“This is the Iswater,” said Ulfin as they touched bottom, “and yonder is the King.” And indeed a stately figure in long robes was coming toward them.
“But this,” said the Princess, trembling, “is just like our garden at home, only smaller.”
“It was made as it is,” said Ulfin, “by wish of the captive King. Majesty is Majesty, be it never so conquered.”
The advancing figure was now quite near them. It saluted them with royal courtesy.
“We wanted to know,” said Mavis, “please, your Majesty, if we might have lessons from you.”
The King answered, but the Princess did not hear. She was speaking with Ulfin, apart.
“Ulfin,” she said, “this captive King is my Father.”
“Yes, Princess,” said Ulfin.
“And he does not know me—”
“He will,” said Ulfin strongly.
“Did you know?”
“Yes.”
“But the people of your land will punish you for bringing us here, if they find out that he is my Father and that you have brought us together. They will kill you. Why did you do it, Ulfin?”
“Because you wished it, Princess,” he said, “and because I would rather die for you than live without you.”
XI
The Peacemaker
The children thought they had never seen a kinder face or more noble bearing than that of the Professor of Conchology, but the Mer Princess could not bear to look at him. She now felt what Mavis had felt when Cathay failed to recognize her—the misery of being looked at without recognition by the eyes that we know and love. She turned away, and pretended to be looking at the leaves of the seaweed hedge while Mavis and Francis were arranging to take lessons in Conchology three days a week, from two to four.
“You had better join a class,” said the Professor, “you will learn less that way.”
“But we want to learn,” said Mavis.
And the Professor looked at her very searchingly and said, “Do you?”
“Yes,” she said, “at least—”
“Yes,” he said, “I quite understand. I am only an exiled Professor, teaching Conchology to youthful aliens, but I retain some remnants of the wisdom of my many years. I know that I am not what I seem, and that you are not what you seem, and that your desire to learn my special subject is not sincere and wholehearted, but is merely, or mainly, the cloak to some other design. Is it not so, my child?”
No one answered. His question was so plainly addressed to the Princess. And she must have felt the question, for she turned and said, “Yes, O most wise King.”
“I am no King,” said the Professor, “rather I am a weak child picking up pebbles by the shore of an infinite sea of knowledge.”
“You are,” the Princess was beginning impulsively, when Ulfin interrupted her.
“Lady, lady!” he said, “all will be lost! Can you not play your part better than this? If you continue these indiscretions my head will undoubtedly pay the forfeit. Not that I should for a moment grudge that trifling service, but if my head is cut off you will be left without a friend in this strange country, and I shall die with the annoying consciousness that I shall no longer be able to serve you.”
He whispered this into the Princess’s ear while the Professor of Conchology looked on with mild surprise.
“Your attendant,” he observed, “is eloquent but inaudible.”
“I mean to be,” said Ulfin, with a sudden change of manner. “Look here, sir, I don’t suppose you care what becomes of you.”
“Not in the least,” said the Professor.
“But I suppose you would be sorry if anything uncomfortable happened to your new pupils?”
“Yes,” said the Professor, and his eye dwelt on Freia.
“Then please concentrate your powerful mind on being a Professor. Think of nothing else. More depends on this than you can easily believe.”
“Believing is easy,” said the Professor. “Tomorrow at two, I think you said?” and with a grave salutation he turned his back on the company and walked away through his garden.
It was a thoughtful party that rode home on the borrowed chargers of the Deep Sea Cavalry. No one spoke. The minds of all were busy with the strange words of Ulfin, and even the least imaginative of them, which in this case was Bernard, could not but think that Ulfin had in that strange oddly shaped head of his, some plan for helping the prisoners, to one of whom at least he was so obviously attached. He also was silent, and the others could not help encouraging the hope that he was maturing plans.
They reached the many-windowed prison, gave up their tickets-of-leaves and reentered it. It was not till they were in the saloon and the evening was all but over that Bernard spoke of what was in every head.
“Look here,” he said, “I think Ulfin means to help us to escape.”
“Do you,” said Mavis. “I think he means to help us to something, but I don’t somehow think it’s as simple as that.”
“Nothing near,” said Francis simply.
“But that’s all we want, isn’t it?” said Bernard.
“It’s not all I want,” said Mavis, finishing the last of a fine bunch of sea-grapes, “what I want is to get the Mer King restored to his sorrowing relations.”
The Mer Princess pressed her hand affectionately.
“So do I,” said Francis, “but I want something more than that even. I want to stop this war. For always. So that there’ll never be any more of it.”
“But how can you,” said the Mer Princess, leaning her elbows on the table, “there’s always been war; there always will be.”
“Why?” asked Francis.
“I don’t know; it’s Merman nature, I suppose.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Francis earnestly, “not for a minute I don’t. Why, don’t you see, all these people you’re at war with are nice. Look how kind the Queen is to Cathay—look
