she had toiled up to the top of the mountain, crying aloud after him, she heard him answer her from the bottom of a stream. When she came down again to the banks of the stream, still calling loudly upon him, there she found him by a sacred ObÖ, raised to the gods by the wayside5. He sat there with a great bundle of old boots upon his back, as many as he could carry.

When they had met, he said to her, “This meeting with thee once more rejoices my heart. The gods and dÆmons have made me their water-carrier; and in toiling up and down from the river to their mountain6 so many times, I have worn out all these pairs of boots.”

But she answered, “Tell me, O beloved, what can I do to deliver thee from this bondage?”

And he answered, “There is only this remedy, O faithful one. Even that thou return now home, and build another cage like to the one that was burned, and that having built it, thou woo my soul back into it. Which when thou hast done, I myself must come back thither, nor can gods or dÆmons withhold me.”

So she went back home, and built a cage like to the one that was burned, and wooed the soul of her husband back into it; and thus was her husband delivered from the power of the gods and dÆmons, and came back to her to live with her always.

“In truth that was a glorious woman for a wife!” exclaimed the Khan.

“Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips,” replied the SiddhÎ-kÜr. And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the seventh chapter, of how it befell the White Bird and his Wife.

When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed the end and object of his labour, he proceeded yet again as heretofore to the cool grove, and having taken captive the SiddhÎ-kÜr bore him along to present to the Master and Teacher NÂgÂrg'una. But by the way the SiddhÎ-kÜr asked him to tell a tale, and when he would not speak, craved of him the token that he willed he should tell one; which, when he had given, he told this tale, saying,—

How Ânanda the Wood-carver and Ânanda the Painter strove against each other.

Long ages ago there lived in a kingdom which was called Kun-smon1, a Khan named Kun-snang2. When this Khan departed this life his son named Chamut Ssakiktschi3 succeeded to the throne.

In the same kingdom lived a painter named Ânanda4, and a wood-carver also named Ânanda. These men were friends of each other apparently, but jealousy reigned in their hearts.

One day, now, it befell that Ânanda the painter, whom to distinguish from the other, we will call by his Tibetian name of Kun-dgah instead of by his Sanskrit name of Ânanda, appeared before the Khan, and spoke in this wise: “O Khan, thy father, born anew into the kingdom of the gods, called me thither unto him, and straightway hearing his behest, I obeyed it.” As he spoke he handed to “All-protecting” the Khan, a forged strip of writing which was conceived after this manner:—

“To my son Chotolo5 Ssakiktschi!

“When I last parted from thee, I took my flight out of the lower life, and was born again into the kingdom of the gods6. Here I have my abode in plenitude, yea, superabundance of all that I require. Only one thing is wanting. In order to complete a temple I am building, I find not one to adorn it cunning in his art like unto Ânanda our wood-carver. Wherefore, I charge thee, son Chotolo-Ssakiktschi, call unto thee Ânanda the wood-carver, and send him up hither to me. The way and means of his coming shall be explained unto thee by Kun-dgah the painter.”

Such was the letter that Kun-dgah the painter, with crafty art, delivered to Kun-tschong7, the Khan. Which when the Khan had read he said to him—“That the Khan, my father, is in truth born anew into the gods’ kingdom is very good.”

And forthwith he sent for Ânanda the wood-carver, and spoke thus to him: “My father, the Khan, is new born into the gods’ kingdom, and is there building a temple. For this purpose he has need of a wood-carver; but can find none cunning in his art like unto thee. Now, therefore, he has written unto me to send thee straightway above unto him.” With these words he handed the strip of writing into his hands.

But the Wood-carver when he had read it thought within himself, “This is indeed contrary to all rule and precedent. Do I not scent here some craft of Kun-dgah the painter? Nevertheless, shall I not find a means to provide against his mischievous intent?” Then he raised his voice, and spoke thus aloud to the Khan:—

“Tell me, O Khan, how shall I a poor Wood-carver attain to the gods’ kingdom?”

“In this,” replied the Khan, “shall the Painter instruct thee.”

And while the Wood-carver said within himself, “Have I not smelt thee out, thou crafty one?” the Khan sent and fetched the Painter into his presence. Then having commanded him to declare the way and manner of the journey into the gods’ kingdom, the Painter answered in this wise,—

“When thou hast collected all the materials and instruments appertaining to thy calling, and hast gathered them at thy feet, thou shalt order a pile of beams of wood well steeped in spirit distilled from sesame grain to be heaped around thee. Then to the accompaniment of every solemn-sounding instrument kindle the pile, and rise to the gods’ kingdom borne on obedient clouds of smoke as on a swift charger.”

The Wood-carver durst not refuse the behest of the Khan; but obtained an interval of seven days in order to collect the materials and instruments of his calling, but also to consider and find out a means of avenging the astuteness of the Painter. Then he went home, and told his wife all that had befallen him.

His wife, without hesitating, proposed to him a means of evading while seeming to fulfil the decree. In a field belonging to him at a short distance from his house, she caused a large flat stone to be placed, on which the sacrifice was to be consummated. But under it by night she had an underground passage made, communicating with the house.

When the eighth day had arrived the Khan rose and said, “This is the day that the Wood-carver is to go up to my father into the gods’ kingdom.”

And all the people were assembled round the pile of wood steeped in spirit distilled from sesame grain, in the Wood-carver’s field. It was a pile of the height of a man, well heaped up, and in its midst stood the Wood-carver calm and impassible, while all kinds of musical instruments sent up their solemn-sounding tones.

When the smoke of the spirit-steeped wood began to rise in concealing density, the Wood-carver pushed aside the stone with his feet, and returned to his home by the underground way his wife had had made for him.

But the Painter, never doubting but that he must have fallen a prey to the flames, rubbed his hands and pointing with his finger in joy and triumph to the curling smoke, cried out to the people,—

“Behold the spirit of our brother Ânanda the wood-carver, ascending on the obedient clouds as on a swift charger to the kingdom of the gods!”

And all the people followed the point of his finger with their eyes and believing his words, they cried out,—

“Behold the spirit of Ânanda the wood-carver, ascending to adorn the temple of the gods’ kingdom.”

And now for the space of a whole month the Wood-carver remained closely at home letting himself be seen by no one save his wife only. Daily he washed himself over with milk, and sat in the shade out of the coloured light of the sun. At the end of the month his wife brought him a garment of white gauze, with which he covered himself; and he wrote, he also, a feigned letter, and went up with it to “All-protecting” the Khan.

As soon as the Khan saw him he cried out,—

“How art thou returned from the gods’ kingdom? And how didst thou leave my father ‘All-knowing’ the Khan?”

Then Ânanda the wood-carver handed to him the forged letter which he had prepared, and he caused it to be read aloud before the people in these words:—

“To my son, Chotolo-Ssakiktschi.

“That thou occupiest thyself without wearying in leading thy people in the way of prosperity and happiness is well. As regards the erection of the temple up here, concerning which I wrote thee in my former letter, Ânanda the wood-carver hath well executed the part we committed to him, and we charge thee that thou recompense him richly for his labour. But in order to the entire completion of the same, we stand in need of a painter to adorn with cunning art the sculpture he hath executed. When this cometh into thy hands, therefore, send straightway for Kun-dgah the painter, for there is none other like to him, and let him come up to us forthwith; according to the same way and manner that thou heretofore sendedst unto us Ânanda the wood-carver, shall he come.”

When the Khan had heard the letter, he rejoiced greatly, and said, “These are in truth the words of my father, ‘All-knowing’ the Khan.” And he loaded Ânanda the wood-carver with rich rewards, but sent and called unto him Kun-dgah the painter.

Kun-dgah the painter came with all haste into the presence of the Khan, who caused the letter of his father to be read out to him; and he as he heard it was seized with great fear and trembling; but when he saw Ânanda the wood-carver standing whole before him, all white from the milk-washing and clad in the costly garment of gauze as if the light of the gods’ kingdom yet clove to him, he said within himself,—

“Surely the fire hath not burnt him, as I see him before mine eyes, so neither shall it burn me; and if I refuse to go a worse death will be allotted me, while if I accept the charge I shall receive rich rewards like unto Ânanda,” So he consented to have his painter’s gear in readiness in seven days, and to go up to the gods’ kingdom by means of the pile burnt with fire.

When the seven days were passed, all the people assembled in the field of Kun-dgah the painter, and the Khan came in his robes of state surrounded by the officers of his palace, and the ministers of the kingdom. The pile was well heaped up of beams of wood steeped in spirit distilled from sesame grain; in the midst they placed Kun-dgah the painter, and with the melody of every solemn-sounding instrument they set fire to the pile. Kun-dgah fortified himself for the torture by the expectation that soon he would begin to rise on the clouds of smoke; but when he found that, instead of this, his body sank to the ground with unendurable pain, he shouted out to the people to come and release him. But the device whereby he had intended to drown the cries of the Wood-carver prevailed against him. No one could hear his voice for the noise of the resounding instruments; and thus he perished miserably in the flames.

“Truly that bad man was rewarded according to his deserts!” exclaimed the Prince.

And as he let these words escape him thoughtlessly, the SiddhÎ-kÜr replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Prince hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed the end and object of his labour, he proceeded yet again to the cool grove, and having in the same manner as heretofore taken captive the SiddhÎ-kÜr, bore him along to present to his Master and Teacher NÂgÂrg'una.

But by the way the SiddhÎ-kÜr asked him to tell a tale, and when he would not speak craved the token that he willed he should tell one, which when the Prince had given he told this tale, saying,—

Five to One.

Long ages ago there lived among the subjects of a great kingdom six youths who were all boon companions. One was a smith’s son, and one was a wood-carver’s son; one was a painter’s son, and one was a doctor’s son; one was an accountant’s son, and one was a rich man’s son, who had no trade or profession, but plenty of money.

These six determined on taking a journey to find the opportunity of establishing themselves in life; so they all six set out together, having taken leave of their friends, and the rich man’s son providing the cost.

When they had journeyed on a long way together without any thing particular befalling them, as they were beginning to weary of carrying on the same sort of life day by day, they came to a place where the waters of six streams met, flowing thither from various directions, and they said, “All these days we have journeyed together, and none of us have met with the opportunity of settling or making a living. Let us now each go forth alone, each one following back the course of one of these rivers to its source, and see what befalls us then.” So each planted a tree at the head of the stream he chose, and they agreed that all should meet again at the same spot, and if any failed to appear, and his tree had withered away, it should be taken as a token that evil had befallen him, and that then his companions should follow his river, and search for him and deliver him.

Having come to this agreement, each one went his way.

The rich man’s son followed the wanderings of his stream without falling in with any one till he had reached the very source of the river-head; here was a meadow skirting a forest, and on the border of the forest a dwelling. Towards this dwelling the youth directed his steps. There lived here an ancient man along with his ancient wife, who when they saw the youth opening the gate cried out to him,—

“Young man! wherefore comest thou hither, and whence comest thou?”

“I come from a far country,” answered the youth, “and I am journeying to find the occasion of settling myself in life; and thus journeying, my steps have brought me hither.”

When the ancient man and his wife saw that he was a comely youth and well-spoken, they said, “If this is indeed so, it is well that thy steps have brought thee hither, for we have here a beautiful daughter, charming in form and delightful in conversation; take her and become our son.”

As they said these words the daughter appeared on the threshold of the dwelling, and when the youth saw her he said within himself, “This is no common child of earth, but one of the daughters of the heavenly gods1. What better can befall me than that I should marry her and live here the rest of my days in her company?”

The maiden, too, said to him, “It is well, O youth, that thy steps have brought thee hither.” Thus they began conversing together, and the youth established himself on the spot and lived with his wife in peace and happiness.

This dwelling, however, was within the dominions of a mighty Khan. One day, as his minions were disporting themselves in the river, they found a ring all set with curious jewels, in cunning workmanship, which the rich youth’s wife had dropped while bathing, and the stream had carried it along to where the Khan’s minions were. As the ring was wonderful to behold, they brought it to the Khan.

The eyes of the Khan, who was a man of understanding, no sooner lighted on the ring than he turned and said to his attendants,—

“Somewhere on the borders of this stream, and higher up its course, lives a most beautiful woman, more beautiful than all the wives of the Khan; go fetch her and bring her to me.”

The Khan’s attendants set out on their mission, and visited all the dwellers on the banks of the stream, but they found no woman exceeding in beauty all the wives of the Khan till they came to the wife of the rich youth. When they saw her, they had no doubt it must be she that the Khan had meant. Saying, therefore, “The Khan hath sent for thee,” they carried her off to the palace; but the rich youth followed mourning, as near as he could approach.

When the Khan saw her, he said, “This is of a truth no child of earth; she must be the daughter of the heavenly gods. Beside of her all my other wives are but as dogs and swine,” and he took her and placed her far above them all. But she only wept, and could think of nothing but the rich youth. When the Khan saw how she wept and thought only of the rich youth, he said to his courtiers, “Rid me of this fellow.” And so, to please the Khan, they treacherously invited him to a lone place on the bank of the river, as if to join in some game; but when they had got him there they thrust him into a hole in the ground, and then rolled a piece of rock on the top of it, and so put him to death.

In the meantime, the day came round on which the six companions had agreed to come together at the spot where the six streams met; and there the five others arrived in due course, but the rich youth came not; and when they looked at the tree he had planted by the side of his stream, behold, it had withered away. In accordance with their promise, therefore, they all set out to follow the course of his stream and to search him out. But when they had wandered on a long way and found no trace of him, the accountant’s son sat down to reckon, and by his reckoning he discovered that he must have gone so far into such a kingdom, and that he must lie buried under a rock. Following the course of his reckoning, the five soon came upon the spot where the rich youth lay buried under the rock. But when they saw how big the rock was, they said, “Who shall suffice to remove the rock and uncover the body of our companion?”

“That will I!” cried the smith’s son, and, taking his hammer, he broke the rock in pieces and brought to light the body of the rich youth. When his companions saw him they were filled with compassion and cried aloud, “Who shall give back to us our friend, the companion of our youth?”

“That will I!” cried the doctor’s son, and he mixed a potion which, when he had given it to the corpse to drink, gave him power to rise up as if no harm had ever befallen him.

When they saw him all well again, and free to speak, they every one came round him, assailing him with manifold questions upon how he had fallen into this evil plight, and upon all that had happened to him since they parted. But when he had told them all his story from beginning to end, they all agreed his wife must have been a wonderful maiden indeed, and they cried out, “Who shall be able to restore his wife to our brother?”

“That will I!” cried the wood-carver’s son. “And I!” cried the painter’s son.

So the wood-carver’s son set to work, and of the log of a tree he hewed out a Garuda-bird2, and fashioned it with springs, so that when a man sat in it he could direct it this way or that whithersoever he listed to go; and the painter’s son adorned it with every pleasant colour. Thus together they perfected a most beautiful bird.

The rich youth lost no time in placing himself inside the beautiful garuda-bird, and, touching the spring, flew straight away right over the royal palace.

The king was in the royal gardens, with all his court about him, and quickly espied the garuda-bird, and esteemed himself fortunate that the beautiful garuda-bird, the king of birds, the bearer of Vishnu, should have deigned to visit his residence; and because he reckoned no one else was worthy of the office, he appointed the most beautiful of his wives to go up and offer it food.

Accordingly, the wife of the rich youth herself went up on to the roof of the palace with food to the royal bird. But the rich youth, when he saw her approach, opened the door of the wooden garuda and showed himself to her. Nor did she know how to contain herself for delight when she found he was therein.

“Never had I dared hope that these eyes should light on thee again, joy of my heart!” she exclaimed. “How madest thou then the garuda-bird obedient to thy word to bring thee hither?”

But he, full only of the joy of finding her again, and that she still loved him as before, could only reply,—

“Though thou reignest now in a palace as the Khan’s wife in splendour and wealth, if thine heart yet belongeth to me thine husband, come up into the garuda-bird, and we will fly away out of the power of the Khan for ever.”

To which she made answer, “Truly, though I reign now in the palace as the Khan’s wife in splendour and wealth, yet is my heart and my joy with thee alone, my husband. Of what have my thoughts been filled all through these days of absence, but of thee only, and for whom else do I live?”

With that she mounted into the wooden garuda-bird into the arms of her husband, and full of joy they flew away together.

