Golden Cloud

a christmas story for young people.

CHAPTER I. the lone rock.

Australia! Hast thou no enchanted castles within thy vast domain? Is

there not one gallant youth, ready armed to do battle for the fair

ones, sleeping ’neath the spell of wicked genii?

Come, youngsters, draw up your chairs. Come, mothers, ye who live your

romantic girlhood o’er again in that of your children. Form up,

gentlemen, fathers, hard men of the world, whose brows are wrinkled

with care and worry, take rank in rear of your fair helpmates.

Merchant, lock thy safe, close thy ledgers; horny-handed sons of toil,

throw aside your implements of trade; gather near. I am going to draw

aside the magic curtain which hides the great continent, marked on our

map UNKNOWN. Turn down the lights—our magic lantern is quite ready. Hey

presto! Look!

Why, what is this? The heart of a deep mine! A gold mine, with all its

dim and rugged corridors, its tunnels and windings, lighted only by a

dull taper here and there. There is no one at work, for it is Christmas

Eve. Yet the underground region is not altogether untenanted. One man

whose duty it is to watch the place, until relieved on the morrow, lies

coiled up asleep in one of the long drives. He is a young man, not

tall, but strongly made, and with limbs like another Hercules. On

account of his great strength and a certain good temper combined, his

mates call him, Samson the Nugget.

For what length of time the Nugget slumbered on this good Christmas Eve

will never be known. Certain it is that he suddenly opened his eyes and

beheld one of the biggest, and withal one of the ugliest, hulking

fellows he had ever seen standing over him. The Nugget was a brave

youth, but fear began to take possession of him as he looked at the

intruder—a giant in stature, with a huge, flat head upon his shoulder,

and a mouth as large, and about the shape of the newspaper receiver at

the General Post Office. He carried a lamp in his hand, but there was a

queer sheen from his eyes, which illumined the cavern with a fiery

glow. His dress was a brown russet, his hat, sugar-loaf in shape, and

he carried a sapling for a cudgel.

“Get up, Samson the Nugget, and follow me,” said he in a brief, gruff

tone.

“Who are you?” cried our hero, rising to his feet, and seizing a heavy

iron drill.

“I am the strongest man in Golden Cloud, and my name is Grapple,”

rejoined the other grimly. “Will you come?”

“Where?” said the Nugget. “There is no way out of this mine except by

the cage up the shaft.”

“That’s all you know about it,” returned Grapple, with a grim laugh.

“If I find a way, have you courage to follow?”

The Nugget felt inclined to refuse point blank, but curiosity being

strong within him, he bowed an assent.

Grapple, without a word, turned on his heel and led the way further

down the dark recesses of the tunnel. Our hero followed. Of one thing

the miner felt certain—that the end of the drive would effectually bar

the progress of his unwelcome visitor. Strange to relate, such was not

the case.

The narrow passage appeared to extend and widen out before their

advance, until it took the shape of a long railway tunnel, from which

the pair emerged at length into the bright beams of day. The transit

from what seemed to be the bowels of a high mountain range to a

landscape fairer and more beautiful than our hero had ever seen, filled

his mind with wonder. His companion, now that daylight was upon him,

did not seem such an ugly customer after all. He was certainly a huge,

grotesque-looking personage, but there wasn’t a bit of malice in

anything he said or did.

Our hero’s amazement was so great, that it was some considerable time

before he found words wherewith to address his companion.

“What country is this?” he asked, turning to Grapple.

“This is Golden Cloud.”

“Golden Cloud! I never heard of such a place. Why did you bring me

here?”

“Because I wanted a companion on my travels,” rejoined the other. “I

heard you were a very strong man, and I determined to fetch you out of

that dismal mine, so that you might enjoy your Christmas holidays with

me.”

“Oh, indeed! very considerate on your part, my friend, but what if I

return to the mine?” said the Nugget.

“You can’t—not without my aid,” responded Grapple. “Now don’t be a

fool. I’m going on a sort of excursion into the interior, and I want a

companion. We shall not be long away, and I promise to lead you safely

back to the place from whence you came as soon as we return.”

The Nugget reflected. He felt a strong desire to see something of this

most charming country. Besides, he saw that this strange creature had

uttered the truth. He could not possibly find his way back to the mine

alone.

Here it must be remarked that, although our hero was only a miner, he

possessed both intelligence and culture, not usually found in men of

his class. He had read much, and had a longing for the romantic, and in

short, in less time than it takes to write this sentence, Samson the

Nugget had resolved to go on a holiday tour with his quaint companion.

