Sagas from the Far East; or, Kalmouk and Mongolian Traditionary Tales

Sagas from the Far East;
or,
Kalmouk and Mongolian Traditionary Tales.

London:
Gilbert and Rivington, Printers,
St. John’s Square.

Sagas from the Far East;

Or,

Kalmouk and Mongolian
Traditionary Tales.

With Historical Preface and Explanatory Notes.

By the Author of “Patrañas,” “Household Stories from the Land of Hofer,” &c.

London:
Griffith and Farran,
Successors to Newbery and Harris,
Corner of St. Paul’s Churchyard.
MDCCCLXXIII.
[All rights reserved.]

“It singularly happens that the Sagas of the ancient Indians are preserved to us in much fuller measure than their authentic history, which is scanty enough. Moreover to them their Sagas served as actual statements of facts, so that we can neither form a right conception of their mind, nor arrive at any knowledge of their history, without studying their Sagas.”

Lassen, “Pref. to Ind. Alterthumskunde,” p. vii.

“The Mongol is candid and credulous as an infant, and passionately loves to listen to marvellous myths and tales.”

Huc, “Travels in China and Tibet,” vol. ii. ch. xii.

Preface.

The origin and migrations of myths have of late been the subject of so much sifting and study, the elaborate results of which are already before the world, that there is no need in this place to offer more than a few condensed remarks in allusion to the particular collections now, I believe, for the first time put into English. Translations of some chapters of the “Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan” have been made by Benj. Bergmann, Riga, 1804; by Golstunski, St. Petersburg, 1864; and by H. Osterley, in 1867. Of “Ardschi-Bordschi,” by Emil Schlaginweit; by Benfey, in “Ausland,” Nos. 34–36, and the whole of both by Professor Jülg, 1865–68; of these I have availed myself in preparing the following pages; I know of no other translation into any European language except one into Russ by Galsan Gombojew, published at S. Petersburg in 1865–68[1].

The first thirteen chapters of the “Well-and-wise-walking Khan” are a Kalmouk[1] collection, all the rest Mongolian; and though traceable to Indian sources, they yet have received an entire transformation in the course of their adoption by their new country. In giving them another new home, some further alterations, though of a different nature, have been necessary. However much one may regret them such transformations are inevitable. It seems a law of nature that history should to a certain extent write itself. We know the age of a tree by its knots and rings; and we trace the age of a building by its alterations and repairs—and that equally well whether these be made in a style later prevailing, utterly different from that of the original design, or in the most careful imitation of the same; for the age of the workman’s hand cannot choose but write itself on whatever he chisels.

It is just the same with these myths. They cannot remain as if stereotyped from the first; the hand that passes them on must mould them anew in the process. You might say, they have been already altered enough during their wanderings, give them to us now at least as the Mongolians left them. But it is not possible, most of them are too coarse to meet an eye trained by Christianity and modern cultivation. The habit of mind in which they are framed is in places as foreign as the idiom in which they are written; I have, however, made it an undeviating rule to let such alterations be as few and as slight as the case admitted, and that they should go no farther than was necessary to make them readable, or occasionally give them point.

As I have said these stories have an ‘Indian’ source, it becomes incumbent to spend a few lines on defining the use and reach of the word[2].

The words Ἴνδος and ἡ Ἰνδικὴ occur for the first time among writers of classical antiquity in the fragments that have come down to us of the writings of Hecatæus, B.C. 500. Herodotus also uses the same; from these they descended to us through the Romans. They both received it through Persian means and used it in the most comprehensive sense, though the Persian use of their equivalent at the time seems to have been more limited. It is probable, however, that later the Persian use became further extended; and through the Arabians, who also adopted it from them, it became the Muhammedan designation of the whole country. When they, in 713, conquered the country watered by the lower course of the Indus, namely, Sinde, they confirmed the use of this more extended application of the Persian word Hind, reserving Sind, the local form of the same word—apparently without perceiving it was the same—to this particular province.

The later Persian designation is Hindustan—the country of the Hindu—and this is generally adopted in India itself to denote the whole country, though many Europeans have restricted it to the Northern half, in contradistinction from the Dekhan, or country south of the Vindha-range[2], often excluding even Bengal.

The original native names are different. In the epic mythology occur, Gambudvîpa, the island of the gambu-tree (Eugenia Jambolana), for the central or known world of which India was part, and Sudarsana, “of beautiful appearance,” to denote both the tree and the “island” named from it. The Buddhist cosmography uses Gampudvîpa for India Proper. Within this the Brahmanical portion, lying to the south of the Himâlajas, is designated as Bhârata or Bhâratavarsha. In the great epic poem called the Mahâ Bhârata, the name is derived from Bhârata, son of Dusjanta, the first known ruler of the country, and several dynasties are called after him Bhâratides, though it is more probable his name rather accrued to him from that of the country, the word being derived from bhri, “to bring forth” or “nourish,” hence, “the fruitful,” “life-nourishing” land. Bhârata is also called (Rig-Ved. i. 96, 3) “the nourisher,” sustentator.

The native historical name is undoubtedly “Ârjâvata,” the district of the Ârja—“the venerable men”—or more literally, “worthy to be sought after,” keepers of the sacred laws, the people of honourable ancestry; calling themselves so in contradistinction to the Mlêk’ha, barbarous despisers of the sacred laws (Manu, i. 22; x. 45), also Ârja-bhûmi, land of the Ârja. The Manu defines rigidly the original boundaries of this sacred country; it lies between the Himâlaja and Vindhja mountains, and stretches from the eastern to the western seas. Though Ptolemy (Geog. vii. I) calls the people of the west coast, south of the Vindhja, Âriaka, this was a later extension of the original term.

What gives the word a great historical importance is the circumstance which must not be passed over here, that the original native name of the inhabitants of Iran was either the same or similarly derived. Airja in Zend stood both for “honourable” and for the name of the Iranian, people. Concerning the Medes we have the testimony of Herodotus that they originally called themselves Ἄριοι, and we owe him the information also that the original Persian name was Ἀρταιοὶ, a word which has the same root as Ârja, or at least can have no very different meaning. They do not seem ever to have actually called themselves Ârja, although the word existed in their ancient tongue with the sense of “noble,” “honourable.”

The earliest Indian Sagas speak of the Arja as already established in Central India, and give no help to the discovery of when or how they settled there. Like most other peoples of the old world, they believed themselves aborigines, and they placed the Creation and the origin of species in the very land where they found themselves living, nor do their myths bear a trace of allusion to any earlier dwelling-place or country outside their Bhâratavarsha[4]. It is true, that the sanctity they ascribe to the north country, and the mysterious allusions to the sacred mountain-country of Meerû, the dwelling of the gods in the far, far north, over the Himâlajas, is calculated to mislead for a moment with the suggestion that they point to a possible immigration from that north, but a closer observation shows that that very sacred regard more probably arose from the very fact of its being an unknown country; while the effect of the majestic and inaccessible heights, with their glorious colouring and their peculiar natural productions, was enough to suggest them the seat of a superior and divine race of beings.

The fact that Sanskrit, the ancient tongue of the Aryan Indians, is so closely allied to the languages of so many western nations, establishes with certainty the identity of origin of these people, and lays on us the burden of deciding whether the Aryan Indians migrated to India as the allied peoples migrated to their countries from a common aboriginal home, or whether that aboriginal home was India, and all the allied peoples migrated from it, the Indians alone remaining at home.

Reason points to the adoption of the former of these two solutions. In the first place, it is altogether unlikely that in the case of a great migration all should have migrated rigidly in one direction. It is only natural to expect they should have poured themselves out every way, and to look for the original home in a locality which should have formed a central base of operations. The very feuds which would in many cases lead to such outpourings would necessitate the striking out in ever new directions. Then, there is nothing in the manners, ideas, speech—in the names of articles of primary importance to support life, in which at least we might expect to find such a trace—of the other peoples to connect them in any way with India. Had they ever been at home there, some remnants of local influence would have been retained; but we find none. Besides this, we have, on the other hand, very satisfactory evidence of at least the later journeyings of the Indian family. Their warlike and conquering entrance into the Dekhan and crossing of the Vindhja range is matter of positive history. Some help for ascertaining their earlier route may be found in the necessity established by the laws and limits of possibility. Encumbered with flocks and herds, and unassisted by appliances of transport, we cannot believe them to have traversed the steep peaks of the Himâlajas. The road through eastern Caboolistan and the valley of the Pangkora, or that leading from the Gilgit by way of Attok, or over the table-land of Deotsu through Cashmere, are all known to us as most difficult of access, and do not appear at any period to have been willingly adopted. But the western passes of Hindukutsch, skirting round the steep Himâlajas—the way trod by the armies of Alexander and other warlike hosts, no less than by the more peaceful trains of merchants, with whom it was doubtless traditional—affords a highly probable line of march for the first great immigration.

We are reminded here of the fact already alluded to, of the common origin of the earliest name of both Indians and Persians, leading us to suppose they long inhabited one country in common. For this supposition we find further support in other similarities: e. g. between the older Sanskrit of the Vêda and the oldest poems of the Iranian tongue; also between the teaching, mythology, the sagas, and the spoken language of the two peoples. On the other hand, we find also the most diverse uses given to similar expressions, pointing to a period of absolute separation between them, and at a remote date: e.g. the Indian word for the Supreme Being is dêva; in Zend, daêva, as also dêv in modern Persian, stands for the Evil Principle. Again, in Zend dagju means a province (and its use implies orderly division of government and the tranquil exercise of authority); but in the Brahmanical code dasju is used for a turbulent horde, who set law and authority at defiance.

