“Oh—Reuben, Reuben! We’re saved,” called Mavis, and would have darted out, but Francis put his hand over her mouth.
“Stop!” he said, “don’t you remember we promised not to escape without the Queen’s permission? Quick, quick to the Palace, to make peace before our armies can attack it.”
“You speak well,” said the Mer King. And Ulfin said, “This is no time for ceremony. Quick, quick, I will take you in by the tradesmen’s entrance.” And, turning their backs on that splendid and victorious procession, they marched to the back entrance of the royal Palace.
XII
The End
The Queen of the Under Folk sat with her husband on their second-best throne, which was much more comfortable than their State one, though not so handsome. Their sad faces were lighted up with pleasure as they watched the gambols of their new pet, Fido, a dear little earth-child, who was playing with a ball of soft pink seaweed, patting it, and tossing it and running after it as prettily as any kitten.
“Dear little Fido,” said the Queen, “come here then,” and Fido, who had once been Cathay, came willingly to lean against the Queen’s knee and be stroked and petted.
“I have curious dreams sometimes,” said the Queen to the King, “dreams so vivid that they are more like memories.”
“Has it ever occurred to you,” said the King, “that we have no memories of our childhood, of our youth—?”
“I believe,” said the Queen slowly, “that we have tasted in our time of the oblivion-cup. There is no one like us in this land. If we were born here, why can we not remember our parents who must have been like us? And dearest—the dream that comes to me most often is that we once had a child and lost it—and that it was a child like us—”
“Fido,” said the King in a low voice, “is like us.” And he, too, stroked the head of Cathay, who had forgotten everything except that she was Fido and bore the Queen’s name on her collar. “But if you remember that we had a child it cannot be true—if we drank of the oblivion-cup, that is, because, of course, that would make us forget everything.”
“It could not make a mother forget her child,” said the Queen, and with the word caught up Fido-which-was-Cathay and kissed her.
“Nice Queen,” purred Cathay-which-was-Fido, “I do love you.”
“I am sure we had a child once,” said the Queen, hugging her, “and that we have been made to forget.”
Even as she spoke the hangings of cloth of gold, pieced together from the spoil of lost galleons, rustled at the touch of someone outside. The Queen dried her eyes, which needed it, and said, “Come in.”
The arras was lifted and a tall figure entered.
“Bless my soul,” said the King of the Under Folk, “it’s the Professor of Conchology.”
“No,” said the figure, advancing, “it is the King of the Mer-people. My brother King, my sister Queen, I greet you.”
“This is most irregular,” said the King.
“Never mind, dear,” said the Queen, “let us hear what his Majesty has to say.”
“I say—Let there be peace between our people,” said the Mer-King. “For countless ages these wars have been waged, for countless ages your people and mine have suffered. Even the origin of the war is lost in the mists of antiquity. Now I come to you, I, your prisoner—I was given to drink of the cup of oblivion and forgot who I was and whence I came. Now a counter-charm has given me back mind and memory. I come in the name of my people. If we have wronged you, we ask your forgiveness. If you have wronged us, we freely forgive you. Say: Shall it be peace, and shall all the sons of the sea live as brothers in love and kindliness for evermore?
“Really,” said the King of the Under Folk, “I think it is not at all a bad idea—but in confidence, and between Monarchs, I may tell you, sir, that I suspect my mind is not what it was. You, sir, seem to possess a truly royal grasp of your subject. My mind is so imperfect that I dare not consult it. But my heart—”
“Your heart says Yes,” said the Queen. “So does mine. But our troops are besieging your city,” she said, “they will say that in asking for peace you were paying the tribute of the vanquished.”
“My people will not think this of me,” said the King of Merland, “nor would your people think it of you. Let us join hands in peace and the love of royal brethren.”
“What a dreadful noise they are making outside,” said the King, and indeed the noise of shouting and singing was now to be heard on every side of the Palace.
“If there was a balcony now where we could show ourselves,” suggested the King of Merland.
“The very thing,” said the Queen, catching up her pet Fido-which-was-Cathay in her arms and leading the way to the great curtained arch at the end of the hall. She drew back the swinging, sweeping hangings of woven seaweed and stepped forth on the balcony—the two Kings close behind her. But she stopped short and staggered back a little, so that her husband had to put an arm about her to support her, when her first glance showed her that the people who were shouting outside the Palace were not, as she had supposed, Under Folk in some unexpected though welcome transport of loyal enthusiasm, but ranks on ranks of the enemy, the hated Mer Folk, all splendid and menacing in the pomp and circumstance of glorious war.
“It is the enemy!” gasped the Queen.
“It is my people,” said the Mer King. “It is a beautiful thing in you, dear Queen, that you agreed to peace, without terms, while you thought you were victorious, and not because the legions of the Mer