It is needless to describe their journey for the first two days;

suffice it that the route lay through the tangled maze of a pathless

forest of noble trees, where branches intertwining overhead formed a

leafy canopy for many miles. On the third day Grapple and his companion

emerged upon a wide, extensive plain. Towering in the distance, like a

pyramid, they observed a gigantic rock standing out above the level

expanse around. The sun, gleaming upon its peaks and spires, gave it a

weird, fantastic look, as if some great magician of the olden time had

bade it rise with the lifting of his wand. As far as the vision reached

along the line of the horizon, the plain seemed ringed in by the

magnificent bushland through which they had come. Nearer, however,

there was a broad river flowing its slow way round the lone cliff; the

sheen of its waves forming a massive girdle, which flashed back the

sun’s rays a thousandfold.

The evening was drawing nigh as the Nugget and Grapple approached the

lofty crag, and they determined to pass the night beneath its

sheltering base. For this purpose they crossed a ford on the river, and

ascended a wide slope of rich, green sward, softer than velvet, and

entered an enclosed space, which had evidently been a most lovely

garden at one time. To the gaze of our hero it appeared nothing but a

mass of weeds and ragged, bare shrubs, under which a whole multitude of

kangaroos, emus, wallabies, wild goats, and native bears were gathered

in wild confusion.

The Nugget was filled with amazement as he beheld these animals. Their

number was countless, and the tameness with which they submitted to be

fondled was more extraordinary still. Indeed, they never moved as the

two men strode through their ranks, no more than if they had been so

many posts wanting life and movement. The astonishment of our hero was

in no way diminished as they reached the western face of the supposed

rock. Here they saw a broad flight of steps leading towards a ponderous

gateway. The gate stood wide open, and on either side, mounted on

pillars of granite, were the carved figures of two gigantic black

fellows, each leaning on a spear. Grapple and his companion entered the

portal, and found themselves in a lofty corridor, supported by massive

columns of polished masonry. To the right and left of them, as they

advanced, splendid apartments, vast in their dimensions, and

upholstered with costly furniture, met their gaze. It was not the

magnitude of the place, nor the fine things therein, which filled them

with such speechless amazement, but the wonderful statuary they saw.

These figures were in every room, and were so life-like in their

dimensions and appearance, that the Nugget was fain to believe that

they were flesh and blood. Ladies and gentlemen were represented quite

naturally, and in various places and functions. Yonder a group were

seated round the banquet in the act of eating. There another group,

mostly ladies, gossipping and laughing. Some had been chiselled

walking, some kneeling, others hissing, many reading. The same view met

the travellers from one end of this strange mansion to the other.

Nothing could seem more substantial, more real, than these beautiful

models, attired as they were in robes of gorgeous hue and texture, but

foreign and altogether unfamiliar to our hero, who often touched them

with his hand. Twenty times he addressed them, but not one answered.

They were only images, nothing more. Body, limbs, robes—all were cold

and hard as stone to the touch.

Their curiosity appeased, our hero and his companion selected a small

but comfortable apartment wherein to pass the night. They had killed a

kangaroo the previous day, from the remains of which they dined; then

they retired, and both were soon fast asleep.

The Nugget had scarcely closed his eyes, however, ere he was roused by

the application of a hard whack on the drum of his left ear.

Now it chanced that Grapple lay on that side of the Nugget and judging

hastily, as people are apt to do under similar conditions, our hero

sprang up, and began to pound his bedfellow soundly.

“Hold! stop! What is this all about?” cried poor Grapple.

“Did you not give me a blow?” demanded the Nugget fiercely.

“I? Certainly not.”

“Oh, indeed! I suppose the man in the moon did it. There are only two

of us here, sir,” cried the Nugget.

“I’ll swear I did not do it. Your blows awakened me.”

“Humph! It is very strange,” cried they, and they grumbled at each

other until they fell asleep again.

Not long did the pair enjoy repose. This time Grapple started up with a

yell of agony.

“Coward!” he cried, and without further warning he fell upon the Nugget

and tried to choke him. We have said that Samson was a powerful fellow.

Exerting the full force of his muscles, he overpowered his adversary,

and briefly demanded an explanation.

“Wretched, false friend! what have I done that you should stab me with

your knife?” cried Grapple, with a groan.

The young miner burst out in a hearty guffaw.

“Look here, my friend,” he replied quickly, “I think both of us have

been the dupes of some rascally enemies hereabout. I receive a thump on

the ear, you a wound in the leg, when both of us are sound asleep. Mum!

Let us to slumber again. Daylight will be here anon; in the meantime, I

will keep watch to discover our lurking foe.”

Grapple assented. Having bound up his leg the travellers lay down again

as if nothing had happened.

The Nugget, however, slept like a cat, otherwise he would not have seen

the most withered, and, at the same time, most repulsive-looking

individual in the world stealing noiselessly out on tip-toe from behind

one of the statues in the corridor. The day was breaking, and every

object could be clearly distinguished. Watching the intruder, our hero

saw he was a dwarf, and a very ugly one. The body of the wee monster

was like an ale keg, from which protruded short, sturdy limbs. His

hands were dreadfully large, the skin knobbed and gnarled like the bark

of a tree. A head, the counterpart of a Christmas pudding with a slice

cut out for a mouth, a parsnip for a nose, and a pair of agates for

eyes, and you have a rough photograph of the wretch that now advanced

as stealthily as a shadow toward our hero and his companion.