Such transpositions seem the result of some fierce variance, leading to division and hatred between peoples long united.

Proceeding now to trace the original wandering farther on, we find some help from Iranian traditions. The Zendavesta distinctly tells of a so-called Aîrjanem Vaêgo as a sacred country, the seat of creation, and place it in the farthest east of the highest Iranian table-land, the district of the source of the Oxus and Jaxartes; by the death-bringing Ahriman it was stricken with cold and barrenness[3], and only saw the sun thenceforth for two months of the year. The particularity with which it is described would point to the fact that the locality treated of was a distant one, with which the race had a traditional acquaintance; while at the same time it cannot be adopted too precisely in every detail, because details may be altered by a poetical imagination—merits may be exaggerated by regret for absence, and defects magnified by vexation, or invented in proof of the effects of a predicated curse.

If we may conclude that we have rightly traced up the Indians and Persians to a common home between the easternmost Iranian highlands and the Caspian Sea, it follows from the linguistic analogies of the so-called Indo-European peoples that this same home was also theirs at a time when they were not yet broken up into distinct families. This common local origin gives at once the reason for the analogies in the grammatical structure of their languages, and no less of their mythical traditions, which are far too widely spread, and have entered too radically into the universal teaching of both, to be supposed for a moment to have been borrowed by either from the other within the historical period, or at all since their separation.

It remains only to say a few words on the scope and object of the work, and the profit that may be derived from its perusal. I know there are many who think that mere amusement is profit enough to expect from a tale, and that to look for the extraction of any more serious result is tedious. But I will give my young readers—or at least a large proportion of them—credit for possessing sufficient love of improvement to prefer that class of amusement which furthers their desire for information and edification.

The collections of myths with which I have heretofore presented them have all had either a Christian origin, or at least have passed through a Christian mould, and have thus almost unconsciously subserved the purpose of illustrating some phase of Christian teaching, which is specially distinguished by keeping in view, not spasmodically and arbitrarily, as in the best of other systems, but uniformly, in its sublimest reach and in its humblest detail, the belief that an eternal purpose and consequence pervades the whole length and breadth of human existence.

Whether the story of “Juanita the Bald” was originally drawn by a Christian desirous of inculcating the sacred principles of the new covenant, or adapted to the purpose by such an one from the myth of Œdipus and Antigone; whether that of “St. Peter’s Three Loaves” was really a traditional incident of our Lord’s wanderings on earth too insignificant to find place in the pages of Holy Writ, or adapted from the myth of Baucis and Philemon; or whether all were adaptations according to the special convictions of various narrators of great primeval traditions, mattered very little, as each had an intrinsic purpose and an interest of its own quite distinct from that accruing to it through ascertaining its place in the history of the world’s beliefs. In telling them, it needed not to point a moral, for the moral—i.e. some more or less remote application of the sacred and civilizing teaching of the Gospel—was of the very essence of each.

With the Tales given in the following pages, however, it is quite different. They come direct from the far East, and in most of them nothing further has been aimed at than the amusement of the weary hours of disoccupation, whether forced or voluntary, of a people indisposed by climate, natural temperament, or want of cultivation from finding recreation in the healthy exercise of mental effort.

To me it seems that before we can take pleasure in giving our time to the perusal of such stories, we must invest them with, or discover in them some sort of purpose. Nor is this so far to seek, perhaps, as might appear at first sight.

Some, it must be observed, belong to the class which deals with the deeds of heroes—fabling forth the grand all-time lesson of the vigorous struggle of good with evil; the nobility of unflinching self-sacrifice and of devotion to an exalted cause, setting the model for the lowly sister of charity as much as for the victorious leader of armies, and each all the while typical of Him who gave Himself to be the servant of all, and the ransom of all. A German writer rises so inspired from their study that he bursts forth into this pæan:—“Eine Fülle der Göttergeschichte thut sich hier auf, und nirgends lässt sich der eigenthümliche Naturcharacter in Fortbildung des Mythus vollständiger erkennen, als an diesen Alterthümern. Götter und vergötterte Menschen ragen hier, wie an den Wänden der Tempel von Thebe hoch über das gewöhnliche Menschengestalt. Alles hat einen riesenhaften Aufschwung zur himmlischen Welt[3].” Subsidiarily to these conceptions of them, stories of this class have the further merit of being one chief means of conveying the scanty data we possess concerning the early history of the people of whose literature they form part[5].

Others again may be placed in a useful light by endeavouring to trace in them the journeyings they have made in their transmigration. Benfey, a modern German writer who has employed much time and study “in tracing the Mährchen in their ever-varying forms,” while pointing out as many others have also done[6], that the great bulk of our household tales have come to us from the East, and have been spread over Europe in various ways, points out that this was done for the South in great measure through the agency of the Turks; but for the North it was by the Mongolians during their two centuries of ascendancy in Eastern Europe; the Slaves received them from them, and communicated them to the German peoples[7].

If therefore you find some tales in one collection bearing a close resemblance with those you have read in another, you should make it a matter of interest to observe what is individual in the character of each, and to trace the points both of diversity and analogy in the mode of expression in which they are clothed, and which will be found just as marked as the difference in costume of the respective peoples who have told them each after their own fashion.

All of them have at least the merit of being, in the main, pictures of life, however overwrought with the fantastic or supernatural element, not ideal embodiments of the perfect motives by which people ought to be actuated, but genre pictures of the modes in which they commonly do act. As such they cannot fail to contain the means of edification, though we are left to look for and discover and apply it for ourselves. To take one instance. The Christian hagiographer could never have written of a hero he was celebrating, as we find it said of Vikramâditja, that as part of his preparation for the battle of life “while learning wisdom with the wise, and the use of arms from men of valour,” “of the robber bands he acquired the art of stealing, and of fraudulent dealers, to lie.” If he had been illustrating the actual biography of a Christian hero, it is a detail which could not have entered, and if drawing an ideal picture, it would have been entirely at variance with the system he was illustrating. Circumstances like this which fail to serve as subject for imitation, must be turned to account in exercising the powers of judgment, as well in distinguishing what to avoid from what to admire, as in taking note of these very variances between Christian and the best non-christian morality.

⁂ The author feels bound to apologize for any inaccuracies which may have crept into these pages owing to being abroad while preparing them for the press.

[1] The few notes I have taken from Jülg’s translation, I have acknowledged by putting his name to them.

[2] The following paragraphs are chiefly gathered and translated from Lassen’s work on the Geography of Ancient India, vol. i.

[3] Heeren, Indische Literatur.

Contents.

The Saga of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan.

The Saga of Ardschi-Bordschi and Vikramâditja’s Throne.

• [Historical Notice of Vikramâditja] 230
• [The Boy-King] 252
• [The False Friend] 253
• [The Pretended Son] 257
• [Ardschi-Bordschi discovers Vikramâditja’s Throne] 262
• [The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning Vikramâditja’s Birth] 266
• [The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning Vikramâditja’s Youth] 273
  • [Schalû the Wolf-boy] 277
  • [Vikramâditja and Schalû conquer the Schimnus] 284
• [The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning Vikramâditja’s Deeds] 291
  • [Vikramâditja acquires another Kingdom] ib.
  • [Vikramâditja makes the Silent speak] 294
  • [Who invented Woman?] 298
  • [The Voice-charmer] 304
• [The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning the Seventy-one Parrots and their Adviser] 309
  • [How Naran Gerel swore falsely and yet told the Truth] 315

• [Notes] 325
• [Glossary-Index] 407

The Saga of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan.

Dedication.

O thou most perfect Master and Teacher of Wisdom and Goodness! Teacher, second only to the incomparable Shâkjamuni[1]! Thou accomplished Nâgârg′una[2]! Thou who wast intimately acquainted with the Most-pure Tripîtaka[3], and didst evolve from it thy wise madhjamika[4], containing the excellent paramârtha[5]! Before thee I prostrate myself! Hail! Nâgârg′una O!

It is even the wonderful and astounding history of the deeds of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan, which he performed under the help and direction of this same Master and Teacher, Nâgârg′una, that I propose to relate in the form of the following series of narratives.

In the kingdom of Magadha[6] there once lived seven brothers who were magicians. At the distance of a mile from their abode lived two brothers, sons of a Khan. The elder of these went to the seven magicians, saying, “Teach me to understand your art,” and abode with them seven years. But though they were always setting him to learn difficult tasks, yet they never taught him the true key to their mystic knowledge. His brother, however, coming to visit him one day, by merely looking through a crack in the door of the apartment where the seven brothers were at work acquired perfectly the whole krijâvidja[7].

After this they both went home together, the elder because he perceived he would never learn any thing of the magicians, and the younger because he had learnt every thing they had to impart.

As they went along the younger brother said, “Now that we know all their art the seven magicians will probably seek to do us some mischief. Go thou, therefore, to our stable, which we left empty, and thou shalt find there a splendid steed. Put a rein on him and lead him forth to sell him, only take care thou go not in the direction of the dwelling of the seven magicians; and, having sold him, bring back the price thou shalt have received.”