But the Khan and his court, when they saw what had happened, were dismayed.

“Because I sent my most beautiful wife to carry food to the garuda-bird, behold she is taken from me,” cried the Khan, and he threw himself on the ground as if he would have died of grief.

But the rich youth directed the flight of the wooden garuda-bird, so that it regained the place where his five companions awaited him.

“Have your affairs succeeded?” inquired they, as he descended.

“That they have abundantly,” answered the rich youth.

While he spoke, his wife had also descended out of the wooden garuda-bird, whom when his five companions saw, they were all as madly smitten in love with her as the Khan himself had been, and they all began to reason with one another about it.

But the rich youth said, “True it is to you, my dear and faithful companions, I owe it that by means of what you have done for me, I have been delivered from the power of cruel death, and still more that there has been restored to me my wife, who is yet dearer far to me. For this, my gratitude will not be withheld; but what shall all this be to me if you now talk of tearing her from mine arms again?”

Upon which the accountant’s son stood forward and said, “It is to me thou owest all. What could these have done for thee without the aid of my reckoning? They wandered hither and thither and found not the place of thy burial, until I had reckoned the thing, and told them whither to go. To me thou owest thy salvation, so give me thy wife for my guerdon.”

But the smith’s son stood forward and said, “It is to me thou owest all. What could all these have done for thee without the aid of mine arm? It was very well that they should come and find the spot where thou wert held bound by the rock; but all they could do was to stand gazing at it. Only the might of my arm shattered it. It is to me thou owest all, so give me thy wife for my guerdon.”

Then the doctor’s son stood forward and said, “It is to me thou owest all. What could all these have done without the aid of my knowledge? It was well that they should find thee, and deliver thee from under the rock; but what would it have availed had not my potion restored thee to life? It is to me thou owest all, so give me thy wife for my guerdon.”

“Nay!” interposed the wood-carver’s son, “nay, but it is to my craft thou owest all. The woman had never been rescued from the power of the Khan but by means of my wooden garuda-bird. Behold, are we six unarmed men able to have laid siege to the Khan’s palace? And as no man is suffered to pass within its portal, never had she been reached, but by means of my bird. So it is I clearly who have most claim to her.”

“Not so!” cried the painter’s son. “It is to my art the whole is due. What would the garuda-bird have availed had I not painted it divinely? Unless adorned by my art never had the Khan sent his most beautiful wife to offer it food. To me is due the deliverance, and to me the prize, therefore.”

Thus they all strove together; and as they could not agree which should have her, and she would go with none of them but only the rich youth, her husband, they all seized her to gain possession of her, till in the end she was torn in pieces.

“Then if each one had given her up to the other he would have been no worse off,” cried the Prince. And as he let these words escape him, the SiddhÎ-kÜr replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the ninth chapter, of the story of Five to One.

When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that the SiddhÎ-kÜr had once more escaped, he went forth yet another time to the cool grove, and sought him out as before; and having been solicited by him to give the sign of consent to his telling a tale, the SiddhÎ-kÜr commenced after the following manner:—

The Biting Corpse.

Long ages ago, there lived two brothers who had married two sisters. Nevertheless, from some cause, the hearts of the two brothers were estranged from each other. Moreover, the elder brother was exceeding miserly and morose of disposition. The elder brother also had amassed great riches; but he gave no portion of them unto his younger brother. One day the elder brother made preparations for a great feast, and invited to it all the inhabitants of the neighbourhood. The younger brother said privately to his wife on this occasion, “Although my brother has never behaved as a brother unto us, yet surely now that he is going to have such a great gathering of neighbours and acquaintances, it beseemeth not that he should fail to invite also his own flesh and blood.”

Nevertheless he invited him not. The next day, however, he said again to his wife, “Though he invited us not yesterday, yet surely this second day of the feast he will not fail to send and call us.”

Nevertheless he invited him not. Yet the third day likewise he expected that he should have sent and called him; but he invited him not the third day either. When he saw that he invited him not the third day either, he grew angry, and said within himself, “Since he has not invited me, I will even go and steal my portion of the feast.”

As soon as it was dark, therefore—when all the people of his brother’s house, having well drunk of the brandy he had provided, were deeply sunk in slumber,—the younger brother glided stealthily into his brother’s house, and hid himself in the store-chamber. But it was so, that the elder brother, having himself well drank of the brandy, and being overcome with sound slumbers1, his wife supported him along, and then put herself to sleep with him in the store-chamber. After a while, however, she rose up again, chose of the best meat and dainties, cooked them with great care, and went out, taking with her what she had prepared. When the brother saw this, he was astonished, and, abandoning for the moment his intention of possessing himself of a share of the good things, went out, that he might follow his brother’s wife. Behind the house was a steep rock, and on the other side of the rock a dismal, dreary burying-place. Hither it was that she betook herself. In the midst of a patch of grass in this burying-place was a piece of paved floor; on this lay the body of a man, withered and dried—it was the body of her former husband2; to him, therefore, she brought all these good dishes. After kissing and hugging him, and calling upon him by name, she opened his mouth, and tried to put the food into it. Then, see! suddenly the dead man’s mouth was jerked to again, breaking the copper spoon in two. And when she had opened it again, trying once more to feed him, it closed again as violently as before, this time snapping off the tip of the woman’s nose. After this, she gathered her dishes together, and went home, and went to bed again. Presently she made as though she had woke up, with a lamentable cry, and accused her husband of having bitten off her nose in his sleep. The man declared he had never done any such thing; but as the woman had to account for the damage to her nose, she felt bound to go on asseverating that he had done it. The dispute grew more and more violent between them, and the woman in the morning took the case before the Khan, accusing her husband of having bitten off the tip of her nose. As all the neighbours bore witness that the nose was quite right on the previous night, and the tip was now certainly bitten off, the Khan had no alternative but to decide in favour of the woman; and the husband was accordingly condemned to the stake for the wilful and malicious injury.

Before many hours it reached the ears of the younger brother that his elder brother had been condemned to the stake; and when he had heard the whole matter, in spite of his former ill-treatment of him, he ran forthwith before the Khan, and gave information of how the woman had really come by the injury, and how that his brother had no fault in the matter.

Then said the Khan, “That thou shouldst seek to save the life of thy brother is well; but this story that thou hast brought before us, who shall believe? Do dead men gnash their teeth and bite the living? Therefore in that thou hast brought false testimony against the woman, behold, thou also hast fallen into the jaws of punishment.” And he gave sentence that all that he possessed should be confiscated, and that he should be a beggar at the gate of his enemies3, with his head shorn4. “Let it be permitted to me to speak again,” said the younger brother, “and I will prove to the Khan the truth of what I have advanced.” And the Khan having given him permission to speak, he said, “Let the Khan now send to the burying-place on the other side of the rock, and there in the mouth of the corpse shall be found the tip of this woman’s nose.” Then the Khan sent, and found it was even as he had said. So he ordered both brothers to be set at liberty, and the woman to be tied to the stake.

“It were well if a Khan had always such good proof to guide his judgments,” exclaimed the Well-and-wise-walking Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the SiddhÎ-kÜr replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good,” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan went forth yet again, and fetched the SiddhÎ-kÜr. And as he brought him along, the SiddhÎ-kÜr told this tale:—

The Prayer making suddenly Rich.

Long ages ago, there was situated in the midst of a mighty kingdom a god’s temple, exactly one day’s journey distant from every part of the kingdom. Here was a statue of the Chongschim Bodhisattva1 wrought in clay. Hard by this temple was the lowly dwelling of an ancient couple with their only daughter. At the mouth of a stream which watered the place, was a village where lived a poor man. One day this man went up as far as the source of the stream to sell his fruit, which he carried in a basket. On his way home he passed the night under shelter of the temple. As he lay there on the ground, he overheard, through the open door of the lowly dwelling, the aged couple reasoning thus with one another: “Now that we are both old and well-stricken in years, it were well that we married our only daughter to some good man,” said the father. “Thy words are words of truth,” replied the mother. “Behold, all that we have in this world is our daughter and our store of jewels. Have we not all our lives through offered sacrifice at the shrine of the Chongschim Bodhisattva? have we not promoted his worship, and spread his renown? shall he not therefore direct us aright in our doings? To-morrow, which is the eighth day of the new moon, therefore, we will offer him sacrifice, and inquire of him what we shall do with our daughter SuvarnadharÎ2: whether we shall devote her to the secular or religious condition of life.”

When the man had heard this, he determined what to do. Having found a way into the temple, he made a hole in the Buddha-image, and placed himself inside it. Early in the morning, the old man and his wife came, with their daughter, and offered their sacrifice. Then said the father, “Divine Chongschim Bodhisattva! let it now be made known to us, whether is better, that we choose for our daughter the secular or religious condition of life? And if it be the secular, then show us to whom we shall give her for a husband.”

When he had spoken these words the poor man inside the Buddha-image crept up near the mouth of the same, and spoke thus in solemn tones:—

“For your daughter the secular state is preferable. Give her for wife to the man who shall knock at your gate early in the morning.”

At these words both the man and his wife fell into great joy, exclaiming, “Chutuktu3 hath spoken! Chutuktu hath spoken!”

Having watched well from the earliest dawn that no one should call before him, the man now knocked at the gate of the old couple. When the father saw a stranger standing before the door, he cried, “Here in very truth is he whom Buddha hath sent!” So they entreated him to come in with great joy; prepared a great feast to entertain him, and, having given him their daughter in marriage, sent them away with all their store of gold and precious stones.

As the man drew near his home he said within himself, “I have got all these things out of the old people, through craft and treachery. Now I must hide the maiden and the treasure, and invent a new story.” Then he shut up the maiden and the treasure in a wooden box, and buried it in the sand of the steppe4.

When he came home he said to all his friends and neighbours, “With all the labour of my life riches have not been my portion. I must now undertake certain practices of devotion to appease the dÆmons of hunger; give me alms to enable me to fulfil them.” So the people gave him alms. Then said he the next day, “Now go I to offer up ‘the Prayer which makes suddenly rich.’” And again they gave him alms.

While he was thus engaged it befell that a Khan’s son went out hunting with two companions, with their bows and arrows, having with them a tiger as a pastime to amuse them while journeying. They rode across the steppe, just over the track which the poor man had followed; and seeing there the sand heaped up the Prince’s attention fell on it, and he shot an arrow right into the midst of the heap. But the arrow, instead of striking into the sand, fell down, because it had glanced against the top of the box.

Then said the Khan’s son, “Let us draw near and see how this befell.”

So they drew near; and when the servants had dug away the sand they found the wooden box which the man had buried. The Khan’s son then ordered the servants to open the box; and when they had opened it they found the maiden and the jewels.

Then said the Khan’s son, “Who art thou, beautiful maiden?”

And the maiden answered, “I am the daughter of a serpent-god.”

Then said the Khan’s son, “Come out of the box, and I will take thee to be my wife.”

But the maiden answered, “I come not out of the box except some other be put into the same.”

To which the Prince replied, “That shall be done,” and he commanded that they put the tiger into the box; but the maiden and the jewels he took with him.

Meantime the poor man had completed the prayers and the ceremonies ‘to make suddenly rich,’ and he said, “Now will I go and fetch the maiden and the treasure.” With that he traced his way back over the steppe to the place where he had buried the box, and dug it out of the sand, not perceiving that the Prince’s servants had taken it up and buried it again. Then, lading it on to his shoulder, he brought the same into his inner apartment. But to his wife he said, “To-night is the last of the ceremony ‘for making suddenly rich.’ I must shut myself up in my inner apartment to perform it, and go through it all alone. What noise soever thou mayst hear, therefore, beware, on thy peril, that thou open not the door, neither approach it.”

This he said, being minded to rid himself of the maiden, who might have betrayed the real means by which he became possessed of the treasure, by killing her and hiding her body under the earth.

Then having taken off all his clothes, that they might not be soiled with the blood he was about to spill, and prepared himself thus to put the woman to death, he lifted up the lid of the box, saying, “Maiden, fear nothing!” But on the instant the tiger sprang out upon him and threw him to the ground. In vain he cried aloud with piteous cries. All the time that his bare flesh was delivered over to the teeth and claws of the unpitying tiger his wife and children were laughing, and saying, “How is our father diligent in offering up ‘the Prayer which makes suddenly rich!’”

But when, the next morning, he came not out, all the neighbours came and opened the door of the inner apartment, and they found only his bones which the tiger had well cleaned; but having so well satisfied its appetite, it walked out through their midst without hurting any of them.

In process of time, however, the maiden whom the Khan’s son had taken to his palace had lived happily with him, and they had a family of three children; and she was blameless and honoured before all. Nevertheless, envious people spread the gossip that she had come no one knew whence; and when they brought the matter before the king’s council it was said, “How shall a Khan’s son whose mother was found in a box under the sand reign over us? And what will be thought of a Khan’s son who has no uncles?”

These things reached the ears of the Khanin, and, fearing lest they should take her sons from her and put them to death that they might not reign, she resolved to take them with her and go home to her parents.

On the fifteenth of the month, while the light of the moon shone abroad, she took her three sons and set out on her way.

When it was about midday she had arrived nigh to the habitation of her parents; but at a place where formerly all had been waste she found many labourers at work ploughing the land, directing them was a noble youth of comely presence. When the youth saw the Khan’s wife coming over the field he asked her whence she came; answering, she told him she had journeyed from afar to see her parents, who lived by the temple of Chongschim Bodhisattva on the other side of the mountain.

“And you are their daughter?” pursued the young man.

“Even so; and out of filial regard am I come to visit them,” answered the Khanin.

“Then you are my sister,” returned the youth, “for I am their son; and they have always told me I had an elder sister who was gone afar off.”

Then he invited her to partake of his midday meal, and after they had dined they set out together to find the lowly dwelling of their parents. But when they had come round to the other side of the mountain in the place where the lowly habitation had stood, behold there was now a whole congeries of palaces, each finer than the residence of the husband of the Khanin! All over they were hung with floating streamers of gay-coloured silks. The temple of the Chongschim Bodhisattva itself had been rebuilt with greater magnificence than before, and was resplendent with gold, and diamonds, and streamers of silk, and furnished with mellow-toned bells whose sound chimed far out into the waste.

“To whom does all this magnificence belong?” inquired the Khanin.

“It all belongs to us,” replied the youth. “Our parents, too, are well and happy; come and see them.”

As they drew near their parents came out to meet them, looking hale and hearty and riding on horses. Behind them came a train of attendants leading horses for the Khanin and her brother. They all returned to the palace where the parents dwelt, all being furnished with elegance and luxury. When they had talked over all the events that had befallen each since they parted, they went to rest on soft couches.

When the Khanin saw the magnificence in which her parents were living she bethought her that it would be well to invite the Khan to come and visit them. Accordingly she sent a splendid train of attendants to ask him to betake himself thither. Soon after, the Khan arrived, together with his ministers, and they were all of them struck with the condition of pomp and state in which the Khanin was living, far exceeding that of the Khan himself, the ministers owned, saying, “The report we heard, saying that the Khanin had no relations but the poor and unknown, was manifestly false;” and the Khan was all desire that she should return home. To this request she gave her cordial assent, only, as her parents were now well-stricken in years, and it was not likely she should have the opportunity of seeing them more, she desired to spend a few days more by their side. It was agreed, therefore, that the Khan and his ministers should return home, and that after three days the Khanin also should come and join him.

Having taken affectionate leave of the Khan and seen him depart, she betook herself to rest on her soft couch.

When she woke in the morning, behold, all the magnificence of the place was departed! There were no stately palaces; the temple of the Chongschim Bodhisattva was the same unpretending structure it had always been of old, only a little more worn down by time and weather; the lowly habitation of her parents was a shapeless ruin, and she was lying on the bare ground in one corner of it, with a heap of broken stones for a pillow. Her parents were dead long ago, and as for a brother there was no trace of one.

Then she understood that the devas had sent the transformation to satisfy the Khan and his ministers, and, that done, every thing had returned to its natural condition.

Grateful for the result, she now returned home, where the Khan received her with greater fondness than before. The ministers were satisfied as to the honour of the throne, all the gossips were put to silence from that day forward, and her three sons were brought up and trained that they might reign in state after the Khan their father.