As he drew near the prostrate pair he stooped over the Nugget to

inflict a blow on his head. Our hero bounded up and tried to catch his

foe. Vain effort. With the agility and quickness of a professional

wrestler, the dwarf upset the astonished digger as if he had been no

more than a schoolboy; then, fleeing along the corridor, he cleared the

steps of the gate at one bound and ran swiftly across the garden

towards the river.

CHAPTER II. mother dot.

Samson the Nugget was taken “all aback,” as the sailors say, at the

unexpected attack of his wee but nimble opponent. Yet, before the dwarf

had time to reach the garden wall, our hero was up and pursued his foe.

Like a kangaroo when the hunters are in full cry, the little man

bounded down the slope leading to the river, over the stream, and away

across the open space, with prodigious leaps rather than with the

stride of a runner. Tally-ho! A stern chase is a long chase, but in

this case the adage could not be applied, inasmuch as our hero was

sound in wind and limb, and, moreover, he was a sturdy pedestrian.

He soon gained upon his antagonist, when the latter, ready and fertile

in devices, adopted tactics which gave him an advantage, and enabled

him to over-reach his pursuer. They were on the edge of the bushland

which bordered the plain, and the dwarf, slacking speed, suffered

Samson to approach within arm’s length, when, turning suddenly, he cast

himself flat down, whereupon our hero went sprawling headlong over him.

Laughing triumphantly, the dwarf sprang to his feet, and jumped off

again in the cover of the bush.

As the miner recovered himself and resumed the pursuit, he observed the

chase unexpectedly disappear from view behind a tuft of coarse grass

and weeds growing at the base of a gigantic blood-tree. Thinking the

antic sprite was forming another trap, the young miner approached the

spot cautiously. It was lucky he did so, for in parting the rubbish

aside he discovered a wide, deep hole, about the dimensions of an

ordinary well. There were neither steps nor ladder down this gaping

pit, whose bottom lay far beneath the ken of Samson the Nugget, who

stood gazing down the dim void, wondering if the little monster had

vanished down it by some potent agency only known to himself. Watching

and waiting, Samson satisfied himself that the dwarf had certainly gone

down the hole, and he determined to follow him.

With this object in view, our hero marked the spot and retraced his way

to the rock. Grapple still slept soundly. Not wishing to disturb him,

the Nugget proceeded to the rear of the premises, where he found a long

stout rope. With it he returned to the well. Having securely fastened

one end of the rope to the tree, he threw the remainder down the chasm,

and then began to descend hand over hand. It cannot be denied that this

was a dangerous undertaking, but the Nugget, being a digger, and not

lacking in pluck, the cost was not considered. From the first moment

our hero had set eyes on the little monster it had somehow come to him

that the sprite was in some mysterious manner connected with all the

ruin and wreck he had seen at the rock.

Clinging firmly to the rope, the Nugget descended until he reached the

end of it. Looking far down he beheld the same dark void, apparently

bottomless. While he swayed to and fro like a toy at the end of a

string, his pendant body thumped against something that sounded dull

and hollow, and he saw he had burst open a secret door in the wall.

Planting his foot firmly on the threshold of the aperture, the

adventurer let go the rope and found himself in a low, arched cavern.

The extremity brought him face to face with a bright landscape, varying

both in hue and shade from the region he had just quitted. Right before

him a tiny cascade of pure spring water spurted from the breast of the

cliff on which he stood, and meandered its course through a belt of

trees so quiet and silent that our hero felt appalled at its stillness.

There was a broad, well-worn pathway down into the dell, and the Nugget

made his way thither. As he walked smartly along, looking right and

left of him, he espied a very ancient dame seated upon a bundle of

firewood she had evidently gathered. By her side were two large baskets

of wild fruit.

“Good-morrow, ma’am,” cried the miner, courteously lifting his hat.

“Pray have you seen a very ugly little man pass this way?”

“My son, all men are lovely in my eyes,” replied the crone, and she

looked at him with eyes that gleamed like the orbs of a cat in the

darkness. “Do you know, I’m right glad you came this way. You look

strong. Will you carry my parcels for me?”

“Certainly I will,” replied the Nugget cheerfully. “Where do you live?”

“My hut stands on the range yonder, on the other side of this bush.

Dear me, how tired I am to be sure!”

How her cat’s eyes glowed as she looked at him! The Nugget did not see

nor heed anything about the old woman; his whole thoughts were centred

on the capture of his foe.

“Come, madam,” said he, “one good turn deserves another. Tell me where

I may find the fellow I seek, and I’ll carry your goods and yourself on

top of them.”