When he had made an end of speaking he transformed himself into a horse, and went and placed himself in the stable against his brother arrived.

But the elder brother, knowing the magicians had taught him nothing, stood in no fear of them. Therefore he did not according to the words of his brother; but saying within himself, “As my brother is so clever that he could conjure this fine horse into the stable, let him conjure thither another if he wants it sold. This one I will ride myself.” Accordingly he saddled and mounted the horse. All his efforts to guide him were vain, however, and in spite of his best endeavours the horse, impelled by the power of the magic of them from whom the art had been learnt, carried him straight to the door of the magicians’ dwelling. Once there he was equally unable to induce him to stir away; the horse persistently stood still before the magicians’ door. When he found he could not in any way command the horse, he determined to sell it to these same magicians, and he offered it to them, asking a great price for it.

The magicians at once recognized that it was a magic horse, and they said, among themselves, “If our art is to become thus common, and every body can produce a magic horse, no one will come to our market for wonders. We had best buy the horse up and destroy it.” Accordingly they paid the high price required and took possession of the horse and shut it up in a dark stall. When the time came to slaughter it, one held it down by the tail, another by the head, other four by the four legs, so that it should in nowise break away, while the seventh bared his arm ready to strike it with death.

When the Khan’s son, who was transformed into the horse, had learnt what was the intention of the magicians, he said, “Would that any sort of a living being would appear into which I might transform myself.”

Hardly had he formed the wish when a little fish was seen swimming down the stream: into this the Khan transformed himself. The seven magicians knew what had occurred, and immediately transformed themselves into seven larger fish and pursued it. When they were very close to the little fish, with their gullets wide open, the Khan said, within himself, “Would that any sort of living being would appear into which I might transform myself.” Immediately a dove was seen flying in the heavens, and the Khan transformed himself into the dove. The seven magicians, seeing what was done, transformed themselves into seven hawks, pursuing the dove over hill and dale. Once again they were near overtaking him, when the dove took refuge in the Land Bede[8]. Southward in Bede was a shining mountain and a cave within it called “Giver of Rest.” Hither the dove took refuge, even in the very bosom of the Great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg′una.

The seven hawks came thither also, fast flying behind the dove; but, arrived at the entrance of Nâgârg′una’s cave, they showed themselves once more as men, clothed in cotton garments.

Then spoke the great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg′una, “Wherefore, O dove, flutterest thou so full of terror, and what are these seven hawks to thee?”

So the Khan’s son told the Master all that had happened between himself, his brother, and the seven magicians; and he added these words, “Even now there stand before the entrance of this cave seven men clothed in cotton garments. These men will come in unto the Master and pray for the boon of the ârâmela he holds in his hand. Meantime, I will transform myself into the large bead of the ârâmela, and when the Master would reach the chaplet to the seven men, I pray him that, putting one end of it in his mouth, he bite in twain the string of the same, whereby all the beads shall be set free.”

The Master benevolently did even as he had been prayed. Moreover, when all the beads fell showering on the ground, behold they were all turned into little worms, and the seven men clothed in cotton garments transformed themselves into seven fowls, who pecked up the worms. But when the Master dropped the large bead out of his mouth on to the ground it was transformed into the form of a man having a staff in his hand. With this staff the Khan’s son killed the seven fowls, but the moment they were dead they bore the forms of men’s corpses.

Then spoke the Master. “This is evil of thee. Behold, while I gave thee protection for thy one life, thou hast taken the lives of these men, even of these seven. In this hast thou done evil.”

But the Khan’s son answered, “To protect my life there was no other means save to take the life of these seven, who had vowed to kill me. Nevertheless, to testify my thanks to the Master for his protection, and to take this sin from off my head, behold I am ready to devote myself to whatever painful and difficult enterprise the Master will be pleased to lay upon me.”

“Then,” said the Master, “if this is so, betake thyself to the cool grove, even to the cîtavana[9], where is the Siddhî-kür[10]. From his waist upwards he is of gold, from his waist downwards of emerald; his head is of mother-of-pearl, decked with a shining crown. Thus is he made. Him if thou bring unto me from his Mango-tree[11], thou shalt have testified thy gratitude for my protection and shalt have taken this sin that thou hast committed from off thy head; for so shall I be able, when I have the Siddhî-kür in subjection under me, to bring forth gold in abundance, to give lives of a thousand years’ duration to the men of Gambudvîpa[12], and to perform all manner of wonderful works.”

“Behold, I am ready to do even as according to thy word,” answered the Khan’s son. “Tell me only the way I have to take and the manner and device whereby I must proceed.”

Then spoke the great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg′una, again, saying,—

“When thou shalt have wandered forth hence for the distance of about an hundred miles, thou shalt come to a dark and fearsome ravine where lie the bodies of the giant-dead. At thy approach they shall all rise up and surround thee. But thou call out to them, ‘Ye giant-dead, hala hala svâhâ[13]!’ scattering abroad at the same time these barley-corns, consecrated by the power of magic art, and pass on thy way without fear.

About another hundred miles’ space farther hence thou shalt come to a smooth mead by the side of a river where lie the bodies of the pigmy-dead. At thy approach they shall all rise up and surround thee. But thou cry out to them, ‘Ye pigmy-dead, hulu hulu svâhâ!’ and, strewing thine offering of barley-corns, again pass on thy way without fear.

At a hundred miles’ space farther along thou shalt come to a garden of flowers having a grove of trees and a fountain in the midst; here lie the bodies of the child-dead. At thy approach they shall rise up and running together surround thee. But thou cry out to them, ‘Ye child-dead, rira phad!’ and, strewing thine offering of barley-corns, again pass on thy way without fear.

Out of the midst of these the Siddhî-kür will rise and will run away from before thee till he reaches his mango-tree, climbing up to the summit thereof. Then thou swing on high the axe which I will give thee, even the axe White Moon[14], and make as though thou wouldst hew down the tree in very truth. Rather than let thee hew the mango-tree he will come down. Then seize him and bind him in this sack of many colours, in which is place for to stow away an hundred, enclose the mouth thereof tight with this cord, twisted of an hundred threads of different colours, make thy meal off this cake which never grows less, place the sack upon thy shoulder, and bring him hither to me. Only beware that by the way thou open not thy lips to speak!

“And now, hitherto hast thou been called the Khan’s son, but now, since thou hast found thy way even to the cave ‘Giver of Rest,’ thou shalt be called no more the Khan’s son, but ‘the Well-and-wise-walking Khan.’ Go now thy way.”

When the Master, Nâgârg′una, had given him this new name, he further provided him with all the provisions for the undertaking which he had promised him, and, pointing out the way, dismissed him in peace.

When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan had overcome all the alarms and difficulties of the way, and come in sight of the Siddhî-kür, he set out swiftly to pursue him; but the Siddhî-kür was swifter than he, and, reaching the mango-tree, clambered up to the summit. Then said the Well-and-wise-walking Khan, “Behold, I come in the name of the great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg′una. My axe is the axe ‘White Moon,’ my provision for the journey is the cake which never diminishes, my prison is the sack of many colours, in which is place to stow away an hundred, my cord is the cord twisted of an hundred threads of different colours, I myself am called the Well-and-wise-walking Khan; I command thee, therefore, Siddhî-kür, that thou come down hither to me, otherwise with my axe ‘White Moon’ will I fell the mango-tree.”

At these words the Siddhî-kür cried, in answer, “Fell not the mango-tree. Rather will I come down to thee.” With that he came down, and the Khan, taking him, put him in his sack of many colours, in which was place to stow away an hundred, then he made the mouth fast with the cord twisted of an hundred threads of various colours, made his meal off his cake which never diminished, and proceeded on his way to take him to the great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg′una.

As they journeyed on thus day after day, and had grown weary, thus spoke the Siddhî-kür, “Long is the journey, and both of us are weary, tell thou now a story to enliven it.”

But, remembering the words of Nâgârg′una, “Beware thou open not thy lips to speak,” he answered him never a word.

Then said the Siddhî-kür again, “If thou wilt not tell a story to lighten the journey, at least listen to one from me, and to this thou canst give assent without opening thy lips, if only thou nod thy head backwards towards me. At this sign I will tell a tale.” So the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards towards the Siddhî-kür, and the Siddhî-kür told this tale:—

Tale I.

The Woman Who Sought Her Husband in the Palace of Erlik Khan.

Long ages ago there reigned a young Khan whose father had died early and left him in possession of the kingdom. He was a youth comely to look upon, and dazzling in the glory of his might. To him had been given for his chief wife the daughter of a Khan of the South. But the young Khan loved not this wife. At a mile’s distance from his palace there lived in her father’s house a well-grown, beautiful maiden, of whom he had made his second wife; as she was not a Khan’s daughter he feared to take her home to his palace, lest he should displease his mother, but he came often to visit her, and as they loved each other very much, she asked no more.