“Truly, that was a woman favoured by fortune beyond expectation!” exclaimed the Khan. And as he let these words escape him the SiddhÎ-kÜr replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Thus far of the adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the eleventh chapter, concerning “The Prayer making suddenly Rich.”

Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan went forth yet again and fetched the SiddhÎ-kÜr; and as he brought him along the SiddhÎ-kÜr told this tale:—

“Child-intellect” and “Bright-intellect.”

Long ages ago there lived a Khan who was called KÜwÔn-ojÔtu1. He reigned over a country so fruitful that it was surnamed “Flower-clad.” All round its borders grew mango-trees and groves of sandalwood2, and vines and fruit-trees, and within there was of corn of every kind no lack, and copious streams of water, and a mighty river called “The Golden,” with flourishing cities all along its banks.

Among the subjects of this Khan was one named GegÊn-uchÂtu3, renowned for his wit and understanding. For him the Khan sent one day, and spoke to him, saying, “Men call thee ‘him of bright understanding.’ Now let us see whether the name becomes thee. To this end let us see if thou hast the wit to steal the Khan’s talisman, defying the jealous care of the Khan and all his guards. If thou succeedest I will recompense thee with presents making glad the heart; but if not, then I will pronounce thee unworthily named, and in consequence will lay waste thy dwelling and put out both thine eyes.” Although the man ventured to prefer the remark, “Stealing have I never learned,” yet the Khan maintained the sentence that he had set forth.

In the night of the fifteenth of the month, therefore, the man made himself ready to try the venture.

But the king, to make more sure, bound the talisman fast to a marble pillar of his bed-chamber, against which he lay, and leaving the door open the better to hear the approach of the thief, surrounded the same with a strong watch of guards.

GegÊn-uchÂtu now took good provision of rice-brandy, and going in to talk as if for pastime with the Khan’s guards and servants, gave to every one of them abundantly to drink thereof, and then went his way.

At the end of an hour he returned, when the rice-brandy had done its work. The guards before the gate were fast asleep on their horses; these he carried off their horses and set them astride on a ruined wall. In the kitchen were the cooks waiting to strike a light to light the fire: over the head of the one nearest the fire he drew a cap woven of grass4, and in the sleeve of the other he put three stones. Then going softly on into the Khan’s apartment, without waking him, he put over his head and face a dried bladder as hard as a stone; and the guards that slept around him he tied their hair together. Then he took down the talisman from the marble pillar to which it was bound and made off with it. Instantly, the Khan rose and raised the cry, “A thief has been in here!” But the guards could not move because their hair was tied together, and cries of “Don’t pull my hair!” drowned the Khan’s cries of “Stop thief!” As it was yet dark the Khan cried, yet more loudly, “Kindle me a light!” And he cried, further, “Not only is my talisman stolen, but my head is enclosed in a wall of stone! Bring me light that I may see what it is made of.” When the cook, in his hurry to obey the Khan, began to blow the fire, the flame caught the cap woven of grass and blazed up and burnt his head off; and when his fellow raised his arm to help him put out the fire the three stones, falling from his sleeve, hit his head and made the blood flow, giving him too much to attend to for him to be able to pursue the thief. Then the Khan called through the window to the outer guards, who ought to have been on horseback before the gate, to stop the thief; and they, waking up at his voice, began vainly spurring at the ruined wall on which GegÊn-uchÂtu had set them astride, and which, of course, brought them no nearer the subject of their pursuit, who thus made good his escape with the talisman, no man hindering him, all the way to his own dwelling.

The next day he came and stood before the Khan. The Khan sat on his throne full of wrath and moody thoughts.

“Let not the Khan be angry,” spoke the man of bright understanding, “here is the talisman, which I sought not to retain for myself, but only to take possession of according to the word of the Khan.”

The Khan, however, answered him, saying, “The talisman is at thy disposition, nor do I wish to have it back from thee. Nevertheless, thy dealings this night, in that thou didst draw a stone-like bladder over the head of the Khan, were evil, for the fear came therefrom upon me lest thou hadst even pulled off my head; therefore my sentence upon thee is that thou be taken hence to the place of execution and be beheaded by the headsman.”

Hearing this sentence, GegÊn-uchÂtu said, within himself, “In this sentence that he hath passed the Khan hath not acted according to the dictates of justice.” Therefore he took the Khan’s talisman in his hand and dashed it against a stone, and, behold, doing so, the blood poured out of the nose of the Khan until he died!

“That was a Khan not fit to reign!” exclaimed the Well-and-wise-walking Khan.

And as he let these words escape him the SiddhÎ-kÜr replied, “Forgetting his health the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan went forth yet again and fetched the SiddhÎ-kÜr, and as he brought him along the SiddhÎ-kÜr told him, according to the former manner, this tale, saying,—

The Fortunes of Shrikantha.

Long ages ago there was a Brahman’s son whose name was Shrikantha1. This man sold all his inheritance for three pieces of cloth-stuff. Lading the three pieces of cloth-stuff on to the back of an ass, he went his way into a far country to trade with the same2.

As he went along he met a party of boys who had caught a mouse and were tormenting it. Having tied a string about its neck, they were dragging it through the water. The Brahman’s son could not bear to see this proceeding and chid the boys, but they refused to listen to his words. When he found that they would pay no heed to his words, he bought the mouse of them for one of his pieces of stuff, and delivered it thus out of their hands.

When he had gone a little farther he met another party of boys who had caught a young ape3 and were tormenting it. Because it did not understand the game they were playing, they hit it with their fists, and when it implored them to play in a rational manner and not be so hasty and revengeful, they but hit it again. At the sight the Brahman was moved with compassion and chid the boys, and when they would not listen to him he bought it of them for another of his pieces of stuff, and set it at liberty.

Farther along, in the neighbourhood of a city, he met another party of boys who had caught a young bear and were tormenting it, riding upon it like a horse and otherwise teasing it; and when by his chiding he could not induce them to desist, he bought it of them for his last piece of stuff, and set it at liberty.

By this means he was left entirely without merchandize to trade with, and he thought within himself, as he drove his donkey along, what he should do; and he found in his mind no better remedy than to steal something out of the palace of the Khan wherewith to commence trading. Having thus resolved, he tied his donkey fast in the thick jungle and made his way with precaution into the store-chambers of the Khan’s palace. Here he possessed himself of a good provision of pieces of silk-stuff, and was well nigh to have escaped with the same when the Khan’s wife, espying him, raised the cry, “This fellow hath stolen somewhat from the Khan’s store-chamber!”

At the cry the people all ran out and stopped Shrikantha and brought him to the Khan. As he was found with the stuffs he had stolen still upon him, there was no doubt concerning his guilt, so the Khan ordered a great coffer to be brought, and that he should be put inside it, and, with the lid nailed down, be cast into the water.

The force of the current, however, carried the coffer into the midst of the branches of an overhanging tree on an island, where it remained fixed; nevertheless, as the lid was tightly nailed down, it soon became difficult to breathe inside the box. Just as Shrikantha was near to die for want of air, suddenly a little chink appeared, through which plenty of air could enter. It was the mouse he had delivered from its tormentors who had brought him this timely aid4. “Wait a bit,” said the mouse, as soon as he could get his mouth through the aperture, “I will go fetch the ape to bring better help.”

The ape came immediately on being summoned, and tore away at the box with all his strength till he had made a hole big enough for the man to have crept out; but as the box was surrounded by the water he was still a prisoner. “Stop a bit!” cried the ape, when he saw this dilemma; “I will go and call the bear.”

The bear came immediately on being summoned, and dragged the coffer on to the bank of the island, where Shrikantha alighted, and all three animals waited on him, bringing him fruits and roots to eat.

While he was living here water-bound, but abundantly supplied by the mouse, the ape, and the bear with fruits to sustain life, he one day saw shining in a shallow part of the water a brilliant jewel as big as a pigeon’s egg. The ape soon fetched it at his command, and when he saw how big and lustrous it was he resolved that it must be a talisman. To put its powers to the test, he wished himself removed to terra firma. Nor had he sooner uttered the wish than he found himself in the midst of a fertile plain. Having thus succeeded so well, he next wished that he might find on waking in the morning a flourishing city in the plain, and a shining palace in its midst for his residence, with plenty of horses in the stable, and provisions of all kinds in abundance in the store-chamber; shady groves were to surround it, with streams of water meandering through them.

When he woke in the morning he found all prepared even as he had wished. Here, therefore, he lived in peace and prosperity, free from care.

Before many months had passed there came by that way a caravan of merchants travelling home who had passed over the spot on their outward-bound journey.

“How is this!” exclaimed the leader of the caravan. “Here, where a few months ago grew nothing but grass; here is there now sprung up a city in all this magnificence!” So they came and inquired concerning it of the Brahman’s son.

Then Shrikantha told them the whole story of how it had come to pass, and moreover showed them the talisman. Then said the leader of the caravan, “Behold! we will give thee all our camels and horses and mules, together with all our merchandize and our stores, only give us thou the talisman in exchange.” So he gave them the talisman in exchange, and they went on their way. But the Brahman’s son went to sleep in his palace, on his soft couch with silken pillows.

In the morning, when he woke, behold the couch with the silken pillows was no more there, and he was lying on the ground in the island in the midst of the water!

Then came the mouse, the ape, and the bear to him, saying—

“What misfortune is this that hath happened to thee this second time?” So he told them the whole story of how it had come to pass. And they, answering, said to him, “Surely now it was foolish thus to part with the talisman; nevertheless, maybe we three may find it.” And they set out to follow the track of the travelling merchants. They were not long before they came to a flourishing city with a shining palace in its midst, surrounded by shady groves, and streams meandering through them. Here the merchants had established themselves.

When night fell, the ape and the bear took up their post in a grove near the palace, while the mouse crept within the same, till she came to the apartment where the leader of the caravan slept—here she crept in through the keyhole. The leader of the caravan lay asleep on a soft couch with silken pillows. In a corner of the apartment was a heap of rice, in which was an arrow stuck upright, to which the talisman was bound, but two stout cats were chained to the spot to guard it. This report the mouse brought to the ape and the bear. “If it is as thou hast said,” answered the bear, “there is nothing to be done. Let us return to our master.” “Not so!” interposed the ape. “There is yet one means to be tried. When it is dark to-night, thou mouse, go again to the caravan leader’s apartment, and, having crept in through the keyhole, gnaw at the man’s hair. Then the next night, to save his hair, he will have the cats chained to his pillow, when the talisman being unguarded, thou canst go in and fetch it away.” Thus he instructed the mouse.

The next night, therefore, the mouse crept in again through the keyhole, and gnawed at the man’s hair. When the man got up in the morning, and saw that his hair fell off by handfuls, he said within himself, “A mouse hath done this. To-night, to save what hair remains, the two cats must be chained to my pillow.” And so it was done. When the mouse came again, therefore, the cats being chained to the caravan leader’s pillow, she could work away at the heap of rice till the arrow fell; then she gnawed off the string which bound the talisman to it, and rolled it before her all the way to the door. Arrived here, she was obliged to leave it, for by no manner of means could she get it up to the keyhole. Full of sorrow, she came and showed this strait to her companions. “If it is as thou hast said,” answered the bear, “there is nothing to be done. Let us return to our master.”

“Not so!” interposed the ape; “there is yet one means to be tried. I will first tie a string to the tail of the mouse, then let her go down through the keyhole, and hold the talisman tightly with all her four feet, and I will draw her up through the keyhole.” This they did; and thus obtained possession of the talisman.

They now set out on the return journey, the ape sitting on the back of the bear, carrying the mouse in his ear and the talisman in his mouth. Travelling thus, they came to a place where there was a stream to cross. The bear, who all along had been fearing the other two animals would tell the master how little part he had had in recovering the talisman, now determined to vaunt his services. Stopping therefore in the midst of the stream, he said, “Is it not my back which has carried ye all—ape, mouse, and talisman—over all this ground? Is not my strength great? and are not my services more than all of yours?” But the mouse was asleep snugly in the ear of the ape, and the ape feared to open his mouth lest he should drop the talisman; so there was no answer given. Then the bear was angry when he found there was no answer given, and, having growled, he said, “Since it pleases you not, either of you, to answer, I will even cast you both into the water.” At that the ape could not forbear exclaiming, “Oh! cast us not into the water!” And as he opened his mouth to speak, the talisman dropped into the water. When he saw the talisman was lost, he was full dismayed; but for fear lest the bear should drop him in the water, he durst not reproach him till they were once more on land.

Arrived at the bank, he cried out, “Of a surety thou art a cross-grained, ungainly sort of a beast; for in that thou madest me to answer while I had the talisman in my mouth, it has fallen into the water, and is more surely lost to the master than before.” “If it is even as thou hast said,” answered the bear, “there is nothing to be done. Let us return to the master.” But the mouse waking up at the noise of the strife of words, inquired what it all meant. When therefore the ape had told her how it had fallen out, and how that they were now without hope of recovering the talisman, the mouse replied, “Nay, but I know one means yet. Sit you here in the distance and wait, and let me go to work.”

So they sat down and waited, and the mouse went back to the edge of the stream. At the edge of the stream she paced up and down, crying out as if in great fear. At the noise of her pacing and her cries, the inhabitants of the water all came up, and asked her the cause of her distress. “The cause of my distress,” replied the mouse, “is my care for you. Behold there is even now, at scarcely a night’s distance, an army on the march which comes to destroy you all; neither can you escape from it, for though it marches over dry land, in a moment it can plunge in the water and live there equally well.” “If that is so,” answered the inhabitants of the water, “then there is no help for us.” “The means of help there is,” replied the mouse. “If we could between us construct a pier along the edge of the water, on which you could take refuge, you would be safe, for half in and half out of the water this army lives not, and could not pursue you thither.” So the inhabitants of the water replied, “Let us construct a pier.” “Hand me up then all the biggest pebbles you can find,” said the mouse, “and I will build the pier.” So the inhabitants of the water handed up the pebbles, and the mouse built of the pebbles a pier. When the pier was about a span long, there came a frog bringing the talisman, saying, “Bigger than this one is there no pebble here!” So the mouse took the talisman with great joy, and calling out, “Here it is!” brought the same to the ape. The ape put the talisman once more in his mouth, and the mouse in his ear; and having mounted on to the back of the bear, they brought the talisman safely to Shrikantha5.

Shrikantha not having had his three attendants to provide him with fruits for so many days was as one like to die; nevertheless, when he saw the talisman again, he revived, and said, “Truly the services are great that I have to thank you three for.” No sooner, however, had he the talisman in his hand, than all the former magnificence came back at a word—a more flourishing city, a more shining palace, trees bending under the weight of luscious fruits, and birds of beautiful plumage singing melodiously in the branches.

Then said Shrikantha again to his talisman, “If thou art really a good and clever talisman, make that to me, who have no wife, a daughter of the devas should come down and live with me, and be a wife to me.” And, even as he spoke, a deva maiden came down to him, surrounded with a hundred maidens, her companions, and was his wife, and they lived a life of delights together, and a hundred sons were born to him.”

“Of a truth that was a Brahman’s son whom fortune delighted to honour,” exclaimed the Well-and-wise-walking Khan. And as he had marched fast, and they were already far on their journey when the SiddhÎ-kÜr began his tale, they had reached even close to the precincts of the dwelling of the great Master and Teacher NÂgÂrg'una, when he spoke these words. Nevertheless, the SiddhÎ-kÜr had time to exclaim, “Excellent! Excellent!” and to escape swift out of sight.

But the Well-and-wise-walking Khan stood before NÂgÂrg'una.

Then spoke the great Master and Teacher NÂgÂrg'una, unto him, saying,—

“Seeing thou hast not succeeded in thine enterprise, thou hast not procured the happiness of all the inhabitants of GambudvÎpa, nor promoted the well-being of the six classes of living beings6. Nevertheless, seeing thou hast exercised unexampled courage and perseverance, and through much terror and travail hast fetched the SiddhÎ-kÜr these thirteen times, behold, the stain of blood is removed from off thee, though thou fetch him not again. Moreover, this that thou hast done shall turn to thy profit, for henceforth thou shalt not only be called the Well-and-wise-walking Khan, but thou shalt exceed in good fortune and in happiness all the Khans of the earth.”