“Oh, good youth, haste is a bad master. If you seek for Dusk in haste,

you’ll never find him.”

“Dusk! Who’s Dusk, mother?”

“The dwarf you came to find,” she answered quickly. “Beware, he’s a

cunning sprite.”

The Nugget laughed. “I should only like the opportunity to measure

weapons with the cowardly little imp,” he said. “Have you seen him?”

“Yes; he passed this way not an hour ago,” she answered.

“Thank you, dame. I’m off!” exclaimed our hero, hastily preparing to

follow.

“Nay, good sir, you promised to carry my things,” responded the dame.

“Bother your things! I’ll return and carry them when I’ve caught Mr.

Dusk.”

“You will have trouble for nothing if you try it,” she replied, her

eyes glowing like coals of fire. “Fulfil your promise to me and I will

help you.”

“Agreed,” cried our hero. “Make haste, good dame. Place the sticks upon

my back and the baskets on my arms. That’s it. Now come along.”

Samson the Nugget, strong and powerful as he undoubtedly was, pulled a

wry face as the load was put upon his person. The bundle of firewood

seemed as heavy to him as so many bars of solid gold, while the baskets

appeared to have been suddenly freighted with ingots of lead, the

weight of which almost took away his breath. Nevertheless, our hero,

nothing daunted, made an effort, and proceeded onward with his burden.

Now, so long as the Nugget trod on level ground he managed pretty well,

but when he came to the range and began its ascent, with the loose

stones rolling from under his feet at every step, the man’s immense

muscular strength began to fail. Drops of perspiration stood upon his

face and ran down his back, now hot, now cold.

“My good woman!” he cried, “I can go no farther till I have rested.”

“Rested!” repeated the hag in scornful accents. “Hear the boaster. This

is the man in search of Dusk, the strong. Hear him! He would attack the

all-powerful genii; and yet, forsooth, he cannot carry what an old

woman like me has so often borne up hill and down dale. Faugh!”

The Nugget put up his back like a vicious mule, and attempted to get

rid of his load; but the sticks and the baskets clung to him as if

these articles had grown there.

“Will you go on, sir?” cried the crone, with a mocking laugh.

The Nugget answered not; but with a vigorous effort tried to rid

himself of the encumbrance. Vain task; his efforts only wearied him.

Moreover, the hag made matters worse by jumping up upon the bundle of

sticks; and though lean and withered as she certainly appeared, our

hero felt her additional weight to be more than that of the stoutest

wench of his acquaintance. To kick against the pricks was useless. So

Samson, like a wise fellow, staggered on as he best could to the end of

his journey. Arrived at the hut, the dame became kindness itself. She

placed food and drink of the choicest kind before him, and when he had

refreshed himself, said,—

“Young man, your task has been a severe one, but the reward I shall

bestow will be all the greater on that account. For over twenty years

no one has ever been found who could carry my parcels for me until

to-day.”

“I don’t care to go shopping with you again in a hurry,” muttered the

Nugget, stretching out his tired limbs.

“I have neither money nor property to give you,” she continued; “but my

gift shall be more valuable to you than both combined. Behold! This is

the horn of an enchanted ram. The animal was bred by my great

grandsire, the King of Moonshine, and the relic has been handed down to

me. Take it, my son, and let me caution you to use its wonderful power

wisely. With that in your possession, Dusk, the griffin, cannot escape

you. For whatever you may wish for this relic shall supply.”

With these words Mother Dot placed in the young man’s hand a small,

curled horn, highly polished, and on which were engraven three figures,

and some words, in a language he did not understand, written beneath

them. The Nugget thanked the old lady for her gift, and having

sufficiently refreshed and rested himself, he set forward in search of

Dusk, the dwarf.

CHAPTER III. dusk’s stronghold.

To say that our hero felt satisfied with the treatment he had received

at the hands of Mother Dot would be to state an untruth. He was not

satisfied. He had a latent suspicion that the hag was in some way or

other leagued with his enemy. Under these circumstances he therefore

thrust her gift into his pocket, and went in search of the ugly dwarf.

For hours he wandered about without seeing a vestige of any living

thing. He began to feel tired and hungry, and darkness was approaching

fast. What should he do? Try and find his way back again to where he

had left Grapple? No, the giant would only laugh at him.

He suddenly bethought him to try the old woman’s gift. She had said

that whatever he might wish for should be gratified. His first and

dearest wish was to find the whereabouts of the dwarf. So he put the

relic to the test. Swift and potent indeed was the effect. Scarcely had

the desire taken shape in his mind ere his eyes beheld a massive

structure about the distance of a mile right ahead of him. The building

was surrounded by a high wall, and looked more like a gaol than

anything else.

As he drew near, the young miner observed a strong iron door in the

wall, at which he began to knock.