One night, when the moon was brightly shining, some one knocked at the window, the maiden knew it was the Khan’s manner of knocking, so she opened to him,—but with trembling, for he had never been wont to come at that hour; yet by the light of the moonbeam she saw that it was indeed himself, only instead of his usual garments, he was habited in shining apparel, which she could hardly look upon for its brightness, and he, himself, too, looked more exceeding beautiful than usual. When he had partaken of her rice-brandy and cakes, he rose and stood upon the doorstep, saying, “Come, sweet wife, come out together with me;” and when she had gone a little way with him, he said, “Come, sweet wife, come a little farther with me.” And when she had gone a little farther with him, he said again, “Come, sweet wife, come yet a little farther.” So she went yet a little farther till they had reached nearly to the gates of the palace, and from within the courts of the palace there came a noise of shouting and playing on instruments. Then inquired she, “To what end is this shouting and this music?” And he replied, “It is the noise of the sacrifice for the rites of the burial of the Khan[1].” “And why do they celebrate the rites of the burial of the Khan?” she asked, now beginning to fear in earnest. “Because I am dead, sweet wife, and am even now on my way to the deva’s kingdom. But thou listen to me, and do according to my word, and all shall be well for thee and for our son. Behold, even now, within the palace, my mother and my chief wife strive together concerning a jewel which is lost. But I have purposely hid the jewel under a god’s image in the apartment. Thou, therefore, pass the night in this elephant-stable of the palace hard by, and there shall our son be born; and in the morning, the elephant-tamers finding thee shall bring thee to my mother and my chief wife. But thou, take the jewel and give it to the chief wife and send her away to her own people. Then shall my mother have joy in thee alone and in the child, and you two together shall direct the Government till he be come to man’s estate.” Thus spoke the Khan.

While he spoke these words, the wife was so stricken with fear and grief that she fell to the ground senseless, nor knew that he bore her into the elephant-stable, and went up to the deva’s kingdom.

In the night their son was born; and in the morning, the elephant-tamers coming in, said, “Here is a woman and a babe lying in the elephant-stable; this must not be, who knows but that it might bring evil to the elephants[2]?” so they raised her up, with her infant, and took her to the Khan’s mother. Then she told the Khan’s mother all that had befallen her, and as the jewel was found in the place the Khan had told her, it was taken for proof of her truth. Accordingly, the jewel was given to the chief wife, and she was dismissed to her own people; and as the Khan had left no other child, the boy born in the elephant-stable was declared heir, and his mother and the Khan’s mother directed the Government together till he should come to man’s estate.

Thus the lowly maiden was established in the palace as the Khan had promised. Moreover, every month, on the fifteenth of the month, the Khan came in the night to visit her, disappearing again with the morning light. When she told this to the Khan’s mother, she would not believe her, because he was invisible to all eyes but hers. And when she protested that she spoke only words of truth, the Khan’s mother said, “If it be very truth, then obtain of him that his mother may see him also.”

On the fifteenth of the month, when he came again, she said therefore to him, “That thou shouldst come thus to see me every month, on the fifteenth of the month, is good; but that thou shouldst go away and leave me all alone again, this is sad, very sad. Why canst thou not come back and stay with us altogether, without going away any more?”

And he made answer: “Of a truth there would be one way, but it is difficult and terrible, and it is not given to woman to endure so much fear and pain.”

But she replied, “If there were but any means to have thee back, always by my side, I would find strength to endure any terror or pain, even to the tearing out of the bones from the midst of my flesh.”

“This is the means that must be taken then,” said the Khan: “Next month, on the fifteenth of the month, thou must rise when the moon’s light is at the full, and go forth abroad a mile’s distance towards the regions of the South. There shalt thou meet with an ancient man of iron, standing on the watch, who, when he shall have drank much molten metal, shall yet cry, ‘Yet am I thirsty.’ To him give rice-brandy and pass on. Farther on thou shalt find two he-goats fighting together mightily, to them give barm-cakes to eat and pass on. Farther along thou shalt find a band of armed men who shall bar thy way; to them distribute meat and pass on. Farther on thou shalt come to a frightful massive black building round which runs a moat filled with human blood, and from its portal waves a man’s skin for a banner. At its door stand on guard two terrible erliks[3], servants of Erlik Khan[4]; to each, offer an offering of blood and pass within the building.

“In the very midst of the building thou shalt find a Mandala[5] formed by eight awful sorcerers, and at the feet of each will lie a heart which will cry to thee, ‘Take me! take me!’ In the midst of all will be a ninth heart which must cry ‘Take me not!’

“If thou fortified by thy love shall be neither rendered afraid by the aspect of the place, nor terrified by the might of the sorcerers, nor confounded by the wailing of the voices, but shalt take up and bear away that ninth heart, neither looking backwards nor tarrying by the way, then shall it be granted us to live for evermore on earth together.”

Thus he spoke; and the morning light breaking, she saw him no more. The wife, however, laid up all his words in her heart; and on the fifteenth of the next month, when the moon shone, she went forth all alone without seeking help or counsel from any one, content to rely on her husband’s words. Nor letting her heart be cast down by fear or pain, she distributed to each of those she met by the way the portion he had appointed. At last she reached the Mandala of sorcerers, and, regardless of the conflicting cries by which she was assailed, boldly carried off the ninth heart, though it said, “Take me not!” No sooner had she turned back with her prize than the eight sorcerers ran calling after her, “A thief has been in here, and has stolen the heart! Guards! Up, and seize her!” But the Erliks before the door answered, “Us she propitiated with a blood-offering; we arrest her not. See you to it.” So the word was passed on to the company of armed men who had barred her passage; but they answered, “Us hath she propitiated with a meat-offering; we arrest her not. See you to it.” Then the word was passed on to the two he-goats. But the he-goats answered, “Us hath she propitiated with a barm-cake-offering; we arrest her not. See you to it.” Finally, the word was passed on to the ancient man of iron; but he answered, “Me hath she propitiated with a brandy-offering; I arrest her not.”

Thus with fearless tread she continued all the way to the palace. On opening the door of his apartment, the Khan himself came forward to meet her in his beauty and might, and in tenfold glory, never to go away from her again any more, and they fell into each other’s arms in a loving embrace.

“Scarcely could a man have held out as bravely as did this woman!” exclaimed the Khan.

And as he uttered these words, the Siddhî-kür replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift, out of sight.

Of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the first chapter, concerning the Woman who brought back her Husband from the palace of Erlik-Khan.

Tale II.

When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had missed the end and object of his journey, he forthwith set out again, without loss of time, or so much as returning to his Master and Teacher, Nâgârg′una, but taking only a meal of his cake which never diminished; thus, with similar toils and fears as the first time, he came again at last to the cool grove where lay the child-dead, and among them the Siddhî-kür. And the Siddhî-kür rose up before him, and clambered up the mango-tree. And when the Well-and-wise-walking Khan had summoned him with proud sounding words to come down, threatening that otherwise he would hew down the tree with his axe “White Moon,” the Siddhî-kür came down, rather than that he should destroy the mango-tree. Then he bound him again in his bag of many colours, in which was place to stow away an hundred, and bound the mouth thereof with the cord woven of an hundred threads of different tints, and bore him along to offer to his Master and Teacher, Nâgârg′una.

But at the end of many days’ journey, the Siddhî-kür said,—

“Now, in truth, is the length of this journey like to weary us even to death, as we go along thus without speaking. Wherefore, O Prince! let me entreat thee beguile the way by telling a tale.”

But the Well-and-wise-walking Khan, remembering the words of his Master and Teacher Nâgârg′una, which he spoke, saying, “See thou open not thy lips to speak by the way,” remained silent, and answered him never a word. Then the Siddhî-kür, when he found that he could not be brought to answer him, spake again in this wise: “If thou wilt not tell a tale, then, at least, give some token by which I may know if thou willest that I should tell one, and if thou speak not, at least nod thine head backwards towards me; then will I tell a tale.”

So the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards towards the Siddhî-kür, and the Siddhî-kür told this tale, saying,—

The Gold-spitting Prince.

Long ages ago there was a far-off country where a mighty Khan ruled. Near the source of the chief river of this country was a pool, where lived two Serpent-gods[1], who had command of the water; and as they could shut off the water of the river when they pleased, and prevent it from overflowing and fertilizing the country, the people were obliged to obey their behest, be it what it might. Now, the tribute they exacted of the country was that of a full grown man, to be chosen by lot, every year; and on whoso the lot fell, he had to go, without redemption, whatever his condition in life. Thus it happened one year that the lot fell on the Khan himself. In all the kingdom there was no one of equal rank who could be received instead of him, unless it had been his only son. When his son would have gone in his stead, he answered him, “What is it to me if the Serpents devour me, so that thou, my son, reignest in peace?” But the son said, “Never shall it be that thou, my Khan and father, shouldst suffer this cruel death, while I remain at home. The thought be far from me. Neither will the land receive harm by my death; is not my mother yet alive? and other sons may be born to thee, who shall reign over the land.” So he went to offer himself as food to the Serpent-gods.

As he went along, the people followed him for a long stretch of the way, bewailing him; and then they turned them back. But one there was who turned not back: it was a poor man’s son whom the Prince had all his life had for his friend; he continued following him. Then the Prince turned and said to him, “Walk thou according to the counsels of thy father and thy mother, and be prosperous and happy on the earth. To defend this noble, princely country, and to fulfil the royal word of the Khan, my father, I go forth to be food to the Serpent-gods.”

But the poor man’s son refused to forsake him. “Thou hast loaded me with goodness and favours,” he said, as he wept; “if I may not go instead of thee, at least I will go with thee.” And he continued following the Prince.