Notwithstanding this generous promise and bountiful remission of his master NÂgÂrg'una, the Khan set out on his journey once again, even as before, determined this time to command his utterance and fulfil his task to the end. Treading his path with patience and earnestness he arrived at the cool grove, even to the foot of the mango-tree. There he raised his axe “White Moon,” as though he would have felled it.

Then spoke the SiddhÎ-kÜr, saying, “Spare the leafy mango-tree, and I will come down to thee.”

So the Khan put up his axe again and bound the SiddhÎ-kÜr on his back, to carry him off to NÂgÂrg'una.

Now as the day was long, and the air oppressive, so that they were well weary, the SiddhÎ-kÜr began to tempt the Khan to speak, saying,—

“Lighten now the journey by telling a tale of interest.”

But how weary soever the Khan was, he pressed his lips together and answered him never a word.

Then the SiddhÎ-kÜr finding he could not make him speak, continued, “If thou wilt not lighten the journey by telling a tale of interest, tell me whether I shall tell one to thee.”

And when he found that he still answered him not, he said, “If thou wilt that I tell the tale, make me a sign of consent by nodding thine head backwards.”

Then the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards, and the SiddhÎ-kÜr proceeded to tell the tale in these words:—

The Avaricious Brother.

Long ages ago there dwelt in a city of Western India two brothers.

As the elder brother had no inheritance, and made a poor living by selling herbs and wood, he suffered the common fate of those in needy circumstances, and received no great consideration from his fellow-men.

The younger brother on the other hand was wealthy, yet gave he no portion of his riches to his brother.

One day he gave a great entertainment, to which he invited all his rich neighbours and acquaintances, but to his brother he sent no invitation.

Then spoke the brother’s wife to her husband, saying,—

“It were better that thou shouldst die than live thus dishonoured by all. Behold, now, thou art not even invited to thy brother’s entertainment.”

“Thy words which thou hast spoken are true,” replied the husband. “I will even go forth and die.”

Thus saying, he took up his hatchet and cord, and went out into the forest, passing over many mountains by the way. On the banks of a stream, running through the forest, he saw a number of lions and tigers1, and other savage beasts, so he forbore to go near that water, but continued his way till he came to the head of the stream, and here in the sheltering shade of a huge rock were a number of Dakinis2, dancing and disporting themselves to tones of dulcet music. Presently one of the Dakinis flew up on high out of the midst of those dancing, and took out of a cleft in the rock a large sack, which she brought down to the grassy bank where the dancing was going on. Having spread it out on the ground in the presence of them all, she took a hammer out of it, and began hammering lustily into the bag. As she did so, all kinds of articles of food and drink that could be desired presented themselves at the mouth of the sack. The Dakinis now left off dancing, and began laying out the meal; but ever as they removed one dish from the mouth of the bag, another and another took its place.

When they had well eaten and drank, the first Dakini hammered away again upon the bag, and forthwith there came thereout gold and silver trinkets, diadems, arm-bands, nÛpuras3, and ornaments for all parts of the body. With these the Dakinis decked themselves, till they were covered from head to foot with pearls and precious stones, and their hair sparkling with a powdering of gems4. Then they flew away, the first Dakini taking care to lay up the bag and hammer in the cleft of the rock before taking her flight.

When they were far, far on their way, and only showed as specks in the distant sky, then the man came forth from his hiding-place, and having felled several trees with his axe, bound them together one on to the end of the other with his cord, and by this means climbed up to the cleft in the rock, where the Dakini had laid up the hammer and bag, and brought them away.

He had no sooner got down to the ground again, than to make proof of his treasure even more than to satisfy his ravenous appetite, he took the hammer out of the bag, and banged away with it on to the bag, wishing the while that it might bring him all manner of good things to eat. All sorts of delicious viands came for him as quickly as for the Dakinis, of which he made the best meal he had ever had in his life, and then hasted off home with his treasure.

When he came back he found his wife bemoaning his supposed death.

“Weep not for me!” he exclaimed, as soon as he was near enough for her to hear him; “I have that with me which will help us to live with ease to the end of our days.” And without keeping her in suspense, he hammered away on his bag, wishing for clothes, and household furniture, and food, and every thing that could be desired.

After this they gave up their miserable trade in wood and herbs, and led an easy and pleasant life.

The neighbours, however, laid their heads together and said,—

“How comes it that this fellow has thus suddenly come into such easy circumstances?”

But his brother’s wife said to her husband,—

“How can thine elder brother have come by all this wealth unless he hath stolen of our riches?” As she continued saying this often, the man believed it, and called his elder brother to him and asked him, “Whence hast thou all this wealth; who hath given it to thee?” And when he found he hesitated to answer, he added, “Now know I that thou must have stolen of my treasure; therefore, if thou tell me not how otherwise thou hast come by it, I will even drag thee before the Khan, who shall put out both thine eyes.”

When the elder brother had heard this threat, he answered, “Going afar off to a place unknown to thee, having purposed in my mind to die, I found in a cleft of a rock this sack and this hammer5.”

“And how shall this rusty iron hammer and this dirty sack give thee wealth?” again inquired his brother; and thus he pursued his inquiries until by degrees he made him tell the whole story. Nor would he be satisfied till he had explained to him exactly the situation of the place and the way to it. No sooner had he acquainted himself well of this than, taking with him a cord and an axe, he set out to go there.

When he arrived, he saw an immense number of deformed, ugly spirits, standing against the rock in eight rows, howling piteously. As he crept along to observe if there was any thing he could take of them to make his fortune as his brother had done, one of them happened to look that way and espied him, after which it was no more possible to escape.

“Of a surety this must be the fellow who stole our bag and hammer!” exclaimed the ugly spirit. “Let us at him and put him to death.”

The Dakinis were thoroughly out of temper, and did not want any urging. The words were no soon uttered than, like a flock of birds, they all flew round him and seized him.

“How shall we kill him?” asked one, as she held him tight by the hair of his head till every single hair seemed as if forced out by the roots.

“Fly with him up to the top of the rock, and then dash him down!” cried some. “Drop him in the middle of the sea!” cried others. “Cut him in pieces, and give him to the dogs!” cried others again. But the sharp one who had first espied him said, “His punishment is too soon over with killing him; shall we not rather set a hideous mark upon him, so that he shall be afraid to venture near the habitations of his kind for ever?” “Well spoken!” cried the Dakinis in chorus, something like good-humour returning at the thought of such retribution. “What mark shall we set upon him?”

“Let us draw his nose out five ells long, and then make nine knots upon it,” answered the sharp-witted Dakini.

This they did, and then the whole number of them flew away without leaving a trace of their flight.

Fully crestfallen and ashamed, the avaricious brother determined to wait till nightfall before he ventured home, meantime hiding himself in a cave lest any should chance to pass that way and see him with his knotted nose. When darkness had well closed in only he ventured to slink home, trembling in every limb both from remaining fright at the life-peril he had passed through, and from fear of some inopportune accident having kept any neighbour abroad who might come across his path.

Before he came in sight of his wife he began calling out most piteously,—

“Flee not from before me! I am indeed thine own, very own husband. Changed as I am, I am yet indeed the very self-same. Yet a few days I will endeavour to endure my misery, and then I will lay me down and die.”

When his neighbours and friends found that he came out of his house no more, nor invited them to him, nor gave entertainments more, they began to inquire what ailed him; but he, without letting any of them enter, only answered them from within, “Woe is me! woe is me!”

Now there was in that neighbourhood a Lama6, living in contemplation in a tirtha7 on the river bank. “I will call in the same,” thought the man, “and take his blessing ere I die.” So he sent to the tirtha and called the Lama.

When the Lama came, the man bowed himself and asked his blessing, but would by no means look up, lest he should see his knotted nose. Then said the Lama, “Let me see what hath befallen thee; show it me.” But he answered, “It is impossible to show it!”

Then the Lama said again, “Let me see it; showing it will not harm thee.” But when he looked up and let him see his knotted nose, the sight was so frightful that a shudder seized the Lama, and he ran away for very horror.” However, the man called after him and entreated him to come back, offering him rich presents; and when he had prevailed on him to sit down again, he told him the whole story of what had befallen him.

To his question, whether he could find any remedy, the Lama made answer that he knew none; but, remembering his rich presents, he thought better to turn the matter over in case any useful thought should present itself to his mind, and said he would consult his books.

“Till to-morrow I will wait, then, to hear if thy books have any remedy; and if not, then will I die.”

The next morning the Lama came again. “I have found one remedy,” he said, “but there is only one. The hammer and bag of which your brother is possessed could loose the knots; there is nothing else.”

How elated so ever he had been to hear that a remedy had been found, by so much cast down was he when he learnt that he would have to send and ask the assistance of his brother.

“After all that I have said to him, I could never do this thing,” he said mournfully, “nor would he hear me.” But his wife would not leave any chance of remedying the evil untried; so she went herself to the elder brother and asked for the loan of the sack and hammer.

Knowing how anxious his brother had been to be possessed of such a treasure, however, the brother thought the alleged misfortune was an excuse to rob him of it; therefore he would not give it into her hand. Nevertheless, he went to his brother’s house with it, and asked him what was the service he required of his sack. Then he was obliged to tell him all that had befallen, and to show him his knotted nose. “But,” said he, “if with thy hammer thou will but loose the knots, behold the half of all I have shall be thine.”

His brother accepted the terms; but not trusting to the promise of one so avaricious, he stipulated to have the terms put in order under hand and seal. When this was done he set to work immediately to swing his hammer, and let it touch one by one the knots in his brother’s nose, saying as he did so,—

“May the knots which the eight rows of evil Dakinis made so strong be loosed.”

And with each touch and invocation the knots began to disappear one after the other.

But his wife began to regret the loss of half their wealth, and she determined on a scheme to save it, and yet that her husband should be cured. “If,” said she, “I stop him before he has undone the last knot he cannot claim the reward, because he will not have removed all the knots, and it will be a strange matter if I find not the means of obtaining the hammer long enough to remedy one knot myself.” As she reasoned thus he had loosed the eighth knot.

“Stop!” she cried. “That will do now. For one knot we will not make much ado. He can bear as much disfigurement as that.”

Then the elder brother was grieved because they had broken the contract, and went his way carrying the sack, and with the hammer stuck in his girdle. As he went, the younger brother’s wife went stealthily behind him, and when he had just reached his own door, she sprang upon him, and snatched the hammer from out his girdle. He turned to follow her, but she had already reached her own house before he came up with her, and entering closed the door against him: then in triumph over her success, she proceeded to attempt loosing the ninth knot. Only swinging it as she had seen her brother-in-law do, and not knowing how to temper the force so that it should only just have touched the nose, the blow carried with it so much moment that the hammer went through the man’s skull, even to his brain, so that he fell down and died.

By this means, not the half, but the whole of his possessions passed to his elder brother.

“If the man was avaricious, the woman was doubly avaricious,” here exclaimed the Khan, “and by straining to grasp too much, she lost all.”

“Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips,” cried the SiddhÎ-kÜr. And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good,” he sped him through the air once again, swift out of sight.

When therefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had once more failed in the end and object of his mission, he once more took the way of the shady grove, and once more in the same fashion as before he took the SiddhÎ-kÜr captive in his sack. As he bore him along weary with the journey through the desert country, the SiddhÎ-kÜr asked if he would not tell a tale to enliven the way, and when he steadfastly held his tongue, the SiddhÎ-kÜr bid him, if he would that he should tell one, but give a token of nodding his head backwards, without opening his lips.

Then he nodded his head backwards, and the SiddhÎ-kÜr told this tale, saying,—

The Use of Magic Language.

Long ages ago there lived in Western India a King who had a very clever son. In order to make the best advantage of his understanding, and to fit him in every way to become an accomplished sovereign, the King sent him into the Diamond-kingdom1, that he might be thoroughly instructed in all kinds of knowledge. He was accompanied in his journey by the son of the king’s chief minister, who was also to share his studies, but who was as dull as he was intelligent. On their arrival in the Diamond-kingdom, they gave each of them the sum with which they had been provided by their parents to two Lamas to conduct their education, and spent twelve years with them.

At the end of the twelve years the minister’s son proposed to the king’s son that they should now return home, and as the Lamas allowed that the king’s son had made such progress in the five kinds of knowledge that there was nothing more he could learn, he agreed to the proposal, and they set out on their homeward way.

All went well at first; but one day passed, and then another, and yet another, that they came to no source of water, and being parched nigh unto death with thirst, the minister’s son would have laid him down to die. As he stood hesitating about going on, a crow passed and made his cry of “ikerek.” The prince now encouraged his companion, saying, “Come but a little way farther, and we shall find water.”

“Nay, you deceive me not like an infant of days,” answered the minister’s son. “How shall we find water? Have we not laboured over the journey these three days, and found none; neither shall we find it now? Why should we add to this death of thirst the pangs of useless fatigue also?”

But the king’s son said again, “Nay, but of a certainty we shall now find it.”

And when he asked, “How knowest thou this of a certainty?” he replied, “I heard yon crow cry as he passed, ‘Go forward five hundred paces in a southerly direction, and you will come to a source of pure, bright fresh water.’”

The king’s son spoke with so much certainty that he had not strength to resist him; and so they went on five hundred paces farther in a southerly direction, and then they indeed came upon a pure, bright spring of water, where they sat down, and drank, and refreshed themselves.

As they sat there, the minister’s son was moved with jealousy, for, thought he within himself, in every art this prince has exceeded me, and when we return to our own country, all shall see how superior he is to me in every kind of attainment. Then he said aloud to the king’s son,—

“If we keep along this road, which leads over the level plain, where we can be seen ever so far off, may be robbers will see us, and, coming upon us, will slay us. Shall we not rather take the path which leads over the mountain, where the trees will hide us, and pass the night under cover of the wood?” And this he said in order to lead the prince into the forest, that he might slay him there unperceived. But the prince, who had no evil suspicion, willingly agreed to his words, and they took the path of the mountain. When they had well entered the thick wood, the minister’s son fell upon the prince from behind, and slew him. The prince in dying said nothing but the one word, “Abaraschika2.”

As soon as he had well hidden the body, the minister’s son continued on his way.

As he came near the city, the King went out to greet him, accompanied by all his ministers, and followed by much people; but when he found that his son was not there, he fell into great anxiety, and eagerly inquired after him. “Thy son,” answered the minister’s son, “died on the journey.”

At these words, the King burst into an agony of grief, crying, “Alas, my son! mine only son! Without thee, what shall all my royal power and state, what shall all my hundred cities, profit me?” Amid these bitter cries he made his way back to the palace. As he dwelt on his grief, the thought came to him, “Shall not my son when dying at least have left some word expressive of his last thoughts and wishes?” Then he sent and inquired this thing of his companion, to which, the minister’s son made answer, “Thy son was overtaken with a quick and sudden malady, and as he breathed out his life, he had only time to utter the single word, Abaraschika.”

Hearing this the King was fully persuaded the word must have some deep and hidden meaning; but as he was unable to think it out, he summoned all the seers, soothsayers, magicians, and astrologers3 of his kingdom, and inquired of them what this same word Abaraschika could mean. There was not, however, one of them all that could help him to the meaning. Then said the King, “The last word that my son uttered, even mine only son, this is dear to me. There is no doubt that it is a word in which by all the arts that he had studied and acquired he knew how to express much, though he had not time to utter many words. Ye, therefore, who are also learned in cunning arts ought to be able to tell the interpretation of the same, but if not, then of what use are ye? It were better that ye were dead from off the face of the earth. Wherefore, I give you the space of seven days to search in all your writings and to exercise all your arts, and if at the end of seven days ye are none of you able to tell me the interpretation, then shall I deliver you over to death.”

With that he commanded that they should be all secured in an exceeding high fortress for the space of seven days, and well watched that they might not escape.

The seven days passed away, and not one of them was at all nearer telling the interpretation of Abaraschika than on the first day. “Of a certainty we shall all be put to death to-morrow,” was repeated all through the place, and some cried to the devas and some sat still and wept, speaking only of the relations and friends they would leave behind.

Meantime, a student of an inferior sort, who waited on the others and learned between whiles, had contrived to escape, not being under such strict guard as his more important brethren. At night-time he took shelter under a leafy tree. As he lay there a bird and its young ones came to roost on the boughs above him. One of the young ones instead of going to sleep went on complaining through the night, “I’m so hungry! I’m so hungry!” At last the old bird began to console it, saying, “Cry not, my son; for to-morrow there will be plenty of food.”