“Who’s there? What want you here?” resounded from a hoarse voice

belonging to an enormous head and face, which at that moment protruded

itself over the battlement.

“Does the dwarf they call Dusk reside here?” demanded our hero.

“He does, but he’s not at home. Go away, you mite, before I come and

crush your bones together.”

“Try,” responded the Nugget. “As for the dwarf, I believe the rascal is

here, and I mean to enter and satisfy myself on that point.”

“Begone, you wretched ant—you insect!” roared the monster passionately.

“A fig for your bluster, you bundle of ugliness,” responded our hero.

The face disappeared as suddenly as the policeman in the puppet show,

and immediately the iron door opened wide, disclosing a

horrible-looking fellow, several feet taller than Grapple, and armed

with a well-seasoned sapling about the dimensions of a verandah post.

“Now, you flea, you miserable son-in-law of a blow-fly, what have you

to say before I smash you up?” cried the giant, purple with rage.

Without answer, Samson sprang through the open doorway. As he did so,

the monster aimed a crushing blow at his head. Ducking like an otter,

Nugget avoided the ponderous bludgeon, which fell upon the door and

tore it from its hinges. Quick as the swoop of a hawk, he seized a

fragment of iron and dealt his gigantic antagonist an awkward whack

full upon his stomach, which tumbled him down, as if he had been shot,

and there he lay quite helpless.

The Nugget, without troubling about his adversary, entered the

building; but he had not advanced beyond the porch before another and

more formidable foe confronted him. Strongly built, and as sturdy as

the trunk of an old oak, monster number two appeared neither man nor

fish, but a strange combination of both. It had eyes and mouth like a

fish, and as many legs and arms as an octopus, each member being armed

at the extremities with spikes as sharp as steel.

“What seekest thou?” it bellowed forth, with the lungs of a bull.

“I seek the antic sprite, Dusk,” replied the undaunted Samson.

“Poor, mean earthworm, knowest thou not that the mighty Dusk is lord

and master here in Twilight?”

“Pray conduct me to his lordship.”

“Hence! at once, or I’ll roast you like a crab,” said the man-fish.

“Stuff! You’ll find me tough eating,” replied the Nugget, at the same

time drawing forth the ram’s horn, and changing it into a light, handy

sword.

The monster grinned in disdain. Stretching forth his long arms, he

tried to clutch our hero, but the Nugget cleverly avoided him. Then

began a fierce combat between them. Here and there, up and down, with

ringing blows, the duel became very exciting and sanguinary, till the

man-fish, losing his temper and his breath together, received the coup

de grâce, and was hurled headlong down the terrace steps.

All further opposition seemed at an end with the death of the second

monster, and our hero wended his way into the interior of the mansion.

As he proceeded, he found the place was not at all so gloomy as might

be expected from an outside view of it. Indeed, he discovered it was a

large building, and furnished in excellent taste. The walls of the

various apartments were hung with silk and velvet of chaste pattern and

hue. Couches and chairs richly carved, with marble tables decked with

choicest flowers and fruits, were reflected in mirrors on the walls,

which were more elaborate than those of old Venice. Parrots of the

gayest plumage, rare birds in golden cages, soft, sparkling fountains,

and a delicious perfume of flowers, all made up a magnificent whole

that was worthy the dwelling-place of a king.

With hasty steps our hero wandered through many rooms, hoping to

discover the dwarf. His wandering brought him to a grand staircase, the

steps of which were covered with Cashmere velvet, bordered with satin

flowers. A bronze stand, curiously ornamented, supported a large globe

of white crystal at the head of the stairway. The Nugget could not help

pausing to admire this beautiful piece of workmanship. The crystal ball

was so dazzling bright that it made his eyes ache to look upon it.

“What a strange ball!” he said, shading his sight with his hand, and

approaching close to it. “How large it is! It seems large enough to

hold that rascal Dusk. What if he should be hiding here? Perhaps it is

solid. Humph! I’ll try it. Ball, crystal ball, if thou art hollow, by

my ram’s horn, I command thee! Open!”

Before the words had left his lips the globe slowly split in twain;

while from within there rose before his wondering sight—not the ugly

sprite—but the graceful form of a lovely young maiden.

Never in the life of this poor digger, either in his waking sense or in

dreams, had he seen any woman so enchantingly lovely. In olden times

men were blessed with visions of the angels, and they essayed to

picture what they had seen. Yet how crude the forms of Cherubim and

Seraphim both on canvas and on page to the glorious reality!

If Samson the Nugget had been gifted with the descriptive powers of the

world-renowned war correspondent, I’m afraid the twenty-six letters in

our alphabet would not have been sufficient to convey any idea of the

beauty of this damsel upon whom he gazed. Her complexion was like that

delicate tint we see upon the pearl shell, and her hair shone like

burnished gold.