When they got near the pool, they heard a low, rumbling, horrible sound: it was the two Serpent-gods talking together, and talking about them, for they were on the look-out to see who would be sent to them this year for the tribute. The old gold-yellow Serpent was telling the young emerald-green Serpent how the Prince had come instead of his father, and how the poor man, who had no need to come at all, had insisted on accompanying him.

“And these people are so devoted in giving their lives for one another,” said the young emerald-green Serpent, “and have not the courage to come out and fight us, and make an end of paying this tribute at all.”

“They don’t know the one only way to fight us,” answered the gold-yellow old Serpent; “and as all the modes they have tried have always failed, they imagine it cannot be done, and they try no more.”

“And what is the one only way by which they could prevail against us?” inquired the young emerald-green Serpent.

“They have only to cut off our heads with a blow of a stout staff,” replied the old gold-yellow Serpent, “for so has Shêsa, the Serpent-dæmon, appointed.”

“But these men carry shining swords that look sharp and fearful,” urged the young emerald-green Serpent.

“That is it!” rejoined the other: “their swords avail nothing against us, and so they never think that a mere staff should kill us. Also, if after cutting off our heads they were to eat them, they would be able to spit as much gold and precious stones as ever they liked. But they know nothing of all this,” chuckled the old gold-yellow Serpent.

Meantime, the Prince had not lost a word of all that the two Serpents had said to each other, for his mother had taught him the speech of all manner of creatures. So when he first heard the noise of the Serpents talking together, he had stood still, and listened to their words. Now, therefore, he told it all again to his follower, and they cut two stout staves in the wood, and then drew near, and cut off the heads of the Serpents with the staves—each of them one; and when they had cut them off, the Prince ate the head of the gold-yellow Serpent, and, see! he could spit out as much gold money as ever he liked; and his follower ate the head of the emerald-green Serpent, and he could spit out emeralds as many as ever he pleased.

Then spoke the poor man’s son: “Now that we have killed the Serpents, and restored the due course of the water to our native country, let us return home and live at peace.”

But the Khan’s son answered, “Not so, for if we went back to our own land, the people would only mock us, saying, ‘The dead return not to the living!’ and we should find no place among them. It is better we betake ourselves to another country afar off, which knows us not.”

So they journeyed on through a mountain pass.

At the foot of the mountains they came to the habitation of a beautiful woman and her daughter, selling strong drink to travellers. Here they stopped, and would have refreshed themselves, but the women asked them what means they had to pay them withal, for they saw they looked soiled with travel. “We will pay whatever you desire,” replied the Prince; and he began to spit out gold coin upon the table. When the women saw that he spat out as much gold coin as ever he would, they took them inside, and gave them as much drink as they could take, making them pay in gold, and at many times the worth of the drink, for they no longer knew what they did; only when they had made them quite intoxicated, and they could not get any thing more from them, in despite of all sense of gratitude or hospitality, they turned them out to pass the night on the road.

When they woke in the morning, they journeyed farther till they came to a broad river; on its banks was a palm-grove, and a band of boys were gathered together under it quarrelling.

“Boys! what are you disputing about?” inquired the Prince.

“We found a cap on this palm-tree,” answered one of the boys, “and we are disputing whose it shall be, because we all want it.”

“And what use would the cap be to you? What is it good for?” asked the Prince.

“Why, that whichever of us gets it has only to put it on,” replied the boy, “and he immediately becomes invisible to gods, men, and dæmons.”

“I will settle the dispute for you,” rejoined the Prince. “You all of you get you to the far end of this palm-grove, and start back running, all fair, together. Whichever wins the race shall be reckoned to have won the cap. Give it to me to hold the while.”

The boys said, “It is well spoken;” and giving the cap to the Prince, they set off to go to the other end of the grove. But they were no sooner well on their way, than the Prince put on the cap, and then joining hands with his companion, both became invisible to gods, men, and dæmons; so that when the boys came back at full speed, though they were both yet standing in the same place, none of them could see them. After wandering about to look for them in vain, they at last gave it up in despair, and went away crying with disappointment.

The Prince and his follower continued their journey by the side of the stream till they came to a broad road, and here at the cross-way was a crowd of dæmons assembled, who were all chattering aloud, and disputing vehemently.

“Dæmons! What are you quarrelling about?” asked the Prince.

“We found this pair of boots here,” answered the dæmons, “and whoever puts these boots on has only to wish that he might be in a particular place, and immediately arrives there; and we cannot agree which of us is to have the boots.”

“I will settle the dispute for you,” replied the Prince. “You all go up to the end of this road, and run back hither all of you together, and whichever of you wins the race, he shall be reckoned to have won the boots. Give them to me to hold the while.”

So the dæmons answered, “It is well spoken;” and giving the boots to the Prince, they set off to go to the far end of the road. But by the time they got back the Prince had put on the invisible cap, and joining hands with his companion had become invisible to gods, men, and dæmons, so that for all their looking there was no trace of them to be found. Thus they had to give up the lucky boots, and went their way howling for disappointment.

As soon as they were gone the Prince and his follower began to examine the boots, and to ponder what they should do with their treasure.

“A great gift and a valuable,” said the latter, “hath been given thee, O Prince, by the favour of fortune, and thy wisdom in acquiring it. Wish now to reach a prosperous place to be happy; but for me I shall not know where thou art gone, and I shall see thy face no more.”

But the Prince said, “Nay, but wheresoever I go, thou shalt go too. Here is one boot for me, and the other for thee, and when we have both put them on we will wish to be in the place where at this moment there is no Khan, and we will then see what is further to be done.”

So the Prince put on the right boot, and his follower the left boot, and they laid them down to sleep, and both wished that they might come to a land where there was no Khan.

When they woke in the morning they found themselves lying in the hollow of an ancient tree, in the outskirts of a great city, overshadowing the place where the election of the Khan was wont to be made. As soon as day broke the people began to assemble, and many ceremonies were performed. At last the people said, “Let us take one of the Baling-cakes out of the straw sacrifice, and throw it up into the air, and on to whosoever’s head it falls he shall be our Khan. So they took the Baling-cake out of the straw sacrifice, and it fell into the hollow tree. And the people said, “We must choose some other mode of divination, for the Baling-cake has failed. Shall a hollow tree reign over us?”

But others said, “Let us see what there may be inside the hollow tree.”

Thus when they came to look into the tree they found the Prince and his follower. So they drew them out and said, “These shall rule over us.” But others said, “How shall we know which of these two is the Khan?” While others again cried, “These men are but strangers and vagabonds. How then shall they reign over us?”

But to the Prince and his follower they said, “Whence are ye? and how came ye in the hollow tree?”

Then the Prince began spitting gold coin, and his follower precious emeralds. And while the people were busied in gathering the gold and the emeralds they installed themselves in the palace, and made themselves Khan and Chief Minister, and all the people paid them homage.

When they had learned the ways of the kingdom and established themselves well in it, the new Khan said to his Minister that he must employ himself to find a wife worthy of the Khan. To whom the Minister made answer,—

“Behold, beautiful among women is the daughter of the last Khan. Shall not she be the Khan’s wife?”

The Khan found his word good, and desired that she should be brought to him; when he found she was fair to see, he took her into the palace, and she became his wife. But she was with him as one whose thoughts were fixed on another.

Now on the outskirts of the city was a noble palace, well kept and furnished, and surrounded with delicious gardens; but no one lodged there. Only the Minister took note that every third day the Khan’s wife went out softly and unattended, and betook herself to this palace.

“Now,” thought the Minister to himself, “wherefore goes the Khan’s wife every third day to this palace, softly and unattended? I must see this thing.”

So he put on the cap which they had of the boys in the palm-grove, and followed the Khan’s wife as he saw her go the palace, and having found a ladder he entered by a window as she came up the stairs. Then he followed her into a sumptuous apartment all fitted with carpets and soft cushions, and a table spread with delicious viands and cooling drinks. The Khan’s wife, however, reclined her on none of these cushions, but went out by a private door for a little space, and when she returned she was decked as never she had been when she went before the Khan. The room was filled with perfume as she approached, her hair was powdered with glittering jewels, and her attire was all of broidered silk, while her throat, and arms, and ankles were wreathed with pearls. The Minister hardly knew her again; and with his cap, which made him invisible to gods, men, and dæmons, he approached quite near to look at her, while she, having no suspicion of his presence, continued busy with preparations as for some coming event. On a vast circle of porphyry she lighted a fire of sandal wood, over which she scattered a quantity of odoriferous powders, uttering words the while which it was beyond the power of the Minister to understand. While she was thus occupied, there came a most beautiful bird with many-coloured wings swiftly flying through the open window, and when he had soared round three times in the soft vapour of the sweet-scented gums the Princess had been burning, there appeared a bird no longer, but Cuklaketu, the beautiful son of the gods, surpassing all words in his beauty. The transformation was no sooner effected, than they embraced each other, and reclining together on the silken couches, feasted on the banquet that was laid out.

After a time, Cuklaketu rose to take leave, but before he went, he said, “Now you are married to the husband heaven has appointed you, tell me how it is with him.”

At these words the Minister, jealous for his master, grew very attentive that he might learn what opinion the Khan’s wife had of his master and what love she had for him. But she answered prudently, “How it will be with him I know not yet, for he is still young; I cannot as yet know any thing of either his merits or defects.”