“And why should there be more food to-morrow than to-day?” asked the young bird.

“Because to-morrow,” answered the mother, “the Khan has made preparations to put a thousand men to death. That will be a feast indeed!”

“And why should he put so many men to death?” persisted the young bird.

“Because,” interposed the father, “though they are all wise men, not one of them can tell him such a simple thing as the meaning of the word Abaraschika.”

“What does it mean, then?” inquired the young bird.

“The meaning of the word is this: ‘This, my bosom friend, hath enticed me into a thick grove, and there, wounding me with a sharp knife, hath taken away my life, and is even now preparing to cut off my head.’” This the old bird told to his young.

The young student, however, hearing these words waited to hear no more, but set off at his best speed towards the tower where all his companions were confined. About daybreak he reached the gates, and made his way in all haste in to them. In the midst of their weeping and lamenting over the morning which they reckoned that of their day of death, he cried out,—

“Weep no more! I have discovered the meaning of the word.”

Just then the Khan’s guard came to conduct them to the Khan for examination preparatory to their being given over to execution. Here the young student declared to the Khan the meaning of the word Abaraschika. Having heard which the Khan dismissed them all with rich presents, but privately bid them declare to no man the meaning of the word. Then he sent for the minister’s son, and without giving him any hint of his intention, bid him go before him and show him where lay the bones of his son, which when he had seen and built a tomb over them, he ordered the minister and his son both to be put to death.

“That Khan’s son, so well versed in the five kinds of knowledge, would have been an honour and ornament to his kingdom, had he not been thus untimely cut off,” exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the SiddhÎ-kÜr replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

When therefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan saw that he had again failed in the end and object of his journey, he once more took the way of the cool grove; and having taken the SiddhÎ-kÜr captive as before in his bag, in which there was place for a hundred, and made fast the mouth of the same with his cord woven of a hundred threads of different colours, he bore him along to present to his Master and Teacher NÂgÂrg'una.

And as they went the SiddhÎ-kÜr asked him to beguile the way with a tale, or else give the signal that he should tell one. And when the Well-and-wise-walking Khan had given the signal that the SiddhÎ-kÜr should tell one, he began after this wise, saying,—

The Wife who loved Butter.

Long ages ago there dwelt in the neighbourhood of a city in the north part of India called Taban-Minggan1 a man and his wife who had no children, and nine cows2 for all possessions. As the man was very fond of meat he used to kill all the calves as soon as they were born that he might eat them, but the wife cared only for butter. One day when there were no more calves the man took it into his head to slaughter one of the cows; “What does it signify,” said he to himself, “whether there are nine or eight?” So he killed one of the cows and ate it. When the meat of this cow was all at an end, he said to himself, “What does it matter whether there are eight cows or seven?” And with that he slaughtered another cow and ate it. When the meat of this cow had come to an end, he said within himself again, “What does it matter whether there are seven cows or six?” and with that he slaughtered another cow and ate it. This he continued doing till there was one only cow left. At last, when the wife saw that there was but one only cow left, she could refrain herself no longer. Determined to save this only cow from being slaughtered, she never let it out of her sight, but wherever she went led it after her by a string.

One day, however, when the man had been drinking well of rice-brandy, and was sound asleep, the wife having to go out to fetch water, she thought it would be safe to leave the cow behind this once; but scarcely was she gone out when the man woke up, and, seeing the cow left alone behind, slaughtered it to eat.

When the woman came back and found the last remaining cow was killed, she lifted up her voice and wept, saying, “What is there now left to me wherewithal to support life, seeing that the last and only cow that remained to us is killed.” As she said these words, she turned her in anger and went away, and as she went the man cut off one of the teats of the cow and threw it after her. The woman picked up the teat and took it along with her; but she went along still crying till she came to a cave in a mountain side, where she took shelter. There she cast herself down on the ground, addressing herself in earnest prayer to the Three Precious Treasures3 and the Ruler of Heaven and Earth, saying, “Now that my old man has brought me to the last extremity, depriving me of all that I had to support life, grant now, ye Three Precious Treasures, and thou Ruler of Heaven and Earth, that I may have in some way that which is needful to support life!” Thus she prayed. Also, she flung from her the teat of the cow which she had in her hand, and behold! it clove to the side of the cave, and when she would have removed it, it would no more be removed, but milk ran therefrom as from the living cow. And the milk thereof was good for making butter, which her soul loved.

Thus she lived in the cave, and was provided with all she desired to support life. One day it befell that the memory of her husband coming over her, she said within herself, “Perhaps, now that the last cow is slaughtered and eaten, my old man may be suffering hunger; who knows!” Thus musing, she filled a sheep’s paunch4 with butter, and went her way to the place where her husband lived, and having climbed on to the roof, she looked down upon him through the smoke-hole5.

He sat there in his usual place, but nothing was set before him to eat saving only a pan of ashes, which he was dividing with a spoon, saying the while, “This is my portion for to-day;” and “That much I reserve for the portion of to-morrow.” Seeing this, the wife threw her paunch of butter hastily through the roof, and then went back to her cave.

Then thought the husband within himself, “Who is there in heaven or earth who would have brought me this butter-paunch but my very wife? who surely has said within herself, ‘Perhaps, now that the last cow is slaughtered, my old man is suffering hunger.’” And as every night she thus supplied him with a butter-paunch, he got up at last and followed her by the track of her feet on the snow till he came to the cave where she dwelt. Nevertheless, seeing the teat cleaving to the side of the cave, he could not resist cutting it off to eat the meat thereof. Then he took to him all the store of butter the woman had laid up and returned home; but the wife, finding her place of refuge was known to him, and that he had taken all her store, left the cave and wandered on farther.

Presently she came to a vast meadow well watered by streams, and herds of hinds grazing amid the grass; nor did they flee at her approach, so that she could milk them at will, and once more she could make butter as much as ever she would.

One day it befell that, the memory of her husband coming over her, she said within herself, “Perhaps, now that he will have exhausted all the store of cow-milk-butter, my old man may be suffering hunger; who knows!” So she took a sheep’s paunch of the butter made of hind’s milk and went to the place where her husband lived. As she looked down upon him through the smoke-hole in the roof, she found him once more engaged sparingly dividing his portions of ashes. So she threw the butter-paunch to him through the smoke-hole and went her way. When she had done this several days, her husband rose and followed her by her track on the snow till he came to where the herd of hinds were grazing. But when he saw so many hinds, he could not resist satisfying his love of meat; only when he had slaughtered many of the hinds, these said one to another, “If we remain here, of a surety we shall all be put to death;” therefore they arose in the night and betook them afar, far off, whither neither the man nor his wife could follow them.

When the wife found her place of refuge was known to her husband, and that he had dispersed her herd of hinds, she left the grassy meadow and wandered on farther.

Presently, a storm coming on, she took shelter in a hole in a rock where straw was littered down; so she laid herself to sleep amid the straw. But the hole was the den of a company of lions, tigers, and bears, and all manner of wild beasts; but they had a hare for watchman at the opening of the hole. At night, therefore, they all came home and laid down, but they perceived not the woman in the straw; only in the night, the woman happening to move, a straw tickled the nose of the hare. Then said the hare to a tiger who lay near him, “What was that?” But the tiger said, “We will examine into the matter when the morning light breaks.” When the morning light broke, therefore, they turned up all the straw and found the woman lying. When the tiger and the other beasts saw the woman lying in their straw, they were exceeding wroth, and would have torn her in pieces. But the hare said, “What good will it do you to tear the woman in pieces? Women are faithful and vigilant animals; give her now to me, and I will make her help me watch the cave.” So they gave her to the hare, and the hare bade her keep strict watch over the cave, and by no means let any one of any sort enter it; and he treated her well and gave her plenty of game to eat, which the wild beasts brought home to their lair.

Thus she lived in the den of the wild beasts and did the bidding of the hare. One day, however, it befell that, the memory of her husband coming over her, she said within herself, “Perhaps, now that the hinds are all dispersed, my old man may be suffering hunger; who knows!” So she took with her a good provision of game, of which the wild beasts brought in abundance, and went to the place where her husband lived. He sat as before, dividing his portions of ashes; so she threw the game she had brought down through the smoke-hole.

When she had thus provisioned him many days, he said within himself, “Who is there in heaven or earth who should thus provide for me, but only my loving wife?” So the next night he rose up and tracked her by the snow till he came to the den of the wild beasts.

When the wife saw him, she cried, “Wherefore camest thou hither? This is even a wild beasts’ lair. Behold, seeing thee they will tear thee in pieces!” But the man would not listen to her word, answering, “If they have not torn thee in pieces, neither will they tear me.” Then, when she found that he would not escape, she took him and hid him in the straw. At night, when the wild beasts came home, the hare said to the tiger, “Of a certainty I perceive the scent of some creature which was not here before;” and the tiger answered, “When morning breaks we will examine into the matter.” Accordingly, when morning broke they looked over the place, and there in the straw they found the woman’s husband. When they saw the man they were all exceedingly wroth, nor could the hare by any means restrain them that they should not tear them both in pieces. “For,” said they, “if of one comes two, of two will come four, and of four will come sixteen, and in the end we shall be outnumbered and destroyed, and our place taken from us.” So they tore them both in pieces, both the wife and her husband.

“That woman fell a sacrifice to her devotion to her husband, who deserved it not at her hand!” exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the SiddhÎ-kÜr replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the cool grove, and brought thence bound the SiddhÎ-kÜr, who by the way told him this story, saying—,

The Simple Husband and the Prudent Wife.

In the southern part of India lived a man who had a very large fortune and a very notable wife, but possessing little sense or capacity himself, nor sufficient understanding to think of trading with his fortune. One day a caravan of merchants came by, with whom the wife made some exchanges of merchandize while the husband stood by and looked on. When they were gone, the wife said to him, “Why should not you also go forth and trade even as these merchants trade?” And he willing to do her a pleasure made answer, “Give me wherewithal to trade, and I will see what I can do.”

“This is but reasonable,” thought the wife. “For how shall he trade except he have some sort of merchandize to trade withal.” So she made ready for him an ass to ride, and a camel’s burden of rice to trade with, and arms to defend him from robbers, and provisions to sustain him by the way. Thus she sent him forth.

On he rode till he came to the sea-shore, and as he could go no farther he laid him down here at the foot of a high cliff to sleep. Just where he lay was the entrance to a cave which he failed to discover. Towards evening a caravan of merchants travelling by, took shelter in this cave, leaving a bugle lying on the ground near the entrance, that in case of an attack of robbers the first who heard their approach might warn the others.

The man’s face being turned, as he lay also towards the entrance of the cave, came very near the mouthpiece of the bugle. About the middle of the night when he was sleeping very heavily he began also to snore, and his breath accidentally entering the bugle gave forth so powerful a note1, that it woke all the merchants together. “Who sounded the bugle?” asked each. “Not I,” “Nor I,” “Nor I,” answered one and all. “Then it must be the thieves themselves who did it in defiance,” said one. “They must be in strong force thus to defy us!” answered another. “We had better therefore make good our escape before they really attack us,” cried all. And without waiting to look after their goods, they all ran off for the dear life without so much as looking behind them.

In the morning, finding the merchants did not return, the simple man put together all the merchandize they had left behind them and returned home with it. All the neighbours ran out to see him pass with his train of mules and cried aloud, “Only see what a clever trader! Only see how fortune has prospered him!”

Quite proud of his success and not considering how little merit he had had in the matter, he said, “To-morrow I will go out hunting!” But his wife knowing he had not capacity to have come by all the merchandize except through some lucky chance, and thinking some equally strange adventure might befall him when out hunting, determined to be even with him and to know all that might come to pass.

Accordingly the next day she provided him with a horse and dog, and bow and arrows, and provisions for the way. Only as he went forth, she said, “Beware, a stronger than thou fall not upon thee!” But he, puffed up by his yesterday’s success, answered her, “Never fear! There is none can stand against me.” And she, smiling to see him thus highminded, made reply, “Nevertheless, the horseman Surja-Bagatur2 is terrible to deal with. Shouldst thou meet him, stand aside and engage him not, for surely he would slay thee.” Thus she warned him. But he mounted his horse and rode away, crying, “Him I fear no more than the rest!”

As soon as she had seen him start the wife dressed herself in man’s clothes, and mounting a swift horse3 she rode round till she came by a different path to the same place as her husband. Seeing him trot across a vast open plain she bore down right upon him at full gallop. The man, too much afraid of so bold a rider to recognize that it was his wife, turned him and fled from before her. Soon overtaking him, however, she challenged him to fight, at the same time drawing her sword. “Slay me not!” exclaimed the simple man, slipping off his horse, “Slay me not, most mighty rider, Surja-Bagatur! Take now my horse and mine arms, and all that I have. Leave me only my life, most mighty Surja-Bagatur!” So his wife took the horse and the arms, and all that he had and rode home.

At night the simple man came limping home footsore and in sorry plight. “Where is the horse and the arms?” inquired his wife as she saw him arrive on foot.

“To-day I encountered the mighty rider, Surja-Bagatur, and having challenged him to fight,” answered he, “I overcame him and humbled him utterly. Only that the wrath of the hero at what I had done might not be visited on us, I propitiated him by making him an offering of the horse and the arms and all that I had.”

So the woman prepared roasted corn and set it before him; and when he had well eaten she said to him, “Tell me now, what manner of man is the hero Surja-Bagatur, and to what is he like4?”

And the simple man made answer, “But that he wore never a beard, even such a man would he have been as thy father.”

And the wife laughed to herself, but told him nothing of all she had done.

“That was a prudent woman, who humbled not her husband by triumphing over him!” exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the SiddhÎ-kÜr replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Of the adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the seventeenth chapter, of the Simple Husband and the Prudent Wife.

When therefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan saw that the SiddhÎ-kÜr had again made good his escape, he set out and came to the cool grove, and took him captive and brought him, bound in his bag. And by the way the SiddhÎ-kÜr told this tale, saying,—

How Shanggasba buried his Father.

Long ages ago, there lived in a city of Northern India a father and son. Both bore the same name, and a strangely inappropriate name it was. Though they were the poorest of men without any thing in the world to call their own, and without even possessing the knowledge of any trade or handicraft whereby to make a livelihood to support them at ease, they were yet called by the name of Shanggasba, that is “Renowned possessor of treasure1.”

As I have already said, they knew no trade or handicraft; but to earn a scanty means of subsistence to keep body and soul together, they used to lead a wandering sort of life, gathering and hawking wood.

One day as they were coming down the steep side of a mountain forest, worn and footsore, bending under the heavy burden of wood on their backs, Shanggasba, the father, suddenly hastened his tired, tottering steps, and, leading the way through the thickly-meeting branches to a little clear space of level ground, where the grass grew green and bright, called to his son to come after him with more of animation in his voice than he had shown for many a weary day.

Shanggasba, the son, curious enough to know what stirred his father’s mind, and glad indeed at the least indication of any glimpse of a new interest in life, increased his pace too, and soon both were sitting on the green grass with their bundles of wood laid beside them.

“Listen, my son!” said Shanggasba, the father, “to what I have here to impart to thee, and forget not my instructions.”

“Just as this spot of sward, on which we are now seated, is bared of the rich growth of trees covering the thicket all around it, so are my fortunes now barren compared with the opulence and power our ancestor Shanggasba, ‘Renowned possessor of treasure,’ enjoyed. Know, moreover, that it was just on this very spot that he lived in the midst of his power and glory. Therefore now that our wanderings have brought us hither, I lay this charge upon thee that when I die thou bring hither my bones, and lay them under the ground in this place. And so doing, thou too shalt enjoy fulness of might and magnificence like to the portion of a king’s son. For it was because my father’s bones were laid to rest in a poor, mean, and shameful place, that I have been brought to this state of destitution in which we now exist. But thou, if thou keep this my word, doubt not but that thou also shalt become a renowned possessor of treasure.”

Thus spoke Shanggasba, the father; and then, lifting their faggots on to their shoulder, they journeyed on again as before.

Not long after the day that they had held this discourse, Shanggasba, the father, was taken grievously ill, so that the son had to go out alone to gather wood, and it so befell that when he returned home again the father was already dead. So remembering his father’s admonition, he laded his bones upon his back, and carried them out to burial in the cleared spot in the forest, as his father had said.