“Who art thou, fair lady?” cried the Australian youth, gallantly

advancing with outstretched hands to assist her from the pedestal

whereon she had been imprisoned.

“Alas!” she answered, weeping, “I am the daughter of King Golden Cloud,

and my name is Silverhaze. Because I would not consent to become the

wife of a wicked dwarf, named Dusk, he stole me from my home, and

conveying me here, enclosed me in yon crystal globe.”

No ring-dove cooing for its mate had softer, sweeter voice than

Princess Silverhaze. Our hero led her down the stairway and placed her

on a couch by the window. Seating himself at her feet he briefly

explained to her the part he had taken in search of their common foe.

“Where is Golden Cloud, your home?” he said. “I swear I will not rest

until I have placed you safe again in the arms of your kith and kin.”

“Thou art a brave youth,” answered the Princess, looking down at him

with eyes that sparkled gratitude. “If thou canst indeed take me from

this horrid place, my father will load thee with honours, and poor

Silverhaze will love thee always.”

Ah me! Who shall write the Nugget’s answer? Who shall detail his

confusion, his stammerings, his schoolboy blushes? Not I, my young

friends. Wise old Atha knows full well how near the Love God dangles to

yourselves—how near ye are to the reality without the ideal being

stamped on this page to point the way.

In considerably less time than it takes to pen these lines, the

Princess had decided to trust her fortunes to the pluck and gallantry

of her young champion. But in the midst of their plans they were

unexpectedly confronted by their deadly enemy—Dusk—armed to the teeth.

CHAPTER IV. the ring-dove.

Fairyland can produce nothing so wonderful as the facility with which

sundry mortals can extend their faces. To smile widely is the fashion

with us nowadays, and it is very wonderful indeed to note the various

methods of its accomplishment. If the human face be a mask (and who

shall say it is not?) then what maskers promenade our streets with

their masks set smiling—as one would set a watch or a clock! Bowing and

smirking is the latest humbug, and even the mere soulless puppets, born

of men’s brains, must smack of it, else they are voted untrue to life

and nature.

There was a set smile on the ugly face of Dusk, the dwarf, as he bowed

to Silverhaze and our hero; but the sprite had not been educated in a

mortal school. He lacked polish. Malignity shone in his eyes and in

every corner of his wicked mouth.

“Don’t move, I pray,” he said slowly; “my slaves are entirely at your

service. Why don’t you summon them to do your bidding? Ho, ho, ho!” And

his mocking laugh rang through the vaulted passages like a bugle-call.

Poor Silverhaze began to tremble, and clung to the Nugget for support,

while the youth in his turn tried his utmost to calm her fears.

The dwarf eyed them with a sinister look. “Very charming for my fay,”

he ejaculated, rubbing his bony hands together. “Very loving and

tender, oh, my doves. What tender morsels you’ll make for mince-pies!

My cook, Pancake Parecheese, will be delighted with you. He, he, hi!”

He turned about as he spoke, and clapped his hands together as a

signal. Almost immediately the room became filled with armed monsters.

“Ha!” cried Dusk in mocking sarcasm. “You break into my house, kill my

servants, and rob me of my coveted prize. Slaves, take this man away

and boil him down.”

It was a dreadful order. To cook a man like a leg of mutton or a shin

of beef! Good heavens! it was awful. But the dwarf, powerful as he was,

little dreamed of the amazing influence of the ram’s horn. By its

potent force our hero set the whole army of monsters by the ears, who

fell foul of and slew each other. Not satisfied with this, they set

fire to the mansion, where, amidst the conflagration, those who were

not slain perished in the flames.

At the beginning of the fray our hero seized the dwarf, and

transforming him into a donkey, placed the King’s daughter on his back,

and retraced his steps to Mother Dot’s hut on the cliff. The dame came

out at their approach, and at the sight of her the ass began to bray

loudly.

“Thou wicked sprite!” she cried, shaking her staff over him. “Thou

camest to me in sore need, and I gave thee power. How hast thou used my

gift? Why, to evil. Beast thou art, and a beast thou shalt remain for

evermore.”

The donkey drew back his long ears, and kicked spitefully, for fully

five minutes, at the decree. Meanwhile, Mother Dot took the young

Princess and her companion into the hut, and placed refreshment before

them. It was amusing to see the attention the Nugget bestowed upon the

fair young creature by his side, and to note the tell-tale blushes

which ever and anon suffused her face as their eyes or their hands

chanced to meet. Even the old crone, who wasn’t looking their way,

nodded her ancient head, muttered, and chuckled in a wise way, as if

she had known it all beforehand.

The meal ended, Silverhaze approached the dame and whispered, “Dear

Mother Dot, who is this gallant youth who has delivered me from the

wicked dwarf?”

“Ah, he will tell you soon, my pearl,” she answered with a leer;

“meantime, he’s called the Knight of the Ram’s Horn.”

