he night was too clear to suit Chris for the dangerous work that lay ahead. The eagle bore him up again from the garden, and turning back, lifted high in the air as it neared the maze of walls of the Emperor's palace.

Chris longed to fly lower but he was afraid that one of the many guards might give the alarm. The eagle flying between the palace and the moon cast a quick-racing shadow over wall and ground. The one advantage on such a clear night, Chris thought, when he could be easily spotted, was in the silence of the magic bird. He bent over to peer down between the eagle's beaked head and widespread, beating wings.

Wall after wall, palace and garden within palace and garden, he saw. Windows were lit like fireflies far below him and the series of courtyards opened themselves in seemingly endless duplication. How, he wondered, could he ever find the inner garden—well hidden, certainly—where the Princess of China walked under trees and looked at her goldfish in long clear pools? Then he remembered with a start the folded paper seized so long ago in a ship anchored on the Potomac. A cabin under a smoking lamp, the strong scent of flowers, a monkey's form, came back into his memory and he felt in the leather pouch for Claggett Chew's plan.

His fingers touched it and brought out the creased, finger-marked scrap of paper. In the moonlight he unfolded it, sitting on the eagle's back high above the walls and palaces of the Emperor of China. He found that he could follow, from his height, and check with the map, building by building and one courtyard after another. Moving cautiously forward in the air, he looked at the heavy cross-mark made by Claggett Chew the night the Mirabelle had set sail. Then, all at once beneath him, Chris made out walls ahead that seemed higher than the others. He flew over temples with gently rocking bells hung at their curled eaves, and over peaked rooftops of carved stone until, reaching a place apparently identical with the cross on the map, he dared to drop a little lower above a certain courtyard.

As he did so he saw that the guardhouses were set about on the top of the wall, which measured about ten feet from side to side. All faced outward away from the gardens they protected, hidden now in shadow.

Why—it's like a prison! Chris thought, except that the guards aren't allowed to look down at her. The poor kid! Imagine living here all your days! No wonder she was pleased at being in a procession yesterday!

No fragrance, except that of cool water, came up from the courtyard to Chris. Going higher into the air he hovered there on his eagle's back, watching the guardhouses. He timed the guards, counting. After an hour, he found there were two minutes between the time Guard Number Six reached his post and Guard Number Seven went back to replace him. Chris waited again, watching the guards and counting half aloud in case he missed that two-minute interval.

"One—there he goes across to Two. Two. There Two goes back again. Three—there Three marches along to Guardhouse Four. Four—there he goes to Five—"

Chris's breath came quickly and his heart began to pound in his ears. "Five—Five starts out toward Six. Six—and now they change swords or something, and here I go!"

Pressing on the back of the eagle the bird sank silently into the black well of the courtyard, past the guardhouse and down, just as Guard Number Seven emerged to walk back to replace Number Six.

The walls of the Princess's courtyard were indeed as high and forbidding as those of a dungeon. A shimmer of water reflected the night sky, and looking down, Chris saw a dark, glistening mass beneath him. It seemed to be trees, but when his dangling legs touched them, sharp edges cut his legs and he quickly veered away. At last, coming down at the edge of the pool, his eyes became used to the gloom and he could see about him.

The garden ground crunched under his feet and glowed in the night, and bending to touch it, Chris's fingertip came away dusted with gold, "Golly Moses!" he breathed, and looked about.

The edge of the long rectangular pool was of silver; the walk around it of jasper and chalcedony, and as he lifted his eyes to look farther, he saw that the entire garden was made up of trees with jewel leaves.

No wonder the leaves cut my legs! Chris thought to himself. They're probably emeralds!

Towing the eagle by its beak, he wandered about. There was neither grass nor flowers; no true plants or trees. All bushes, borders, and shaded walks were of jewels. They gave out onto the air no scent of greenness and no welcoming scent of flowers.

Gee! Chris almost said aloud, Who'd want to play on ground-up gold? Why, except that it's yellow it might as well be gravel. And no trees—not real ones. Gee! She must be a pretty miserable girl! I wonder if birds like the jewel trees?

Looking into shrubs of coral, or jade, or amethyst, Chris found no nests, and shook his head. Guess I brought the right replacement after all, he decided. Now to work. Which shall I take?

He made a tour of the jewel gardens, and at the end of the pool, facing the carved jeweled doorway and windows of a pavilion set into the surrounding walls, Chris found a tree he thought right. Small and round, as if freshly trimmed, it answered Mr. Wicker's description of months ago.

"Leaves of emeralds, buds of diamonds, flowers of sapphires, and fruits of rubies studded thick with pearls."

Taking out his magic knife, in a second Chris had cut away a large circle of earth in a tub shape to shelter the roots, and carried his heavy burden to the eagle's back. There, he took off something which he planted where the Jewel Tree had been, and cupping his hands, watered it from the pool as best he could.

Just as he finished and was moving away, a movement in the black rectangle of the pavilion door at the far end of the garden caught his eye. He had only time enough to pull the eagle, the Jewel Tree, and himself into the cloaking shadow of a nearby avenue of emerald trees to avoid being seen.

The movement was pale and slight against the blackness of the open door, and the night was very still. As Chris held his breath, the dampened leaves and petals of the bush he had planted sent their green fragrance lifting and turning on the night air. As if that had been the signal it had long waited for, a dust-colored bird flew down to perch on a thorny stem.

It was a nightingale. Its song started slowly and softly at first, and then, as it forgot that it was alone, the lovely variations grew, pealing out where no birdsong had ever been heard before. Chris was not the only one who had never heard a nightingale. To the other occupant of the jeweled garden, it was newer and more beautiful than anything she had ever heard.

The Princess's tiny feet made no sound on the gold gravel as she edged nearer to the bush and the song. At last the nightingale flew away, and the scent of the roses, drifting toward a princess who had only been permitted flowers of stone, was overwhelming. She went up and broke off a flower as red as a ruby and as red as her mouth. As red, too, as her blood, for a thorn stabbed her and she nearly dropped the rose with a soft cry. But the wonder of it was stronger than the pain, and she buried her face in the freshness of the red rose, the first flower she had ever seen.

Behind her, rising gently and quietly out of sight, was a smiling boy and a tree of jewels she would never miss.