And with that they parted; Cuklaketu flying away in the form of a beautiful bird with many-coloured wings as he had come, and the Khan’s wife exchanging her glittering apparel for the mantle in which she came from the Khan’s palace.

The next time that she went out to this palace, the Minister put on his cap and followed her again and witnessed the same scene, only when Cuklaketu was about to take leave this time, he said, “To-morrow, I shall come and see what your husband is like.” And when she asked him, “By what token shall I know you?” he answered, “I will come under the form of a swallow, and will perch upon his throne.” With that they parted; but the Minister went and stood before the Khan and told him all that he had seen.

“But thou, O Khan,” proceeded the Minister, “Cause thou a great fire to be kept burning before the throne; and I, standing there with the cap rendering me invisible to gods, men, and dæmons, on my head, will be on the look out for the swallow, and when he appears, I will seize him by the feathers of his tail and dash him into the fire; then must thou, O Khan, slay him, and hew him in pieces with thy sword.”

And so it was, for the next morning early, while the Khan and his Consort were seated with all their Court in due order of rank, there came a swallow, all smirk and sprightly, fluttering around them, and at last it perched on the Khan’s throne. The Princess watched his every movement with delighted eyes, but the Minister, who waited there wearing his cap which made him invisible to gods, men, and dæmons, no sooner saw him perch on the throne, than he seized him by the feathers of his tail and flung him on the fire. The swallow succeeded in fluttering out of the fire, but as the Khan had drawn his sword to slay him and hew him in pieces, the Princess caught his arm and held it tight, so that the swallow just managed to fly away with his singed wings through the open window. Meantime, the Princess was so overcome with fear and excitement that she fainted away into the arms of the attendants, who were struck with wonder that she should care so much about an injury done to a little bird.

As soon as the day came round for her to go to the palace in the outskirts of the city, again the Minister did not fail to follow closely on her steps. He observed that she prepared every thing with greater attention than before and decked herself out with more costly robes and more glittering gems. But when the minutes passed by and the beautiful bird still appeared not, her fear waxed stronger and stronger, and she stood gazing, without taking her eyes off the sky. At last, and only when it was already late, Cuklaketu came flying painfully and feebly, and when he had exchanged his bird disguise for the human form, the traces of the treatment the Minister had given him were plainly visible in many frightful blisters and scars.

When the Princess saw him in this evil plight, she lifted up her voice, and wept aloud. But the Prince comforted her with his great steadfastness under the infliction, only he was obliged to tell her that both his human body and his bird feathers being thus marred, it would be impossible for him to come and visit her more. “But,” he said, “the Khan, thy husband, has proved himself to exceed me in his might, therefore he has won thee from me.” So after much leave-taking, they parted; and Cuklaketu flew away as well as his damaged wings would carry him.

It was observed that after this the Princess grew much more attached to her husband, and the Khan rejoiced in the sagacity and faithfulness of his Minister.

Nor was this the only use the Minister made of his cap, which made him invisible to gods, men, and dæmons. He was enabled by its means to see many things that were not rightly conducted, to correct many evils, punish many offenders who thought to escape justice, and learn many useful arts.

One day as he was walking with this cap upon his head, he came to a temple where, the door being closed, a servant of the temple, thinking himself alone, began disporting himself after the following manner: First, he took out from under a statue of Buddha a large roll of paper, on which was painted a donkey. Having spread it out flat on the floor of the temple, he danced round it five times; and immediately on completing the fifth turn, he became transformed into a donkey like the one that was painted on the paper. In this form he pranced about for some time, and brayed till he was tired, then he got on to the paper again, on his hind legs, and danced round five times as before, and immediately he appeared again in his natural form. When at last he grew tired of the amusement he rolled up his paper, and replaced it under the image of Buddha, whence he had taken it. He had no sooner done so than the Minister, under cover of his cap, which made him invisible to gods, men, and dæmons, possessed himself of the paper which had such mysterious properties, and betook himself with it to the dwelling of the beautiful woman and her daughter who sold strong drink to travellers, who had treated his master and him so shamefully at the outset of their travels.

When they saw him approach, for he now no longer wore the invisible cap, they began to fear he had come to bring them retribution, and they asked him with the best grace they could assume what was his pleasure. But he, to win their confidence, that he might the better carry out his scheme, replied,—

“To reward you for your handsome treatment of me and my companion, therefore am I come.” And at the same time he gave them a handful of gold coin.

And they, recollecting what profit they had derived from his companion before, and deeming it likely there might be means for turning the present visit to similar good account, asked him what were his means for being able to be so lavish of the precious metal.

“Oh, that is easily told,” replied the Minister. “It is true I have not the faculty of spitting gold coin out of my mouth like my companion, as you doubtless remember, but I have another way, equally efficacious, of coming into possession of all the money I can possibly desire.”

“And what may that way be?” inquired mother and daughter together in their eagerness.

“I have only to spread out this roll of paper on the ground,” and he showed them the roll that he had taken from under the image of Buddha in the temple, “and dance five times round it, and immediately I find myself in possession of as much gold as I can carry.”

“What a treasure to possess is that same roll of paper,” cried the women, and they exchanged looks expressing the determination each had immediately conceived, of possessing themselves of it.

“But now,” proceeded the Minister, not appearing to heed their mutual signs, though inwardly rejoicing that they had shown themselves so ready to fall into his snare,” but now pour me out to drink, for I am weary with the journey, and thirsty, and your drink I remember is excellent.”

The women, on their part, were equally rejoiced that he had given them the opportunity of plying him, and did not wait to be asked twice. The Minister continued to drink, and the women to pour out drink to him, till he was in a state of complete unconsciousness.

They no sooner found him arrived at this helpless condition than they took possession of the mysterious roll, and forthwith spreading it out on the ground, proceeded to dance round it five times after the manner prescribed.

When the Minister came to himself, therefore, he found his scheme had fully taken effect, and the woman and her daughter were standing heavy and chapfallen in the form of two asses. The Minister put a bridle in their mouth, and led them off to the Khan, saying,—

“These, O Khan, are the women who sell strong drink to travellers, and who entreated us so shamefully at the time when having slain the dragons we went forth on our travels. I have transformed them by my art into two asses. Now, therefore, shall there not be given them burdens of wood, and burdens of stone to carry, heavy burdens, so that they may be punished for their naughtiness?”

And the Khan gave orders that it should be done as he had said. But when at the end of five years, they were well weighed down with the heavy burdens, and the Khan saw them wearied and trembling, and human tears running down from their eyes, he called the Minister to him, and said,—

“Take these women, and do them no more harm, for their punishment is enough.”

So the Minister fetched the paper, and having spread it out on the ground, placed the women on it, making them stand on their hind legs, and led them round it five several times till they resumed their natural form. But with the treatment they had undergone, both were now so bowed, and shrunk, and withered, that no one could know them for the beautiful women they had been.

“As well might he have left them under the form of asses, as restore their own shape in such evil plight,” here exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied,—

“Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the second chapter, concerning the deeds of the Gold-spitting Prince and his Minister.

Tale III.

When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that once again he had missed the end and object of his labour, he set out anew without loss of time and without hesitation, and journeyed through toil and terror till he came to the cool grove where rested the bodies of the dead. The Siddhî-kür at his approach ran away before his face, and clambered up the mango-tree; but when the Well-and-wise-walking Khan had threatened to fell it, the Siddhî-kür came down to him rather than that he should destroy the precious mango-tree. Then he bound him in his bag and laded him on to his shoulder, and bore him away to offer to the Master and Teacher Nâgârg′una.

But after they had journeyed many days and spoken nothing, the Siddhî-kür said, “See, we are like to die of weariness if we go on journeying thus day by day without conversing. Tell now thou, therefore, a tale to relieve the weariness of the way.”

The Well-and-wise-walking Khan, however, mindful of the word of his Master and Teacher Nâgârg′una, saying, “See thou speak never a word by the way,” answered him nothing, neither spake at all.

Then said the Siddhî-kür, “If thou wilt not tell a tale, at least give me some token by which I may know that thou willest I should tell one, and without speaking, nod thy head backwards towards me, and I will tell a tale.”

So the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards, and the Siddhî-kür told this tale saying,—

How the Schimnu-Khan was Slain.

Long ages ago there lived on the banks of a mighty river a man who had no wife, and no family, and no possessions, but only one cow; and when he mourned because he had no children, and his cow had no calf, and that he had no milk and no butter to live upon, his cow one day gave birth, not to a calf, but to a monster, which seemed only to be sent to mock him in his misery and distress; for while it had the head, and horns, and long tail of a bull, it had the body of a man. Never was such an ugly monster seen, and when the poor man considered it he said, “What shall I now do with this monster? It is not good for him to live; I will fetch my bow and arrows, and will make an end of him.” But when he had strung his bow and fixed his arrow, Massang of the bull’s head, seeing what he was going to do, cried out, “Master, slay me not; and doubt not but that your clemency shall have its reward.”

At these words the poor man was moved to clemency, and he put up his arrows again, and let Massang live, but he turned away his face from beholding him. When Massang saw that his master could not look upon him, he turned him and fled into the woods, and wandered on till he came to a place where was a black-coloured man sitting at the foot of a tree. Seeing him, Massang said, “Who and whence art thou?”

And the black-coloured man made answer, “I am a full-grown man of good understanding, born of the dark woods.”

And Massang said, “Whither goest thou? I will go with thee and be thy companion.”