Presently the Nugget drew near the old woman, and plucking her by the

sleeve, said, “Dame, canst tell what I am to do with this gentle

maiden?”

“Yes, my son. Thou hast conquered the evil Dusk, therefore to thee

shall be the proud service of restoring Princess Silverhaze to her

home.”

“Where is her home, good dame?”

“Thou hast seen it,” answered the old woman. “That rock on the plain is

the palace of King Golden Cloud. This damsel is the King’s only child.”

“Whew!” cried Samson, taking off his hat. “Why, mother, the place is a

wretched ruin.”

“So it is, and there stands the spoiler,” replied the crone, pointing

to the ass. “Dusk the dwarf coveted the Pearl of Golden Cloud for his

wife, and when she denied him, the base wretch stole her from thence,

and to hide the deed, he committed a greater one, as people generally

do who begin to do evil. By the dwarf’s enchantments, the King, Queen,

ladies, nobles, courtiers, and every soul within the palace were

transformed into the likeness of stone images. The guards who attempted

to rescue the King’s daughter were changed into a horde of wild animals

on the spot, while the matchless garden, the wonder and beauty of a

kingdom, became a wide waste.”

“What a wicked monster!” cried our hero indignantly.

“Ah! my son; but thanks to thy strong back and unfaltering courage the

spell is broken, and his power is gone for ever. If thou hadst failed

with the burden I gave thee, then would Silverhaze be still confined

within the crystal globe.”

“I am very glad to have rescued the lady,” he replied; “but, mother, I

could not have accomplished it without your aid. Even now I am at a

loss how to proceed.”

The old dame looked at him, and began to chuckle.

“Marry! art not thou the Knight of the Ram’s Horn? Ha! ha! hi! hi!”

So tickled did she appear at this somewhat ambiguous question that she

laughed till the building trembled to its foundation, and she no sooner

recovered from one guffaw than she went off into another, until it

ended in a severe fit of coughing.

Samson the Nugget was rather surprised at the old lady’s merriment.

There really seemed nothing to laugh at. How was he to find the way to

that subterraneous passage by which he had come? And, moreover,

supposing he found it, how was he to convey the Princess up the steep

sides of the black chasm?

The whole thing had been feasible enough if the ram’s horn had still

remained in his possession, but the relic had mysteriously gone from

him the moment he re-entered the old woman’s hut.

After many futile attempts at choking, Mother Dot recovered

sufficiently to say,—

“Sir Knight, be not troubled concerning the maiden. I will find means

to send ye both to Golden Cloud.”

“But, dame, I repeat the place is a ruin.”

“Tut! To thee it seemeth so,” she answered shortly. “I will undo the

spell cast upon it, and thou shalt see it in all its former

magnificence. The statues shall rouse them from their long sleep and

give ye welcome. I have said it.”

The dame hobbled to a pretty cage, and took therefrom a beautiful

ring-dove which perched tamely on her finger and began to coo. Bending

her mouth towards its beak she whispered a few words, and the dove flew

away and was lost to sight in a moment.

“Come, Sir Knight; come, Princess. You must now set forth on your

journey to Golden Cloud,” continued Mother Dot. “We will all mount upon

the back of the ass, who shall bear us to Moonshine, after which you

will have no difficulty in reaching your destination.”

The miserable donkey gave forth a loud bray of dissent at the undue

weight placed upon him, but a few sound thumps, administered with the

old lady’s crutch, soon quieted him. The dark night had fallen round

them ere they reached the frontier which divides Golden Cloud from

Work-a-Day.

At this point Dame Dot dismounted, and, taking leave of the Princess

and her companion, said,—

“We part here, for I cannot cross this line. Remember me to His Majesty

and the Queen. Farewell!”

The crone vanished, together with the ass, and left the King’s daughter

and her champion standing on the threshold of two worlds—the known and

unknown.

On this borderland they beheld on one side a dim, imperfect light, out

of which came voices filled with groans and sobs. The air trembled with

countless sighs, upborne from millions of aching hearts; but the rush

and the roar, and the hurry-skurry of tumult and bustle swallowed up

the sounds. The other side gleamed soft and clear, with roseate

shadows. There was no cry of pain, no wail of despair there.

“This is our way,” the Princess said, and they left the obscure

reflection behind them and went onward into the light.

CHAPTER V. golden cloud.

Away beyond the sound of tears the mortal and his companion wandered.

In the distance shone the glinting crest of a winding river, and as

they drew near it the King’s daughter clapped her hands together in

rapture. “Look, look!” she said. “This is Golden Cloud. It is my home.”

“Golden Cloud! Where?” The wondering gaze of the Australian youth

turned east, west, south, and north. According to the landmarks in many

places, this was certainly the river over which he had chased the

dwarf; but lo! how changed. Could yonder towering edifice, bristling

with lofty towers and domes, be that gloomy rock where he had left his

companion, Grapple, asleep?

