continued their flight, Pau-Puk-Keewis heard a great shouting in the village beneath and knew the voices of Hiawatha and Iagoo. Forgetful of his warning, he looked downward, and the wind caught his plumage and sent him whirling towards the earth. In vain he struggled to regain his balance—he fell heavily to the ground and lay dead with broken pinions. But his spirit was still alive, and, taking its human form, again fled from Hiawatha. This time Hiawatha pursued his cunning foe so closely that he could almost touch him, but Pau-Puk-Keewis changed himself into a serpent and glided into a tree. While Hiawatha was groping in the hollow trunk, the mischief-maker once more took his human shape and sped away until he came to the sandstone rocks overlooking the Big Lake; and the Old Man of the Mountain opened his rocky doorway and gave Pau-Puk-Keewis shelter. Hiawatha stood without and battered against the caverns shouting, "Open! I am Hiawatha!" But the Old Man of the Mountain neither opened nor made answer. Then Hiawatha raised his hands to heaven and called the thunder and lightning to his aid. Stronger than any mortal power, the tempest smote the rocks till they fell to fragments, and there beneath the crags lay Pau-Puk-Keewis dead in his own human form.

This was Hiawatha's last victory—grief and loss were now to be his portion. The death of his two friends, Chibiabos and Kwasind, weighed on his mind, and, hardest of all, a long and dreary winter, bringing the specters of famine and fever in its train, came upon the land and robbed Hiawatha of his dearest treasure, his beautiful young wife.

Clad in her richest garments, Minnehaha was laid to rest deep beneath the snow, and, as Hiawatha watched the fire which was kindled at night on her grave, his heart grew less heavy, for he felt that their parting was not for long. The time was soon to come when he too could depart to the Islands of the Blessed, where the spirit of his wife awaited him.

King Robert
of Sicily

here was once a proud and selfish monarch, named King Robert, who ruled over the kingdom of Sicily. One of his brothers was the mighty Pope Urbane, and the other the rich Emperor Valmond, and King Robert spent as lavishly and held even a more magnificent court than either of them. But the Sicilian monarch was not beloved by his subjects, for he treated them all with disdain, and in fact only looked on them as mere slaves, whose duty it was to carry out all his orders, no matter at what inconvenience to themselves.

One evening King Robert sat in state in the royal chapel and listened idly to the priests chanting the service. Clad in his magnificent robes he looked every inch a king, but his handsome face was marred by its look of conceit and weariness. He soon grew tired of listening to the service and let his thoughts wander, but suddenly his ear was caught by some Latin words which were repeated over and over again, and, turning to a learned clerk who stood near him, he asked: "What mean these words?"

The learned man at once made reply: "He hath put down the mighty from their seat, and has exalted them of low degree."

"'Tis well," said King Robert scornfully, "that such treason is only uttered by priests and in the Latin tongue. My subjects, whether priests or common people, know full well that there is no power which can hurl me from my throne." Saying these words he yawned and leaned back in his throne, and soon, lulled by the monotonous chanting, he fell fast asleep.

When he awoke it was late at night. All the lights in the church had been extinguished, except a few flickering candles, which were burning before the shrine of some saint. The King started up from his seat and gazed with anger and amazement round the empty church. He groped his way towards the great door, but it was locked; then he shouted for assistance, uttered angry threats, and hammered against the door, but all in vain. At length the sexton, who lived hard by, was roused by the tumult, and, fearful lest thieves or some drunken revelers had made their way into the church, he came to the door, lantern in hand, and cried in a quavering voice: "Who is there?"

"Open the door; 'tis I, the King!" shouted King Robert, almost choking with rage.

"This is some drunken rogue," muttered the sexton, as, with trembling fingers, he fumbled for the key. Pushing open the door, he stood timidly aside, and suddenly the disheveled figure of a man without cloak or hat rushed wildly past him. He neither turned nor spoke, but passed swiftly out into the darkness of the night, and the bewildered sexton soon lost sight of him.

Despoiled of his kingly garments, breathless and splashed with mire, King Robert rushed on till he came to the palace gates. He strode through the courtyard, thrusting aside the men-servants and pages who tried to bar his path, and hurried up the broad marble staircase. Rapidly he passed through the royal apartments, his face white with anger rendered still more ghastly by the glare of the torches; he heeded no one, nor stopped in his headlong course till he reached the great banqueting-hall.

Here a grand feast was in progress, and the hall blazed with the light of thousands of wax candles. And to Robert's utter amazement, on the throne sat another king wearing his robes and crown, and, to all outward appearance, King Robert himself. None present, not even Robert himself, recognized that the supposed king was an angel in disguise. Wearied of the King's evil ways he had come down to earth to punish the monarch of Sicily and humble his pride, and this was the way he had chosen to carry out his purpose.

For a while the throneless King gazed with mingled anger and astonishment at the angel, who met his glance with a look of compassion, and then said: "Who art thou, and why comest thou hither?" to which the King haughtily replied: "I am the King, and come to claim my throne from the impostor who usurps it."

At these audacious words the guests sprang up in anger and drew their swords to slay the man who dared speak thus to the King, but the angel answered calmly: "Thou art not the King, but henceforth thou shalt be the king's jester and wear cap and bells and motley. As counselor thou shalt lead an ape, and thou shalt obey my servants and wait on my hench-men."

No sooner said than done. Deaf to King Robert's cries, prayers, and entreaties, the men-at-arms thrust him from the hall. A group of tittering pages ran before him and threw wide open the great folding-doors. And now the King's heart was filled with alarm, for he heard shouts of rude laughter and mocking cries of "Long live the King!" and he realized that no one in the kingdom either knew or cared who he really was.

Thrust from out his palace, the outcast King was led to some small shed adjoining the stables. A door was opened, an armful of straw thrown down within, and here he was bidden to sleep. When he awoke the next morning he thought to himself it