But when he looked that the great wealth and honour of which his father had spoken should have fallen to his lot, he was disappointed to find that he remained as poor as before. Then, because he was weary of the life of a woodman, he went into the city, and bought a hand-loom and yarn, and set himself to weave linen cloths which he hawked about from place to place.

Now, one day, as he was journeying back from a town where he had been selling his cloths, his way brought him through the forest where his father lay buried. So he tarried a while at the place and sat down to his weaving, and as he sat a lark came and perched on the loom. With his weaving-stick he gave the lark a blow and killed it, and then roasted and ate it.

But as he ate it he mused, “Of a certainty the words of my father have failed, which he spoke, saying, ‘If thou bury my bones in this place thou shalt enjoy fulness of might and magnificence.’ And because this weaving brings me a more miserable profit even than hawking wood, I will arise now and go and sue for the hand of the daughter of the King of India, and become his son-in-law.”

Having taken this resolution, he burnt his hand-loom, and set out on his journey.

Now it so happened that just at this time the Princess, daughter of the King of India, having been absent for a long time from the capital, great festivities of thanksgiving were being celebrated in gratitude for her return in safety, as Shanggasba arrived there; and notably, on a high hill, before the image of a Garuda-bird2, the king of birds, Vishnu’s bearer, all decked with choice silk rich in colour.

Shanggasba arrived, fainting from hunger, for the journey had been long, and he had nothing to eat by the way, having no money to buy food, but now he saw things were beginning to go well with him, for when he saw the festival he knew there would be an offering of baling cakes of rice-flour before the garuda-bird, and he already saw them in imagination surrounded with the yellow flames of the sacrifice.

As soon as he approached the place therefore he climbed up the high hill, and satisfied his hunger with the baling; and then, as a provision for the future, he took down the costly silk stuffs with which the garuda-bird was adorned and hid them in his boots.

His hunger thus appeased, he made his way to the King’s palace, where he called out lustily to the porter in a tone of authority, “Open the gate for me!”

But the porter, when he saw what manner of man it was summoned him, would pay no heed to his words, but rather chid him and bid him be silent.

Then Shanggasba, when he found the porter would pay no heed to his words, but rather bid him be silent, blew a note on the great princely trumpet, which was only sounded for promulgating the King’s decrees.

This the King heard, who immediately sent for the porter, and inquired of him who had dared to sound the great princely trumpet. To whom the porter made answer,—

“Behold now, O King, there stands without at the gate a vagabond calling on me to admit him because he has a communication to make to the King.”

“The fellow is bold; let him be brought in,” replied the King. So they brought Shanggasba before the King’s majesty.

“What seekest thou of me?” inquired the King. And Shanggasba, nothing abashed, answered plainly—

“To sue for the hand of the Princess am I come, and to be the King’s son-in-law.”

The ministers of state, who stood round about the King, when they heard these words, were filled with indignation, and counselled the King that he should put him to death. But the King, tickled in his fancy with the man’s daring, answered,—

“Nay, let us not put him to death. He can do us no harm. A beggar may sue for a king’s daughter, and a king may choose a beggar’s daughter, out of that no harm can come,” and he ordered that he should be taken care of in the palace, and not let to go forth.

Now all this was told to the Queen, who took a very different view of the thing from the King’s. And coming to him in fury and indignation, she cried out,—

“It is not good for such a man to live. He must be already deprived of his senses; let him die the death!”

But the King gave for all answer, “The thing is not of that import that he should die for it.”

The Princess also heard of it; and she too came to complain to the King that he should cause such a man to be kept in the palace; but before she could open her complaint, the King, joking, said to her,—

“Such and such a man is come to sue for thy hand; and I am about to give thee to him.”

But she answered, “This shall never be; surely the King hath spoken this thing in jest. Shall a princess now marry a beggar?”

“If thou wilt not have him, what manner of man wouldst thou marry?” asked the King.

“A man who has gold and precious things enough that he should carry silk stuff3 in his boots, such a one would I marry, and not a wayfarer and a beggar,” answered the Princess.

When the people heard that, they went and pulled off Shanggasba’s boots, and when they found in them the pieces of silk he had taken from the image of the garuda-bird, they all marvelled, and said never a word more.

But the King thought thereupon, and said, “This one is not after the manner of common men.” And he gave orders that he should be lodged in the palace.

The Queen, however, was more and more dismayed when she saw the token, and thus she reasoned, “If the man is here entertained after this manner, and if he has means thus to gain over to him the mind of the King, who shall say but that he may yet contrive to carry his point, and to marry my daughter?” And as she found she prevailed nothing with the King by argument, she said, “I must devise some means of subtlety to be rid of him.” Then she had the man called into her, and inquired of him thus,—

“Upon what terms comest thou hither to sue for the hand of my daughter? Tell me, now, hast thou great treasures to endow her with as thy name would import, or wilt thou win thy right to pay court to her by thy valour and bravery?” And this she said, for she thought within herself, of a surety now the man is so poor he can offer no dowry, and so he needs must elect to win her by the might of his bravery, which if he do I shall know how to over-match his strength, and show he is but a mean-spirited wretch.

But Shanggasba made answer, “Of a truth, though I be called ‘Renowned possessor of treasure,’ no treasure have I to endow her with; but let some task be appointed me by the King and Queen, and I will win her hand by my valour.”

The Queen was glad when she heard this answer, for she said, “Now I have in my hands the means to be rid of him.” At this time, while they were yet speaking, it happened that a Prince of the Unbelievers advanced to the borders of the kingdom to make war upon the King. Therefore the Queen said to Shanggasba,—

“Behold thine affair! Go out now against the enemy, and if thou canst drive back his hordes thou shalt marry our daughter, and become the King’s son-in-law.

“Even so let it be!” answered Shanggasba. “Only let there be given to me a good horse and armour, and a bow and arrows.”

All this the Queen gave him, and good wine to boot, and appointed an army in brave array to serve under him. With these he rode out to encounter the enemy.

They had hardly got out of sight of the city, however, when the captain of the army rode up to him and said, “We are not soldiers to fight under command of a beggar: ride thou forth alone.”

So they went their way, and he rode on alone. He had no sooner come to the borders of the forest, however, where the ground was rough and uneven, than he found he could in no wise govern his charger, and after pulling at the reins for a long time in vain, the beast dashed with him furiously into the thicket. “What can I do now?” mourned Shanggasba to himself as, encumbered by the unwonted weight of his armour, he made fruitless efforts to extricate himself from the interlacing branches; “surely death hath overtaken me!” And even as he spoke the enemy’s army appeared riding down towards him. Nevertheless, catching hold of the overhanging bows of a tree, by which to save himself from the plungings of the horse, and as the soil was loose and the movement of the steed impetuous, as he clung to the tree the roots were set free by his struggles, and rebounding in the face of the advancing enemy, laid many of his riders low in the dust.

The prince who commanded them when he saw this, exclaimed, “This one cannot be after the manner of common men. Is he not rather one of the heroes making trial of his prowess who has assumed this outward form?”

And a great panic seized them all, so that they turned and fled from before him, riding each other down in the confusion, and casting away their weapons and their armour.

As soon as they were well out of sight, and only the clouds of dust whirling round behind them, Shanggasba rose from the ground where he had fallen in his fear, and catching by the bridle one of the horses whose rider had been thrown, laded on to him all that he could carry of the spoil with which the way was strewn, and brought it up to the King as the proof and trophy of his victory.

The King was well pleased to have so valiant a son-in-law, and commended him and promised him the hand of the Princess in marriage. But the Queen, though her first scheme for delivering her daughter had failed, was not slow to devise another, and she said, “It is not enough that he should be valiant in the field, but a mighty hunter must he also be.” And thus she said to Shanggasba, “Wilt thou also give proof of thy might in hunting?”

And Shanggasba made answer, “Wherein shall I show my might in hunting?”

And the Queen said, “Behold now, there is in our mountains a great fox, nine spans in length, the fur of whose back is striped with stripes; him shalt thou kill and bring his skin hither to me, if thou wouldst have the hand of the Princess and become the King’s son-in-law.”

“Even so let it be,” replied Shanggasba; “only let there be given me a bow and arrow, and provisions for many days.”

All this the Queen commanded should be given to him; and he went out to seek for the great fox measuring nine spans in length, and the fur of his back striped with stripes.

Many days he wandered over the mountains till his provisions were all used and his clothes torn, and, what was a worse evil, he had lost his bow by the way.

“Without a bow I can do nothing,” reasoned Shanggasba to himself, “even though I fall in with the fox. It is of no use that I wait for death here. I had better return to the palace and see what fortune does for me.”

But as he had wandered about up and down without knowing his way, it so happened that as he now directed his steps back to the road, he came upon the spot where he had laid down to sleep the night before, and there it was he had left the bow lying. But in the meantime the great fox nine spans long, with the fur of his back striped with stripes, had come by that way, and finding the bow lying had striven to gnaw it through. In so doing he had passed his neck through the string, and the string had strangled him. So in this way Shanggasba obtained possession of his skin, which he forthwith carried in triumph to the King and Queen. The King when he saw it exclaimed, “Of a truth now is Shanggasba a mighty hunter, for he has killed the great fox nine spans long, and with the fur of his back striped with stripes. Therefore shall the hand of the Princess be given to him in marriage.”

But the Queen would not yet give up the cause of her daughter, and she said, “Not only in fighting and hunting must he give proof of might, but also over the spirits he must show his power.” Then Shanggasba made answer, “Wherein shall I show my power over the spirits?”

And the Queen said, “In the regions of the North, among the Mongols, are seven dÆmons who ride on horses: these shalt thou slay and bring hither, if thou wouldst ask for the hand of the Princess and become the King’s son-in-law.”

“Even so let it be,” replied Shanggasba; “only point me out the way, and give me provisions for the journey.”

So the Queen commanded that the way should be shown him, and appointed him provisions for the journey, which she prepared with her own hand, namely, seven pieces of black rye-bread that he was to eat on his way out, and seven pieces of white wheaten-bread that he was to eat on his way home. Thus provided, he went forth towards the region of the North, among the Mongols, to seek for the seven dÆmons who rode on horses.

Before night he reached the land of the Mongols, and finding a hillock, he halted and sat down on it, and took out his provisions: and it well-nigh befell that he had eaten the white wheaten-bread first; but he said, “Nay, I had best get through the black bread first.” So he left the white wheaten-bread lying beside him, and began to eat a piece of the black rye-bread. But as he was hungry and ate fast, the hiccups took him; and then, before he had time to put the bread up again into his wallet, suddenly the seven dÆmons of the country of the Mongols came upon him, riding on their horses. So he rose and ran away in great fear, leaving the bread upon the ground. But they, after they had chased him a good space, stopped and took counsel of each other what they should do with him, and though for a while they could not agree, finally they all exclaimed together, “Let us be satisfied with taking away his victuals.” So they turned back and took his victuals; and the black rye-bread they threw away, but the white wheaten-bread they ate, every one of them a piece.

The Queen, however, had put poison in the white wheaten-bread, which was to serve Shanggasba on his homeward journey; and now that the seven dÆmons ate thereof, they were all killed with the poison that was prepared for him, and they all laid them down on the hillock and died, while their horses grazed beside them4.

But in the morning, Shanggasba hearing nothing more of the trampling of the dÆmons chasing him, left off running, and plucked up courage to turn round and look after them; and when he saw them not, he turned stealthily back, looking warily on this side and on that, lest they should be lying in wait for him. And when he had satisfied himself the way was clear of them, he bethought him to go back and look after his provisions. When he got back to the hillock, however, he found the seven dÆmons lying dead, and their horses grazing beside them. The sight gave him great joy; and having packed each one on the back of his horse, he led them all up to the King and Queen.

The King was so pleased that the seven dÆmons were slain, that he would not let him be put on his trial any more. So he delivered the Princess to him, and he became the King’s son-in-law. Moreover, he gave him a portion like to the portion of a King’s son, and erected a throne for him as high as his own throne, and appointed to him half his kingdom, and made all his subjects pay him homage as to himself.

“This man thought that his father’s words had failed, and owned not that it was because he buried his bones in a prosperous place that good fortune happened unto him,” exclaimed the Prince.

And as he let these words escape him, the SiddhÎ-kÜr replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, fleet out of sight.

Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the cool grove, and having brought thence the SiddhÎ-kÜr bound in his bag, and having eaten of his cake that never diminished to strengthen him for the journey, as they went along the SiddhÎ-kÜr told him this tale, saying,—

The Perfidious Friend.

Long ages ago there lived in a northern country of India a lioness who had her den in the side of a snow-capped mountain. One day she had been so long without food that she was near to have devoured her cub; determining, however, to make one effort first to spare it, she went out on a long journey till she came to a fair plain where there were a number of cows grazing. When she saw the herd of cows she could not refrain a terrible roar; but the cows, hearing the roar of the lioness, said one to another, “Let us make haste to escape from the lioness,” and they all went their way. But there was one of the cows which had a calf, and because she could neither make the calf go fast enough to escape the lioness, nor could bring herself to forsake it, she remained behind and fell a prey to the wild beast. The lioness accordingly made a great feast, chiefly on the blood of the cow, and carried the flesh and the bones to her den.

The calf followed the traces of its mother’s flesh, and when the lioness lay down to sleep the calf came along with her own cub to suck, and the lioness being overcome, and as it were drunken with the blood she had taken, failed to perceive what the calf did. In the morning, as the calf had drunk her milk, she forbore to slay it, and the calf and the cub were suckled together. After two or three days, when there was nothing left for the lioness to eat but a few bones of the cow, she devoured them so greedily in her hunger that one big knuckle-bone stuck in her throat, and as she could by no means get it out again, she was throttled by it till she died. Before dying she spoke thus to the calf and the cub, “You two, who have been suckled with the same milk, must live at peace with each other. If some day an enemy comes to you and tries to set you one against the other, pay no heed to his words, but remain at one as before.” Thus she charged them.

When the lioness was dead the cub betook himself into the forest, and the calf found its way to the sunny slope of a mountain side; but at the hour of evening they went down to the stream together to drink, and after that they disported themselves together.

There was a fox, however, who had been used to feed on the remnants of the lion’s meals, and continued now to profit by those of the cub; he saw with a jealous eye this growing intimacy with the calf, and determined to set them at variance2.

One day, therefore, when the cub had just killed a beast and lay sucking its blood, the fox came to him with his tail no longer cockily curled up on his back, but low, sweeping the ground, and his ears drooping. When the cub saw him in this plight, he exclaimed, “Fox! what hath befallen thee? Tell me thy grief, and console thyself the while with a bite of this hind.” But the fox, putting on a doleful tone, answered him, “How should I, thine uncle, take pleasure in eating flesh when thou hast an enemy? hence is all pleasure gone from me.” But the cub answered carelessly, “It is not likely any one should be my enemy, fox; therefore set to and eat this hind’s flesh.” “If thou refusest in this lighthearted way to listen to the words of thine uncle,” answered the fox, “so shall the day come when thou wilt berue it.” “Who then, pray, is this mine enemy?” at last inquired the cub. “Who should it be but this calf? Saith he not always, ‘The lioness killed my mother; therefore when I am strong enough I will kill the cub.’” “Nay, but we two are brothers,” replied the cub; “the calf has no bad thoughts towards me.” “Knowest thou then really not that thy mother killed his mother?” exclaimed the fox. And the cub thought within himself, “What the fox says is nevertheless true; and, further, is he not mine uncle, and what gain should he have to deceive me?” Then said he aloud, “By what manner of means does the calf purpose to kill me? tell me, I pray.” And the fox made answer, “When he wakes to-morrow morning, observe thou him, and if he stretches himself and then digs his horns into the earth, and shakes his tail and bellows, know that it is a sure token he is minded to kill thee.” The cub, his suspicions beginning to be excited, promised to be upon his guard and to observe the calf.