Peaks and turrets glittered under the soft light, sending untold rays

aslant terrace and fountain, and upon the bright forms of dame and

cavalier promenading to and fro.

Could this far-stretching vista be that bare plain over which he had

passed? This with its gleaming cascades whose ripplings rivalled the

lullaby of the bulbul? This with its leafy arches, and long, winding

avenues, looped with clustering vines, whose stems were bent ’neath

fruited gems? What bowers of green, bedecked with diamond drops and

pearls of May dew!

Down where the stream flowed, the firmament, with its clustering hosts

of stars, was mirrored on the liquid floor; while o’er the intervening

space there floated sounds that might have ravished the senses even of

a German Jew.

Cadence of bird and insect never fell before so soft and dulcet upon

heaven-tuned ears. From its hundred windows the palace of King Golden

Cloud beamed forth with light and beauty to welcome back its lost

daughter. Welcome from bud and blossom, ringed with fire-flies, and

whose ever-changing shimmer flashes a rainbow-hued light to guide their

steps.

Glorious Golden Cloud! Many of us poor, fading weeds of sorrow would

fain climb thy hill-top, if but to rest our weary souls for one brief

moment in thy quiet groves. Oh! what sordid slaves are we who worship

at those iron gates, whose recompense are wrinkled brows and silvered

hair. Great Fetish of the world, the flesh, and the devil, I bow the

knee to thee no more. Day by day I hear the cry of groaning thousands,

that struggle for a bare existence around thy temple, calling to thee

in vain. In vain they call, and vain thy power to help them. Oh thou

cold and doubly-cursed humbug of the teeming world.

Standing there amidst the circle of things pure and beautiful, the

Knight of the Ram’s Horn beheld the approach of a pretty ring-dove

towards them, with a grand barge of state following across the river.

The boat drew up almost at their feet, and Silverhaze cried out, “See,

this is the King’s Chamberlain, Sir Bumble Bee Popgun.”

As the damsel spoke, an aged figure ascended from the boat, and doffing

his jewelled hat, bent low before her. “The King of Golden Cloud hath

mourned for his Pearl—his child,” he said in mellifluous accents.

Princess Silverhaze smiled, and stooping, whispered something in his

ear, then entered the barge on the arm of her doughty knight.

Over the stream they went and up the hill at the farther side, which

presented overhead a leafy arcade, where myriads of glow-worms infused

a coloured sheen athwart the brilliant uniforms of the King’s Guards

who walled the way up to the very gates of the palace. A great

concourse of nobles thronged the entrance to the royal residence and

cheered the Princess as she passed round on the arm of our hero. Sir

Bumble Bee led the way through throngs of bowing lackeys to the King’s

chamber—a large hall of state—where, seated on a magnificent dais, our

hero beheld the King and Queen of Golden Cloud waiting to embrace their

daughter. The chamber was thronged with ladies and gentlemen. The

former wore purple robes, with blue and white mantles, which floated

about with the faintest breath. Many who stood in the presence of the

Queen had robes like silver, and each had a brilliant star fixed in her

hair. The Nugget noticed these were most beautiful women, their

complexions seeming to take the brilliancy from the light by which they

were surrounded. The young Knight of the Ram’s Horn saw all this at a

glance, for he had an eye for the beautiful, but his vision could not

take in half the things that were around him.

For some considerable time he appeared to have been forgotten, so great

was the excitement on the return of the Princess. But when the stir had

somewhat subsided, the King’s daughter briefly detailed the exploits of

our hero; how he had not only rescued her from the hands of the wicked

dwarf Dusk, but that he by his courage had restored the kingdom of

Golden Cloud.

More than we have space to detail, Silverhaze said in our hero’s

favour, and he was led forward to the throne, where the Queen embraced

him and seated him on her footstool. The King, not to be outdone on

this occasion, made a speech in praise of courage generally, and of the

courage displayed by the Nugget in particular. This oration lasted some

six hours and a quarter, and occupied about twenty-seven columns in the

Shadow Land Observer.

The return of Silverhaze and the restoration of Golden Cloud caused

universal rejoicing throughout the land. His Majesty was so well

pleased with Nugget that he conferred upon him the Order of the Moon

and the rank of Prince, and to crown all, said he should marry Princess

Silverhaze. And they were married.

Ah, me! Wonderful, amazingly wonderful, the rank and splendour of that

wedding-day! But it was over at last, and the lovers were left alone to

enjoy their billing and cooing together.

“Come, Samson, wake up, man. Are you going to sleep all Christmas Day?”

cried a gruff voice. And the Nugget, sitting up and rubbing his eyes,

saw that he was still in the drive of the gold mine, with his relieving

mate standing over him.

The poor fellow—HAD ONLY DREAMED.