The Princess and the Goblin, George MacDonald [uplifting books for women .TXT] 📗

stand that song. They can’t sing themselves, for they have no more voice than a crow; and they don’t like other people to sing.”

The boy was dressed in a miner’s dress, with a curious cap on his head. He was a very nice-looking boy, with eyes as dark as the mines in which he worked and as sparkling as the crystals in their rocks. He was about twelve years old. His face was almost too pale for beauty, which came of his being so little in the open air and the sunlight⁠—for even vegetables grown in the dark are white; but he looked happy, merry indeed⁠—perhaps at the thought of having routed the goblins; and his bearing as he stood before them had nothing clownish or rude about it.

“I saw them,” he went on, “as I came up; and I’m very glad I did. I knew they were after somebody, but I couldn’t see who it was. They won’t touch you so long as I’m with you.”

“Why, who are you?” asked the nurse, offended at the freedom with which he spoke to them.

“I’m Peter’s son.”

“Who’s Peter?”

“Peter the miner.”

“I don’t know him.”

“I’m his son, though.”

“And why should the goblins mind you, pray?”

“Because I don’t mind them. I’m used to them.”

“What difference does that make?”

“If you’re not afraid of them, they’re afraid of you. I’m not afraid of them. That’s all. But it’s all that’s wanted⁠—up here, that is. It’s a different thing down there. They won’t always mind that song even, down there. And if anyone sings it, they stand grinning at him awfully; and if he gets frightened, and misses a word, or says a wrong one, they⁠—oh! don’t they give it him!”

“What do they do to him?” asked Irene, with a trembling voice.

“Don’t go frightening the princess,” said the nurse.

“The princess!” repeated the little miner, taking off his curious cap. “I beg your pardon; but you oughtn’t to be out so late. Everybody knows that’s against the law.”

“Yes, indeed it is!” said the nurse, beginning to cry again. “And I shall have to suffer for it.”

“What does that matter?” said the boy. “It must be your fault. It is the princess who will suffer for it. I hope they didn’t hear you call her the princess. If they did, they’re sure to know her again: they’re awfully sharp.”

“Lootie! Lootie!” cried the princess. “Take me home.”

“Don’t go on like that,” said the nurse to the boy, almost fiercely. “How could I help it? I lost my way.”

“You shouldn’t have been out so late. You wouldn’t have lost your way if you hadn’t been frightened,” said the boy. “Come along. I’ll soon set you right again. Shall I carry your little Highness?”

“Impertinence!” murmured the nurse, but she did not say it aloud, for she thought if she made him angry he might take his revenge by telling someone belonging to the house, and then it would be sure to come to the king’s ears. “No, thank you,” said Irene. “I can walk very well, though I can’t run so fast as nursie. If you will give me one hand, Lootie will give me another, and then I shall get on famously.”

They soon had her between them, holding a hand of each.

“Now let’s run,” said the nurse.

“No, no!” said the little miner. “That’s the worst thing you can do. If you hadn’t run before, you would not have lost your way. And if you run now, they will be after you in a moment.”

“I don’t want to run,” said Irene.

“You don’t think of me,” said the nurse.

“Yes, I do, Lootie. The boy says they won’t touch us if we don’t run.”

“Yes, but if they know at the house that I’ve kept you out so late I shall be turned away, and that would break my heart.”

“Turned away, Lootie! Who would turn you away?”

“Your papa, child.”

“But I’ll tell him it was all my fault. And you know it was, Lootie.”

“He won’t mind that. I’m sure he won’t.”

“Then I’ll cry, and go down on my knees to him, and beg him not to take away my own dear Lootie.”

The nurse was comforted at hearing this, and said no more. They went on, walking pretty fast, but taking care not to run a step.

“I want to talk to you,” said Irene to the little miner; “but it’s so awkward! I don’t know your name.”

“My name’s Curdie, little princess.”

“What a funny name! Curdie! What more?”

“Curdie Peterson. What’s your name, please?”

“Irene.”

“What more?”

“I don’t know what more. What more is my name, Lootie?”

“Princesses haven’t got more than one name. They don’t want it.”

“Oh, then, Curdie, you must call me just Irene and no more.”

“No, indeed,” said the nurse indignantly. “He shall do no such thing.”

“What shall he call me, then, Lootie?”

“Your Royal Highness.”

“My Royal Highness! What’s that? No, no, Lootie. I won’t be called names. I don’t like them. You told me once yourself it’s only rude children that call names; and I’m sure Curdie wouldn’t be rude. Curdie, my name’s Irene.”

“Well, Irene,” said Curdie, with a glance at the nurse which showed he enjoyed teasing her; “it is very kind of you to let me call you anything. I like your name very much.”

He expected the nurse to interfere again; but he soon saw that she was too frightened to speak. She was staring at something a few yards before them in the middle of the path, where it narrowed between rocks so that only one could pass at a time.

“It is very much kinder of you to go out of your way to take us home,” said Irene.

“I’m not going out of my way yet,” said Curdie. “It’s on the other side of those rocks the path turns off to my father’s.”

“You wouldn’t think of leaving us till we’re safe home, I’m sure,” gasped the nurse.

“Of course not,” said Curdie.

“You dear, good, kind Curdie! I’ll give you a kiss when we get home,” said the princess.

The nurse gave her a great pull by the hand she