And the black-coloured man got up, and they wandered on together till they came to a place in the open meadow, where they saw a green-coloured man sitting on the grass. Seeing him, Massang said, “Who and whence art thou?”

And the green-coloured man replied, “I am a full-grown man of good understanding, born of the green meadows; take me with you too, and I will be your companion.”

And he wandered on with the other two, Massang and the black-coloured man, till they came to a place where was a white-coloured man sitting on a crystal rock. Seeing him, Massang said, “Who and whence art thou?”

And the white-coloured man replied, “I am a full-grown man of good understanding, born of the crystal rock; take me with you, and let me be your companion.”

And he wandered on with the other three, Massang, and the black-coloured man, and the green-coloured man, till they came to a stream flowing between barren sandy banks; and farther along was a grass-clad hill with a little dwelling on the top. Of this dwelling they took possession, and inside it they found provisions of every kind; and in the yard cattle and all that was required to maintain life. Here, therefore, they dwelt; three of them going out every day to hunt, and one staying at home to keep guard over the place.

Now the first day, Massang went to the hunt, and took with him the white-coloured man and the green-coloured man; the black-coloured man being thus left in charge of the homestead, set himself to prepare the dinner. He had made the butter, and sat with the milk simmering, cooking the meat[1], when he heard a rustling sound as of one approaching stealthily. Looking round to discover who came there, he saw a little old woman not more than a span high, carrying a bundle no bigger than an apple on her back, coming up a ladder she had set ready for herself, without asking leave or making any sort of ceremony.

“Lackaday!” cried the little old woman, speaking to herself, “methinks I see a youngster cooking good food.” But to him she said in a commanding tone, “Listen to me now, and give me some of thy milk and meat to taste.”

Though she was so small, she wore such a weird, uncanny air that the black-coloured man, though he had boasted of being a full-grown man of good understanding, durst not say her “Nay;” though he contented himself with keeping to the letter of her behest, and only gave her the smallest possible morsel of the food he had prepared, only just enough, as she had said, “to taste.” But lo and behold! no sooner had she put the morsel to her lips than the whole portion disappeared, meat, milk, pot and all; and, more marvellous still, the little old wife had disappeared with them.

Ashamed at finding himself thus overmatched by such a little old wench, he reasoned with himself that he must invent something to tell his companions which should have a more imposing sound than the sorry story of what had actually occurred. Turning over all his belongings to help himself to an idea, he found two horse’s-hoofs, and with these he made the marks as of many horsemen all round the dwelling, and then shot his own arrow into the middle of the yard.

He had hardly finished these preparations when his companions came home from the hunt.

“Where is our meal?” inquired they. “Where is the butter you were to have made, and the meat you were to have cooked?”

“Scarcely had I made all ready,” replied the black-coloured man, “than a hundred strange men, on a hundred wild horses, came tearing through the place; and what could I do to withstand a hundred? Thus they have taken all the butter, and milk, and meat, and me they beat and bound, so that I have had enough to do to set myself free, and scarcely can I move from the effect of their blows. Go out now and see for yourselves.”

So they went out; and when they saw the marks of the horses’-hoofs all round the dwelling, and the arrow shot into the middle of the courtyard, they said, “He hath spoken true things.”

The next day Massang went to the hunt, and took with him the black-coloured man and the white-coloured man. The green-coloured man being thus left in charge of the homestead, set himself to prepare the dinner; and it was no sooner ready than the little old wife came in, as she had done the day before, and played the same game.

“This is doubtless how it fell out with the black-coloured man,” said he to himself, as soon as she was gone; “but neither can I own that I was matched by such a little old wife, nor yet can I tell the same story about the horsemen. I know what I will do: I will fetch up a yoke of oxen, and make them tramp about the place, and when the others come home, I will say some men came by with a herd of cattle, and, overpowering me, carried off the victuals.” All this he did; and when his companions came home, and saw for themselves the marks the oxen had made in tramping up the soil, they said, “He hath spoken true things.”

The day after, Massang went hunting, and took with him the black-coloured man and the green-coloured man. The white-coloured man being left in charge of the homestead, set himself to prepare the dinner. Nor was it long before the same little old woman who had visited his companions made her appearance; and soon she had made an end of all the provisions. “This is doubtless how it fell out with the green-coloured man yesterday, and the black-coloured man the day before,” said the white-coloured man to himself; “but neither can I own any more than they that I was overmatched by such a little old wife, nor yet can I tell the same story as they.” So he fetched a mule in from the field, and made it trot all round the dwelling, that when his companions came in he might tell them that a party of merchants had been by, with a file of mules carrying their packs of merchandize, who had held him bound, and eaten up the provisions.

All this he did; and when his companions came home, and saw for themselves the marks of the mule-hoofs all round the dwelling, they said, “He hath spoken true things.”

The next day it was Massang’s turn to stay at home, nor did he neglect the duty which fell upon him of cooking the food against the return of the rest. As he sat thus occupied, up came the little old woman, as on all the other days.

“Lackaday!” she exclaimed, as she set eyes on him. “Methinks I see a youngster cooking good food!” And to him she cried, in her imperious tone, “Listen to me now, and give me some of thy milk and meat to taste.”

When Massang saw her, he said within himself, “Surely now this is she who hath appeared to the other three; and when they said that strangers had broken in, and overpowered them, and stolen the food, was it not that she is a witch-woman and enchanted it away. She only asks to taste it; but if I do her bidding, who knows what may follow?” So he observed her, that he might discover what way there was of over-matching her; thus he espied her bundle, and bethought him it contained the means of her witcheries. To possess himself of it he had first to devise the means of getting her to go an errand, and leave it behind her.

“Belike you could help me to some fresh water, good wife,” he said, in a simple, coaxing tone; and she, thinking to serve her purpose by keeping on good terms with him, replied,—

“That can I; but give me wherewithal to fetch it.”

To keep her longer absent, he gave her a pail with a hole in it, with which she went out. Looking after her, he saw that she made her way straight up to the clouds, and squeezed one into her pail, but no sooner was it poured in, than it ran out again. Meantime, he possessed himself of her bundle, and turned it over; withal it was not so big as an apple, it contained many things: a hank of catgut, which he exchanged for a hank of hempen cord; an iron hammer, which he exchanged for a wooden mallet; and a pair of iron pincers, which he exchanged for wooden ones.

He had hardly tied up the bundle again, when the old woman came back, very angry with the trick that had been played upon her with the leaking pail, and exclaiming, “How shall water be brought in a pail where there is a hole?” Then she added further, and in a yet angrier key, “If thou wilt not give me to taste of thy food, beware! for then all that thou hast becomes mine.” And when she found that he heeded her not, but went on with what he was doing, just as if she had not spoken, she cried out, furiously,—

“If we are not to be on good terms, we must e’en match our strength; if we are not to have peace, we must have war; if I may not eat with you, I will fight you.”

“That I am ready for,” answered Massang, as one sure of an easy victory.

“Not so confident!” replied the old one. “Though I am small and thou so big, yet have I overcome mightier ones than thou.”

“In what shall we match our strength?” said Massang, not heeding her banter.

“We will have three trials,” replied the old one; “the cord proof, the hammer proof, and the pincers proof. And first the cord proof. I will first bind thee, and if thou canst burst my bonds, well; then thou shalt also bind me.”

Then Massang saw that he had done well to possess himself of her instruments, but he gave assent to her mode of proof, and let her bind him as tight as ever she would; but as she had only the hempen cord to bind him with, which he had put in her bundle in place of the catgut, he broke it easily with his strength, and set himself free again. Then he bound her with the catgut, so that she was not able by any means to unloose herself.

“True, herein thou hast conquered,” she owned, as she lay bound and unable to move, “but now we will have the pincers proof.” And as he had promised to wage three trials with her, he set her free.

Then with her pincers she took him by the breast; but, as he had changed her iron pincers for the wooden ones, he hardly felt the pinch, and she did him no harm. But when, with her iron pincers, he seized her, she writhed and struggled so that he pulled out a piece of flesh as big as an earthen pot, and she cried out in great pain.—

“Of a truth thou art a formidable fellow, but now we will have the hammer proof,” and she made Massang lie down; but when she would have given him a powerful blow on the chest with her iron hammer, the handle of the wooden mallet Massang had given her in its stead broke short off, and she was not able to hurt him. But Massang made her iron hammer glowing hot in the fire, and belaboured her both on the head and body so that she was glad to escape at the top of her speed and howling wildly.

As she flew past, Massang’s three companions came in from hunting and said, “Surely now you have had a trial to endure.” And Massang answered,—

“Of a truth you are miserable fellows all, and moreover have spoken that which is not true. Was it like men to let yourselves be overmatched by a little old wife? But now I have tamed her, let be. Let us go and seek for her corpse; maybe we shall find treasure in the place where she lays it.”

When they heard him speak of treasure they willingly went out after him, and, following the track of blood which had fallen from the witch-woman’s wounds as she went along, they came to a place where was an awful cleft in a mighty rock, and peeping through they saw, far below, the bloody body of the old witch-woman, lying on a heap of gold and jewels and shining adamant armour and countless precious things.

Then Massang said, “Shall you three go down and hand me up the spoil by means of a rope of which I will hold the end, or shall I go down and hand it up to you?”