Having succeeded thus far the fox went his way, directing his steps to the sunny side of the mountain slope where the calf was grazing. With his tail trailing on the ground, and his ears drooping, he stood before the calf. “Fox! what aileth thee?” inquired the calf cheerily; “come and tell me thy grief.” But the fox answered, “Not for myself do I grieve. It is because thou, O calf! hast an enemy; therefore do I grieve.” But the calf answered, “Be comforted, fox, for it is not likely any should be an enemy to me.” Then replied the fox, “Beware thou disregard not my words, for if thou do, of a certainty a day shall come when thou shalt berue it.” But the calf inquired, saying, “Who then could this enemy possibly be?” And the fox told him, saying, “Who should it be other than the lion-cub in the forest on the other side the mountain? Behold! doth he not use to say, ‘Even as my mother killed and devoured his mother, so also will I kill and devour him.’” “Let not this disturb thee, fox,” interposed the calf, “for we two are brothers; he hath no bad thoughts against me.” But the fox warned him again, saying, “Of a surety, if thou disregard my words thou shalt berue it. Behold! I have warned thee.” Then the calf began to think within himself, “Is it not true what he says that the cub’s mother killed my mother; and, further, what gain should he, mine uncle, have in deceiving me?” Then said he aloud, “If thy warning be so true, tell me further, I pray thee, by what manner of means doth he design to put me to death?” And the fox told him, saying, “When he wakes to-morrow morning observe thou him, and if he stretch himself and shake his mane, if he draws his claws out and in, and scratches up the earth with them, then know that it is a sure token he is minded to slay thee.” The calf, his suspicions beginning to be awakened, promised to be upon his guard and to observe the cub.

The next morning, when they woke, each observed the other as he had promised the fox, and each by natural habit, which the fox had observed of old, but they not, gave the signs he had set before them for a token. At this each was filled with wrath and suspicion against the other, and when at sunrise they both went down to the stream to drink, the cub growled at the calf, and the calf bellowed at the cub. Hence further convinced of each other’s bad intentions, they each determined at the same instant to be beforehand with the other. The calf dug his horns into the breast of the cub and gored it open, and the cub sprang upon the calf’s throat and made a formidable wound, from whence the blood poured out. Thus they contended together till all the blood of both was poured out, and they died there before the face of the fox.

Then came a voice out of svarga3, saying, “Put never thy trust in a false friend, for so doing he shall put thee at enmity with him who is thy friend in truth.”

“Nevertheless, as the cub was killed as well as the calf, the perfidy of the fox profited him nothing as soon as he had made an end of eating their flesh!” exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the SiddhÎ-kÜr replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the cool grove; and having brought thence the SiddhÎ-kÜr bound in his bag, and having eaten of his cake that never diminished, to strengthen him for the journey, as they went along the SiddhÎ-kÜr told him this tale, saying,—

Bhixu Life.

Long ages ago there lived in a country in the north of India, namely Nepaul, on the banks of a river named the HiranjÂvati1, an old man and his old wife, who had no sons, but only one daughter. But this one daughter was all in all to them; and they had only one care in life, and that care was, how to establish her safely and well, that she might not be left alone in the world when they were on it no more. Nevertheless, though the maiden was fair to see, and wise and prudent in her ways, and though her parents had laid by a rich dowry for her portion, it so chanced that no one offered to marry her. Yet the years went by, and the man and his wife were both growing old, and they said, “If we marry her not now, soon will she be left all alone in the world.”

In a hut at some distance lived another aged couple, who were very poor; but they had one only son. Then said the father of the maiden to her mother, “We must give our daughter to the son of this poor couple for a wife, otherwise she will be left alone in the world.”

So they married the maiden to the son of this poor old couple, and they took him into their house, and he lived together with them.

After a time, the husband felt a desire to return and see his parents; so he took his wife with him, and they went to seek his parents. At home, however, they were not, for they led a Bhixu life, and were gone on a begging expedition through all the tribes; therefore they went on, seeking them. About this time, a mighty Khan had given orders for a great distribution of alms2. All that any one asked for, it was given him, whatsoever it might be. Only concerning the measure of rice-brandy distributed to any one person was there any restriction; but of all the rest there was no stint.

The man and his wife therefore came with the rest of the people, and obtained their portion, according to their desire. When all had been well served, and had returned every one to his home, the man said to his wife, “If we would really be rich, and enjoy life, the way to do it is to go round through all the tribes, living on alms. So living, we have all we need desire. Moreover we need stand in no fear of thieves and robbers; our strength will not be brought down by labour by day, nor our sleep disturbed with anxiety by night; in drought and murrain we shall have no loss to suffer, for the herds of which we shall live will not be our own. To travel about ever among new people is itself no small pleasure. Moreover we shall never be vexed with paying tribute of that we have earned with the toil of our arms. If even we go back and take to us the inheritance thy parents promised to us, in how many days would it be all spent, and we become again even as now! But by going from tribe to tribe, living on alms, our store is never diminished, and there is nothing we shall lack3.”

Thus they lived many months, begging alms and lacking nothing, even as the man had said. Nevertheless, in the midst of their wanderings, a son was born to them. Then said the woman, “These wild tribes among whom we now are, give us nothing but rice-brandy, which is no food for me; neither have I strength to carry the child as he gets older.” And as she knew her husband loved a vagabond life, and could not hear of going to live at home with her parents, she added, “Let us now go see my parents, and beg of them that they give us of their herds an ass, on which the infant may ride withal when we go round among the tribes seeking alms.” To this proposition the man did not say “Nay,” and they journeyed towards the house of the woman’s parents, along the bank of the river HiranjÂvati.

When they arrived at home, they found that the woman’s parents were dead, nor was there the least remnant left of all their possessions: the herds were dispersed, and the flocks had fallen a prey to the wolves and the jackals; nothing remained but a few tufts of wool, which had got caught on the ant-heaps4. The wife picked up the tufts, saying, “We will collect all these, and weave a piece of stuff out of them.” But her husband pointed out that, at no great distance, was a plain with many tents, where, by asking alms, they could have plenty of barley and rice, without the trouble of weaving. They continued their way therefore towards the tents; but the woman continued saying, “When we have woven our piece of stuff, we will sell it, and buy a bigger piece, and then we will sell that and buy a bigger; and so on, till we have enough to buy an ass, then we will set our little one on it instead of carrying him. Then perhaps our ass will have a foal, and then we shall have two asses.” “Certainly,” answered her husband, “if our ass has a foal we shall have two asses.” But the child said, “If our ass has a foal, I will take the foal, and will ride him, going about among the tribes, I also, asking alms even as you5.” When his mother heard him speak thus, she was angry, and bid him hold his peace; she also went to correct him by hitting him with a stick, but the boy tried to escape from her, and the blow fell upon his head and killed him. Thus their child died.

At the time that the woman’s parents died, and the herds were dispersed, and the flocks devoured by wolves and jackals, one only lamb had escaped from the destruction, and had taken refuge in a hole in the ground, where it remained hid all day, and only came out at night to graze6. One day a hare came by, and as the lamb was not afraid of the hare, she did not hide herself from him; therefore the hare said to her, “O lamb, who art thou?” And the lamb answered, “I belong to a flock whose master died of grief because his children went away and forsook him; and when he died, the wolves and the jackals came and devoured all his flock, and I, even I only, escaped of them all, and I have hid myself in this hole. Thou, O hare, then, be my protector.” Thus spoke the lamb.

But the hare answered, “Must not a lamb live in a flock? How shall a lamb live in a hole all alone? Behold, I will even bring thee to a place where are flocks of sheep, with whom thou mayest live as becometh a lamb.”

“It were better we stayed here,” replied the lamb trembling; “for if we meet the wolf in the open country, how shall we escape him?” “For that will I provide,” answered the hare; “only come thou with me.” So they set out, the lamb and the hare together, for to seek a place where grazed flocks in goodly company.

As they went along, they saw on the ground a hand-loom, which some one sitting out there to weave had left behind. The hare bid the lamb put it on her back, and bring it along with her. The lamb did as she was bid. A little farther they saw a piece of yellow stuff lying on the ground: this also the hare bid the lamb pick up and bring with her. The lamb did as she was bid. And a little farther on they saw a piece of paper, with something written on it, blown along by the wind; this likewise the hare bid the lamb bring with her. And the lamb did as she was bid.

A little farther on they saw a wolf coming. As he drew near them, the hare said to the lamb, “Bring me now my throne.” Then the lamb understood that he meant the hand-loom, and she set it in the way. Then the hare continued, “Spread abroad over me my gold-coloured royal mantle.” Then the lamb understood that he meant the piece of yellow stuff he had bid her pick up, and she spread it over him as he sat on the hand-loom for a throne. Then said the hare again “Reach me the document which the moon sent down to me on the fifteenth of the month7.” So the lamb understood that he meant the piece of written paper he had bid her pick up, and she gave it into his hand.

By this time the wolf had come up with them, and when he saw the hare seated so majestically on the hand-loom for a throne, and with the royal mantle of yellow stuff about him, and the written document in his hand, the lamb moreover standing quietly by his side, he said within himself, “These must be very extraordinary beasts, who do not run away at my approach, after the manner of common beasts.” Therefore he stood still, and said to the hare, “Who and whence art thou?” But the hare, still holding the piece of written paper in his hand, made as though he were reading from it as follows:—“This is the all high command of the god Churmusta8 unto the most noble and honourable hare, delivered unto him by the hands of the moon, on the fifteenth of the month. On the same most noble and honourable hare I lay this charge, that he do bring me, before the fifteenth of the next moon, the skins of a thousand rapacious, flock-scattering wolves.” And as the hare read these words, he erected his ears with great importance and determination of manner, and made as though he would have come down from his throne to attack the wolf.

The wolf, still more alarmed at this proceeding, took flight, nor so much as looked back to see whether the hare was really pursuing him.

As soon as he was well on his way, the hare and the lamb set out once more on their journey, taking another direction from the wolf, and arrived happily at one of the most fertile pastures in the kingdom of Nepaul.

“The prudence of that hare was equal to his good feeling,” exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the SiddhÎ-kÜr replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the cool grove; and having brought thence the SiddhÎ-kÜr bound in his bag, the SiddhÎ-kÜr as they went along told him this tale, saying,—

How the Widow saved her Son’s Life1.

Long ages ago there lived in Chara Kitad2, which lieth to the east of India, a king named Daibang3, who had one only son. But this son never showed himself to the people. No one in the whole empire had once set his eyes on him. Every day he sent and fetched a handsome youth of the people to come and comb his hair for him, and immediately that he had made an end of combing him he had him put to death. Every day one. This went on for many years, and no one dared to withhold their son from the king’s command. At last it came to the turn of a youth who was a widow’s son. The widow, therefore, full of anguish at the thought of her son, her eldest stay and consolation, being taken from her and slain, made cakes of dough kneaded with her own milk, and gave them to her son, saying, “Manage so that while thou art combing the hair of the Khan, he shall eat one of these cakes.”

The widow’s son, therefore, came and stood before the Khan; and as he combed the Khan’s hair with the Khan’s golden comb, he saw that the ears of the Khan were formed like to the ears of an ass, and that it was that his subjects might not know he had ears like to the ears of an ass, that he put to death every day the young men, who, combing his hair, had seen them. Nevertheless, the widow’s son went on combing the Khan’s hair, and eating the cakes his mother had given him the while.

At last the Khan said, “What eatest thou?”

And he answered, “Cakes kneaded of rice-flour and milk; such cakes do I eat.”

And when the Khan asked for some to taste, he gave him one, and the Khan ate it. When the Khan had eaten the cake, he said, “The scent and the flavour of these cakes is good. How are they composed? tell me.”

The widow’s son answered, “My mother made them for me with milk of her own breast, and kneaded them with rice-flour.”

When the Khan heard that, he said within himself, “How shall I put this youth to death, seeing he and I have both partaken of one mother’s milk? That were unnatural and unheard of.” Then said he aloud, “If that be so, I will not put thee to death this day; but only take an oath of thee that thou tell no man that I have ears like to asses’ ears. Shouldst thou, however, break thine oath, then, know that thou shalt surely be put to death.”

“Unto no man, O Khan,” swore the youth, “will I declare this thing. Neither unto my mother herself.” And having thanked the Khan for sparing his life he went his way.

Day after day, however, all the youths who went in to comb the Khan’s hair were put to death as before, and all the people wondered greatly why the widow’s son had been spared. Nevertheless, remembering the oath which he had given the Khan, he told no man how it had befallen for all their wondering and inquiring, nor even his own mother.

But as he continued thus keeping his own counsel, and telling no man the reason why the Khan killed all the other youths who combed his hair and spared him, the secret vexed his heart, nor could he stand against the oppression of his desire to speak it, so that he fell ill, and like to die. Nor were medicaments nor yet offerings in sacrifice4 of any avail to heal him of that sickness, though many Lamas were called to see him. At last a Lama came, who having felt his pulse said, “In this kind of sickness medicaments avail nothing; only tell what it is thou hast on thine heart, and as soon as thou shalt have told it, to whomsoever it may be, thou shalt be relieved, and be well again. Other remedy is there none.” Thus spoke the Lama.

Then all they that stood by the bed spoke to him, saying, “If it be that thou hast any thing on thy mind, as the Lama has said, even though it be the least matter, speak it now and recover. Of what good shall it be to thee to keep the secret if, after all, thou diest?”

But neither so would he break his oath to the Khan. But at night when they were all gone, and his mother only was with him, and she urged him much, he told her, saying, “Of a truth have I a secret; but I have sworn to the Khan that I will tell it to no man, nor yet even to thee, my mother.”

Then spoke his mother again, saying, “If this be so, then go out far from the habitations of men, and hiding thy face in a crack of the earth where the soil is parched for want of moisture; or else, in the hollow of an ancient tree, or in a narrow cleft of the everlasting rock, and speak it there.”

And the youth listened to her word; and he went out far from the habitations of men till he came where there was a hole of a marmot in the ground. Putting his mouth into the hole he cried, “Our Khan, Daibang, has ears even like to the ears of an ass!” and he repeated the same four times, and was well again.

But the marmot living in the hole, had heard the words, and she repeated them to the echo, and the echo told them to the wind, and the wind brought them to the Khan.

So the Khan sent, and called the youth, even the widow’s son, before him, saying, “Charged I thee not that thou told no man this thing, and swarest thou not unto me that thou wouldst declare it to no man, nor even to thine own mother? How then hast thou gone and spoken it abroad?”

But the youth answered, saying, “To no man either at home or abroad have I spoken the thing, O Khan!”

“How then came the words back to me unless it be that thou hast spoken them, seeing that none other knows the thing save thee?” again asked the Khan.

“I know not,” replied the youth, “unless it be that through refraining of myself that I might keep the secret I fell ill, and when all medicaments and offerings of sacrifice failed, there came a Lama who said there was no remedy save that I should unburden that which oppressed my mind. Then to save my life, and yet not betray the Khan’s confidence, I spoke it in the hole of a marmot in the waste, far from the habitations of men.”

Then when the Khan found he was so faithful and discreet he believed his word, and forbore to put him to death. Further he said to him, “Tell me, now, canst thou devise any means by which these asses’ ears may be concealed, so that I may go forth among my subjects like other Khans?”

“If the Khan would listen to the word of one so humble, even now a means of concealment is plain to my mind,” replied the youth.

And the Khan answered him, “Speak, and I will listen to what thou hast to advise.”

The youth therefore spoke, saying, “O mighty Khan! Let now a high-fashioned cap be made to cover thine head, and let there be on either side lappets to the cap, covering the ears. Then shall all men when they see the Khan wearing such a cap deem it beseeming to wear such a cap likewise.” Thus the youth counselled the Khan.

And the Khan found the counsel good, and he made him a high-fashioned cap with lappets covering the ears; and when the ministers of state and the counsellors and nobles saw the Khan wearing such a cap, they made to themselves caps like unto it, and all men wore it, and it was known by the name of “the lappet cap.” But no man knew that the king’s ears were like to asses’ ears.

Furthermore, the Khan no longer had need to put to death the youths who combed his hair, and all the people rejoiced greatly. But for the youth, even the widow’s son, he made him steward over all his household, and whatsoever he did, he did with prudence and judgment, his mother advising him.

“The Khan who put so many youths to death to save his own reputation did not deserve so good a counsel!” exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the SiddhÎ-kÜr replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the cool grove, and, having brought thence the SiddhÎ-kÜr as on the other times, bound in his bag with the cord woven of a hundred threads, as they went along the SiddhÎ-kÜr told him this tale, saying,—

The White Serpent-king.

Long ages ago there lived in the east part of India a Khan whose possessions were so large that he had ten thousand cities, and for the administration of the affairs of the same he had not less than thirty ministers. He had also a gold frog that could dance, and a parrot that spoke wisely. A tamer was also appointed to have care of them, and every day this keeper brought them before the Khan to divert him. The frog danced every day a new dance, and the parrot now gave wise answers to the questions he proposed, now sang melodious songs with accomplished art.

One day there came to the court of this King a minstrel from a strange land, in whose playing and singing the Khan took so great pleasure that he gave him many rich presents, and the man went about saying, “In all his dominions the King has no favourite in whom he takes so great delight as in me who am a stranger; neither is there any other who knows how to please him as I.” When the keeper of the gold frog and the parrot heard him make this boast, he answered him saying, “Nay, much greater pleasure hath the Khan in his gold frog and his parrot, of whom I am keeper.” And they strove together. In the end the minstrel said, “To-morrow we will both go up to the Khan together, and while your gold frog dances his most elaborate dance, and your parrot sings his most melodious songs, I also will play and sing my sagas to the Khan; and behold! to whichever the Khan gives ear while he regards not the other, he shall be accounted to have most pleased the Khan.”

The next day they did even as the minstrel had said, and when the minstrel began to sing the Khan paid no more heed at all to the frog or the parrot, but listened only to the strange minstrel’s words.

Then the tamer who had charge of the frog and the parrot, when he saw that the strange minstrel was preferred, lost heart and came no more before the Khan, but went and let fly the parrot, and threw the gold frog out of a window of the palace. As he threw the gold frog out of the window of the palace a crow was flying by, and seeing the frog thrown out, and that it knew not which way to turn, he caught it in his beak and flew away to a ledge of a rock. As he was about to devour her, the frog said,—

“O crow! if thou art minded to devour me, first wash me in water, and then come and devour me.”

And the remark pleased the crow, and he said to the frog,—

“Well spoken, O frog! What is thy name?”

And the frog made answer,—

“Bagatur-Ssedkiltu1. That is my name.”

So the crow took her down to wash her in the streamlet which flowed ceaselessly out of a hole in the rock. But the frog had no sooner gained the water than she crept into the hole. The crow called after her,—

“Bagatur-Ssedkiltu! Bagatur-Ssedkiltu, come thou here!”

But the frog answered him,—

“I should be foolish indeed if I came of my own account to give up my sweet life to your voracity. The Three Precious Treasures2 may decide whether I have so little courage and pride as that!”

So saying, she leapt into a cleft of the rock out of reach of the crow.

Meantime her former tamer had come up, and began searching about, trying to recover her, having bethought him he might incur the King’s anger in having let her go. And when he saw her not he began digging up the earth and hewing the rock all round the streamlet.

When the frog saw him digging up the earth and breaking the rock all round the streamlet, she cried out to him,—

“Dig not up the source of this spring. The King of the same hath given me charge over it, and I will not that thou lay it bare by digging round it.” She said further, “Though now thou art in sorrow and distress, I will presently render thee a gift that shall be a gift of wonder. Listen and I will tell thee. I am the daughter of the Serpent-king, reigning over the white mother-o’-pearl shells3. One day I went out to see the King’s daughter bathe, and she, seeing me, sent and had me fished out of the stream with a mother-o’-pearl pail, and took me with her.”

Meantime, the King began to notice that the parrot and the frog came no more to entertain him, so he sent for the tamer, and inquired what had become of his charges.

“The frog is gone her way in the stream,” answered the man, “and the parrot must have been taken by a hawk.”

The Khan was wroth at this answer, and ordered that the man should be taken and put to death.

Then came the first of the thirty ministers to the Khan, saying,—

“If we put this man to death, no more dancers or singers will come any more to this court.”

And the Khan answered,—

“It is well spoken; let him not be put to death.” He sent him into banishment, however, with three men to see him over the border of his dominions, and a goat to carry his provisions. But he also had him shod with a pair of shoes made out of stone, forbidding him to return until the stone shoes should be worn through.

As soon as his guards had left him, the tamer sat down by the side of the stream, and after soaking the stone shoes with water, rubbed them with a piece of rough stone till they were all in holes. Then he came back to his own country, with the goat that had carried his provisions, and made him dig roots out of the earth for him to eat. And he lived upon the roots.

One day he saw an owl flying by, which held in its mouth a white serpent. The tamer knew him to be a serpent-prince, and to make the owl release him, took off his girdle and held it in his mouth, after the manner in which the owl held the serpent, and, standing over against the owl, he cried out, “The thing held in the mouth burns with fire!” at the same time dropping the girdle from his mouth suddenly, as if it scorched him.

When the owl had heard his words, she also let the serpent fall out of her beak.

Then the tamer took up the serpent, and put it on a piece of grass near, and covered it with his cap. He had hardly done so, when there came up out of the water a whole train of princes of the serpent-dÆmons, riding on horses, on to the bank of the stream, where they dispersed themselves, searching about every where for the white serpent, which was a serpent-prince.

After they had searched long and found nothing, there came up out of the water, riding on a white horse, a white serpent, having on a white mantle and a white crown4.

He, seeing the tamer, said to him,—

“I am the Serpent-king, reigning over the white mother-o’-pearl shells. I have lost my son. O man! say if thine eyes have lighted on him.”

The tamer asked of him, “What was thy son like?”

And the Serpent-king answered,—

“Even a white serpent was my son.”

“If that is so,” answered the tamer, thy son is with me. Even now a mighty Garuda-bird had him in his beak and prepared to devour him. But I, who am a tamer of all living creatures, knew how to entreat him so that he should give the white serpent up to me.”

Then he lifted his cap from off the grass and delivered the White Serpent-prince unto the Serpent-king, his father.

The Serpent-king was full of delight at getting back his son, and called a great feast of all his friends and acquaintance among the serpent-princes to celebrate his joy. And the tamer he took into his palace, and he dwelt with him.

After a time, however, the man desired to return to his own country, and spoke to the Serpent-king to let him go. Then said the White Serpent-king, who reigned over the white mother-o’-pearl shells—

“Behold, as thou hast dealt well with me, I will not let thee go without bestowing somewhat on thee, and telling thee what good fortune shall befall thee. Behold these two times hast thou served me well; and long time have I sought thee to reward thee, for first thou didst release my daughter, the Princess Goldfrog, from servitude, putting her out of the window of the palace, and now thou hast restored my son, even mine only son, to me. Know, therefore, that of thee shall be born four sons, every one of whom shall be a king in GambudvÎpa. Nevertheless, seeing it will befall that, ere that time come, thou shalt pass through a season of trial, and be in need, I give unto thee this Mirjalaktschi5 and this wand. Whensoever thou wantest for food, touch but this Mirjalaktschi with the wand, and immediately every kind of viand shall be spread out before thee.”

Then he brought him up to the edge of the water to let him depart, giving him a brightly painted Mirjalaktschi and a mother-o’-pearl wand; moreover, he gave him a red-coloured dog also.

Then the White Serpent-king went his way down under the water again to his palace, and the tamer turned him towards his own country, the red-coloured dog following behind him.

“Thus was the promise of Princess Goldfrog fulfilled,” exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the SiddhÎ-kÜr replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the cool grove; and having taken the SiddhÎ-kÜr, and bound him in his bag, as at other times, he brought him along to the great Master and Teacher NÂgÂrg'una. As they went along by the way, the SiddhÎ-kÜr told him this tale, of how it fell out with the red-coloured dog, saying,—

What became of the Red-coloured Dog.

When it was evening they went, the tamer and the red-coloured dog together, into a grove to sleep, and by day they journeyed on. One day, when they made their evening halt, the red-coloured dog laid aside her dog’s form, and appeared as a beautiful maiden, clothed in shining robes of white, and with a crown of white flowers on her head; and, when the tamer saw her, he loved her.

Moreover, she said to him, “Me hath the Serpent-king given to thee to be thy wife.” And he married her, and she was his wife. Every morning she put on the form of the red-coloured dog again, and they journeyed on. One morning, however, before she put on the dog form, she went down to bathe in the river, and while she was gone, the man burnt the dog form, saying, “Now must she always remain as a beautiful woman.”

But when she came up from bathing, and found what he had done, she said, with many other moving and sorrowful words, “Now can I no more walk with thee, and share thy wanderings.”

So they remained in that place.

Again, another day she went down to bathe in the river, and as she bathed some of her hairs falling off, were carried down the stream.

At a place near the mouth of the stream, a maid belonging to the service of the Khan had gone down to fetch water, and these hairs came out of the water clinging to her water-jar. And as the hairs were wonderful to behold, being adorned with the five colours and the seven precious things1, she wondered at them, and brought them to the Khan for him to see.

The Khan had no sooner examined them than he came to this conclusion, saying,—

“Somewhere along the course of this stream it is evident there must be living a surpassingly beautiful woman. Only to such an one could these hairs belong.”

Then he called the captain of his guard, and bid him take of armed men as many as ever he would, and by all means to bring unto him the woman to whom these hairs belonged. Thus he instructed him.

But the woman had knowledge of what was going forward, and she came weeping to her husband, and showed the thing to him, “And now,” she said, “the Khan’s soldiers will surround the place, neither is there any way of escape, nor any that can withstand the orders of the Khan. Hadst thou not burnt the red dog form, then had I had a means of refuge.”

Then the man wept too, and would have persuaded her to escape, but she said,—

“It skills not, for they would pursue us and overtake us, and put you to death out of revenge. By going at their command without resistance, at least they will save you alive.”

While they were speaking the captain of the Khan’s guard came with his men-at-arms, and posted them about the place. Then, while they were taking their measures to completely surround the inclosure that the woman might by no means break through, she said to her husband,—

“The only remedy that remains is that thou wait quietly for the space of a year, and in the meantime I will arrange a stratagem. Then on the fifteenth day of the month Pushja2, I will go up on to the edge of a mountain with the Khan. But thou, meantime, make to thyself a garment of magpie’s feathers, then come and dance before us, in it; and I will invent some plan for escaping with thee.”

Thus she advised him. And the soldiers came and took her to the Khan; the husband making no resistance, even as she had counselled him.

Also, he let a year pass according to her word; but being alone, and in distress for the loss of his wife, he neglected his work and his business, and came to poverty. Then bethought he him of the word of the White Serpent-king, saying, “There shall come a season when thou shalt be in poverty.” So he took out his Mirjalaktschi, and touched it with the mother-o’pearl-wand, and it gave him all manner of food, and he lived in abundance. Then he set snares, and caught magpies, exceeding many, and made to himself a covering out of their feathers, and practised himself in dancing grotesque dances.

On the fifteenth day of the month Pushja, the Khanin arranged to go with the Khan to visit the mountain. On the same day the husband came there also, dressed even as she had directed him, in a costume made of magpie’s feathers. Having first attracted the attention of the Khan by his extraordinary appearance, he began dancing and performing ludicrous antics.

The Khan, who was by this time tired of the songs of the foreign minstrel, nor had found any to replace the gold frog and the parrot, observed him with great attention. But the Khanin seeing how exact and expert her husband was in following out her advice for recovering her, felt quite happy as she had never done before since she was taken from him; and to encourage him to go on dancing she laughed loud and merrily.

The Khan was astonished, when he saw her laugh thus, and he said, “Although for a whole year past I have devised every variety of means to endeavour to make thee at least bear some appearance of cheerfulness, it has profited nothing; for thou hast sat and mourned all the day long, nor has any thing had power to divert thee. Yet now that this man, who is more like a monster than a man, has come and made all these ridiculous contortions, at this thou hast laughed!”

And she, having fixed in her own mind the part she had to play, continued laughing, as she answered him,—

“All this year, even as thou sayest, thou hast laboured to make me laugh; and now that I have laughed, it would seem almost that it pleaseth thee not.”

And the Khan hasted to make answer, “Nay, for in that thou hast laughed thou hast given me pleasure; but in that it was at a diversion which another prepared for thee, and not I, this is what pleased me not. I would that thou hadst laughed at a sport devised for thee by me.”

Then answered the Khanin, “Wouldst thou in very truth prepare for me a sport at which I would surely laugh?”

And the Khan hasted to make answer, “That would I in very truth; thou knowest that there is nothing I would not do to fulfil thy bidding and desire.”

“If that be so,” replied the Khanin. “Know that there is one thing at which I would laugh in right good earnest; and that is, if it were thou who worest this monstrous costume. That this fellow weareth it is well enough, but we know not how monstrous he may be by nature. But if thou, O Khan, who art so comely of form and stature, didst put it on, then would it be a sight to make one laugh indeed.”

And her words pleased the Khan. So he called the man aside into a solitary place that the courtiers and people might not see what he did, and so become a laughing-stock to them. Then he made the man exchange his costume of magpie’s feathers against his royal attire and mantle, and went to dance before the Khanin, bidding the man take his place by her side.

No sooner, however, did the Khanin see him thus caught in her snare than she returned with her own husband, habited in the Khan’s royal habiliments, to the palace. She also gave strict charge to her guard, saying,—

“That juggler who was dancing just now upon the hill, dressed in a fantastic costume of magpie’s feathers, has the design of giving himself out for being the Khan. Should he make the attempt, set dogs3 on him and drive him forth out of the country. Of all things, on peril of your lives, suffer him not to enter the palace.”

Scarcely had she made an end of speaking and conducted her husband into the palace, when the Khan appeared, still wearing the magpie costume, because the Khanin’s husband had gone off with her, wearing his royal habiliments, and would have made his way to his own apartments; but the guards seeing him, and recognizing the man in the magpie disguise the Khanin had designated, ordered him out.

The Khan asserted his khanship, and paid no heed to the guards; but the more he strove to prove himself the Khan, the more were the guards convinced he was the man the Khanin had ordered them to eject, and they continued barring the way against him and preventing his ingress. Then he grew angry and began to strive against them till they, wearied with his resistance, called out the dogs and set them on him.

The dogs, taking him for a monstrous wild bird, eagerly ran towards him, so that he was forced to turn and flee that he might by any means save his life. But the dogs were swifter than he and overtook him, and, springing upon him, tore him in pieces and devoured him.

Thus the husband of the Khanin became installed in all his governments and possessions.

Moreover, that night there were born to the Khan four sons, who were every one exceeding great rulers in GambudvÎpa, even as the White Serpent-king, reigning over the white mother-o’-pearl shells, had foretold.

The eldest of these four was renowned as the spiritual ruler of all India4. In one night he translated all the sacred books into a thousand different languages for the use of devas and men, and in one other night he erected a hundred thousand sacred temples all over his dominions.

The brother next to him was endowed with all kinds of power and strength in his earliest youth, and with every capacity. This Prince was renowned as ruler of the Mongols by the name of Barin Tochedaktschi Erdektu5, for so expert and mighty was he in the use of the bow that if he shot his arrow at four men standing side by side together, every one of them was certain to fall to the earth, transfixed through the centre of the heart.

The next brother raised up to himself a mighty host of a hundred thousand men by pulling out a single hair of his head, and he led them forth to battle, and was known to the whole earth by the name of Gesser-Khan6.

The fourth brother fitted out four caravans of merchandise all in one day, and sent them forth to the four quarters of heaven. By these means he obtained possession of the All-desire-supplying talisman, Tschin-tÂmani, and was Ruler of the Treasures of the earth, with the title of Barss-Irbiss7, Shah of Persia.

The Well-and-wise-walking Khan listened till the SiddhÎ-kÜr had made an end of speaking, but opened never his lips. Though he heaped up wonders upon wonders as a man heaps up faggots on a funeral pile, yet spake he never a word.

Therefore the sack remained fast bound with the cord of a hundred threads of different colours, nor could the SiddhÎ-kÜr find means to escape out of the same; but the Well-and-wise-walking Khan bore him along to his journey’s end, even to the feet of his great Master and Teacher NÂgÂrg'una.

And NÂgÂrg'una took the mighty dead, even him endowed with perfection of capacity and fulness of power, and laid him up in the cool grove on the shining mountain of Southern India, venerated by all men as the Siddhitu-Altan even unto this day.

By this means also great prosperity crowned the whole land of GambudvÎpa. To all the men thereof were given knowledge and length of days. The laws were obeyed and religion honoured, and happiness had her abode among them.