But they three all made answer together, “This woman is manifestly none other but a Schimnu[2]. We dare not go near her. Go you down.”

So Massang let himself down by the rope, and sent up the spoil by the same means to his companions, who when they had possession of it said thus to one another,—

“If we draw Massang up again, we cannot deny in verity that the spoil is his, as he has won it in every way, but if we leave him down below it becomes ours.” So they left him below, and when he looked that they should have hauled him up they gave never a sign or sound. When he saw that, he said thus to himself, “My three companions have left me here that they may enjoy the spoil alone. For me nothing is left but to die!”

But as it grieved him so to die in his health and strength, he cast about him to see whether in all that cave which had been so full of valuables there was not something stored that was good for food, yet found he nothing save three cherry-stones.

So he took the cherry-stones and planted them in the earth, saying, “If I be truly Massang, may these be three full-grown cherry-trees by the time I wake; but if not, then let me die the death.” And with that he laid him down to sleep with the body of the Schimnu for a pillow.

Being thus defiled by contact with the corpse, he slept for many years. When at last he woke, he found that three cherry-trees had sprung up from the seeds he planted and now reached to the top of the rock. Rejoicing greatly therefore, he climbed up by their means and reached the earth.

First he bent his steps to his late dwelling, to look for his companions, but it was deserted, and no one lived therein. So, taking his iron bow and his arrows, he journeyed farther.

Presently he came to a place where there were three fine houses, with gardens and fields and cattle and all that could be desired by the heart of man. These were the houses which his three companions had built for themselves out of the spoil of the cave. And when he would have gone in, their wives said—for they had taken to them wives also—“Thy companions are not here; they are gone out hunting.” So he took up his iron bow and his arrows again, and went on to seek them, and as he went by the way he saw them coming towards him with the game they had taken with their bows. Then he strung his iron bow and would have shot at them; but they, falling down before him, cried out, “Slay us not. Only let us live, and behold our houses, and our wives, and our cattle, and all that we have is in thine hand, to do with it as it seemeth good to thee.”

Then he put up his arrows again, and said to them only these words, “In truth, friends, ye dealt evilly with me in that ye left me to perish in the cave.”

But they, owning their fault, again begged him that he would stay with them and let their house be his house, and they entreated him. But he would not stay with them, saying,—

“A promise is upon me, which I made when my master would have killed me and I entreated him to spare my life, for I said to him that I would repay his clemency to him if he spared me. Now, therefore, let me go that I may seek him out.”

Then, when they heard those words, they let him go, and he journeyed on farther to find out his master.

One day of his journey, as he was wearied with walking, he sat down towards evening by the side of a well, and as he sat an enchantingly beautiful maiden came towards the well as if to draw water, and as she came along he saw with astonishment that at every footstep as she lifted up her feet a fragrant flower sprang up out of the ground[3], one after another wherever she touched the ground. Massang stretched out his hand to offer to draw water for her, but she stopped not at the fountain but passed on, and Massang, in awe at her beauty and power, durst not speak to her, but rose up and followed behind her the whole way she went.

On went the maiden, and ever on followed Massang, over burning plain and through fearful forest, past the sources of mighty rivers and over the snow-clad peaks of the everlasting mountains[4], till they reached the dwelling of the gods and the footstool of dread Churmusta[5].

Then spoke Churmusta,—

“That thou art come hither is good. Every day now we have to sustain the fight with the black Schimnu; to-morrow thou shalt be spectator of the fray, and the next day thou shall take part in it.”

The next day Massang stood at the foot of Churmusta’s throne, and the gods waited around in silence. Massang saw a great herd as of black oxen, as it were early in the morning, driven with terror to the east side by a herd as of white oxen; and again he saw as it were late in the evening, the herd as of white oxen driven to the west side by the herd as of black oxen.

Then spoke the great Churmusta,—

“Behold the white oxen are the gods. The black oxen are the Schimnus. To-morrow, when thou seest the herd as of black oxen driving back the white, then string thine iron bow, and search out for thy mark a black ox, bearing a white star on his forehead. Then send thine arrow through the white star, for he is the Schimnu-Khan.

Thus spoke the dread Churmusta.

The next day Massang stood ready with his bow, and did even as Churmusta had commanded. With an arrow from his iron bow he pierced through the white star on the forehead of the black ox, and sent him away roaring and bellowing with pain.

Then spake the dread Churmusta,—

“Bravely hast thou dealt, and well hast thou deserved of me. Therefore thou shalt have thy portion with me, and dwell with me for ever.”

But Massang answered,—

“Nay, for though I tarried at thy behest to do thy bidding, a promise is upon me which I made when my master would have taken my life. For I said, ‘Spare me now, and be assured I will repay thy clemency.’”

Then Churmusta commended him, and bid him do even as he had said. Furthermore he gave him a talisman to preserve him by the way, and gave him this counsel,—

“Journeying, thou shalt be overcome by sleep, and having through sleeping forgotten the way, thou shalt arrive at the gate of the Schimnu-Khan. Then beware that thou think not to save thyself by flight. Knock, rather, boldly at the door, saying, ‘I am a physician.’ When they hear that they will bring thee to the Schimnu-Khan that thou mayest try thine art in drawing out the arrow from his forehead. Then place thyself as though thou wouldst remove it, but rather with a firm grasp drive it farther in, so that it enter his brain, first offering up with thine hand seven barley-corns to heaven; and after this manner thou shalt kill the Schimnu-Khan.”

Thus commanded the dread Churmusta.

Then Massang came down from the footstool of Churmusta and the dwelling of the gods, and went forth to seek out his master. But growing weary with the length of the day, and lying down to sleep, when he woke he had forgotten the direction he had to take, so he pursued the path which lay before him, and it led him to the portal of the Schimnu palace.

When he saw it was the Schimnu palace, he would have made good his escape from its precincts, but remembering the words of Churmusta, he knocked boldly at the door. Then the Schimnus flocked round him, and told him he must die unless he could do some service whereby his life might be redeemed; and Massang made answer, “I am a physician.” Hearing that, they took him in to the Schimnu-Khan, that he might pluck the arrow out of his forehead.

Massang stood before the Schimnu-Khan; but when he should have pulled out the arrow, he only pulled it out a little way, and the Schimnu-Khan said,—

“Thus far is the pang diminished.”

Then, however, first casting seven barley-corns on high towards heaven, he plunged it in again even to the centre of his brain, so that he fell down at his feet dead. And as the seven barley-corns reached the heavens, there came down by their track an iron chain with a thundering clang which the dread Churmusta sent down to Massang, and Massang climbed up by the chain to the dwelling of the gods. But there stood by the throne of the Schimnu-Khan a female Schimnu, out of whose mouth came forth forked flames of fire, and when she saw Massang ascending to heaven by the chain, she raised an iron hammer high in air to strike it, and cleave it in two. But when she struck it, there issued seven bright sparks, which floated up to heaven, and remained fixed in the sky; and men called them the constellation of the Pleiades.

“Thus, for all his promise, and after all his sacrifices, Massang never went back to repay his master’s clemency!” exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him the Siddhî-kür replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips!” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift, out of sight.

Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the third chapter, showing how the Schimnu-Khan was slain.

Tale IV.

Then, when he saw he had again missed the end and object of his journey, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan again set out as at the first, till with toil and terror he reached the cool grove where lay the dead. At his approach the Siddhî-kür clambered up into the mango-tree, but rather than let the tree be destroyed he came down at the word of the Khan threatening to fell it. Then the Khan bound him in his bag and bore him away to offer to the Master and Teacher Nâgârg′una.

But when they had proceeded many days the Siddhî-kür said, “Tell, now, a tale, seeing the way is long and weary, and we are like to die of weariness if we go on thus speaking never a word between us.” But the Khan, mindful of the monition of his Master and Teacher Nâgârg′una, answered him nothing. Then said the Siddhî-kür, “If thou wilt not tell a tale, at least give me the token by which I may know that thou willest I should tell one.”

So the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards towards him, and the Siddhî-kür told this tale, saying,—

The Pig’s Head Soothsayer.

Long ages ago a man and his wife were living on the borders of a flourishing kingdom. The wife was a good housewife, who occupied herself with looking after the land and the herds; but the husband was a dull, idle man, who did nothing but eat, drink, and sleep from morning to night and from night to morning. One day, when his wife could no longer endure to see him going on thus indolently, she cried out to him, “Leave off thus idling thyself; get up and gird thyself like a man, and seek employment. Behold, thy father’s inheritance is well nigh spent; the time is come that thou find the means to eke it out.”

And when he weakly asked her in return, “Wherein shall I seek to eke it out?” she answered him, “How should I be able to tell this thing, but at least get thee up and make some endeavour; get thee up and look round the place and see what thou canst find,” and with that she went out to her work in the field.

When she had repeated these words many days, he at last went out one day, and, not taking the trouble to bethink him what he should do, he did just what his wife had said, and went to look round the place to see what he could find. As he wandered about, he came to a spot on which a tribe of cattle-herds had lately been encamped[1], and a fox, a dog, and a bird were there fighting about something. Approaching to see for what they contended, they all escaped in fear, and he was left in possession of their booty, which was a sheep’s paunch full of butter[2]. This he brought home and laid up in store. When his wife came home and asked him whence it was, he told her he had found it left on the camping-place of a family of herdsmen who had passed that way seeking pasturage.