"Come with me," said Windekind. "I will present you." And they pressed forward to the place where the king sat.
When Oberon recognized Windekind, he greeted him joyfully, and gave him a kiss. At that the guests whispered to one another, and the elves threw envious glances at the pair. The two plump toads in the corner mumbled together something about "fawning and flattering," and "not lasting long," and then nodded very significantly to each other.
Windekind talked with Oberon for a long time in a strange language, and then beckoned to Johannes to come closer.
"Give me your hand, Johannes," said the king. "Windekind's friends are mine also. Whenever I can I will help you, and I will give you a token of our alliance."
Oberon released from the chain about his neck a little gold key, and gave it to Johannes who took it respectfully and held it shut close in his hand.
"That little key may be your fortune," said the king. "It fits a golden chest which contains a precious treasure. Who holds that chest I cannot say, but you must search for it zealously. If you remain good friends with me and with Windekind—steadfast and true—you will surely succeed." With that, the elf-king inclined his beautiful head, cordially, while Johannes, overflowing with happiness, expressed his thanks.
At this moment, three frogs, who were sitting together upon a little mound of damp moss, began to sing the introduction to a slow waltz, and partners were taken for the dance. Those who did not dance were lined along the side walls by the master of ceremonies—a lively, fussy little lizard—to the great vexation of the two toads who complained that they could not see. Then the dancing began.
And it was so comical! Every one danced in his own way, and fancied, of course, that he danced better than any one else. The mice and frogs sprang high up on their hind feet, and an old rat whirled round so wildly that all the dancers retreated before him. A fat tree-slug took a turn with a mole, but soon gave it up, under pretense that she was taken with a stitch in the side. The real reason was that she could not dance very well.
However, everything moved on seriously and ceremoniously. It was a matter of conscience with them, and all looked anxiously toward the king to find a sign of approval upon his countenance. But the king was afraid of causing discontent, and looked very sedate. His followers considered it beneath them to take part in the dancing.
Johannes had contained himself well, through all this seriousness, but when he saw a tiny toad whirling around with a tall lizard, who now and then lifted the unhappy toad high up off the floor and described a half circle with her in the air, he burst out into a merry laugh.
Then there was consternation. The music stopped and the king; looked round with a troubled air. The master of ceremonies flew in full speed up to the laugher, and urgently besought him to conduct himself with more decorum.
"Dancing is a serious matter," said he, "and nothing at all to be laughed at. This is a dignified company, who are dancing not merely for the fun of it. Every one was doing his best, and no one wished to be laughed at. That was very rude. More than that, this is a mourning feast—a sorrowful occasion. One should conduct himself respectably here, and not behave as though he were among human beings."
Johannes was frightened at that. Moreover, he saw hostile looks. His familiarity with the king had made him many enemies. Windekind led him to one side.
"We would better go away," he whispered. "You have made a mess of it again. That is the way when one is brought up among human beings."
Hastily, they slipped out under the bat-wing portiere, and entered the dim passage. The polite glow-worm was waiting for them.
"Have you had a good time?" he asked. "Did King Oberon speak with you?"
"Oh, yes. It was a jolly festival," said Johannes. "Do you have to stay here all the time, in this dark passage?"
"That is my own choice," said the glow-worm, in a bitter, mournful voice. "I care no more for vanities."
"Come," said Windekind, "you do not mean that!"
"It is just as I say. Formerly—formerly there was a time when I, too, went to feasts, and danced, and kept up with such frivolities; but now I am purified through suffering, now. … " And he became so agitated that his light went out again. Fortunately they were near the outlet, and the rabbit, hearing them coming, moved a little to one side, so that the moonlight shone in.
As soon as they were outside by the rabbit, Johannes said: "Will you not tell us your history, Glow-worm?"
"Alas!" sighed the glow-worm, "it is a sad and simple story. It will not amuse you."
"Tell us! Tell us, all the same!" they cried.
"Well, then, you know that we glow-worms are very peculiar beings. Yes, I believe no one would contradict that we glow-worms are the most highly gifted of all who live.
"Why? I do not know that," said the rabbit. At this, the glow-worm asked disdainfully, "Can you give light?"
"No, indeed, I cannot," the rabbit was obliged to confess.
"Now we give light—all of us. And we can make it shine or can extinguish it. Light is the best gift of Nature, and to make light is the highest achievement of any living being. Ought any one then to contest our precedence? Moreover, we little fellows have wings, and can fly for miles."
"I cannot do that, either," humbly admitted the rabbit.
"Through the divine gift of light which we have," continued the glow-worm, "other creatures stand in awe of us, and no bird will attack us. Only one animal—the human being—the basest of all, chases us, and carries us off. He is the most detestable monster in creation!"
At this sally Johannes looked at Windekind as though he did not understand. But Windekind smiled, and motioned to him to be silent.
"Once, I flew gaily around among the shrubs, like a bright will-o'-the-wisp. In a moist, lonely meadow on the bank of a ditch there lived one whose existence was inseparably linked with my own happiness. She sparkled beautifully in her light emerald-green as she crept about in the grass, and my young heart was enraptured. I circled about her, and did my best, by making my light play, to attract her attention. Gratefully, I saw that she had perceived me, and demurely extinguished her own light. Trembling with emotion, I was on the point of folding my wings and sinking down in rapture beside my radiant loved one, when the air was filled with an awful noise. Dark figures approached. They were human beings. In terror, I took flight. They chased me, and struck at me with big black things. But my wings went faster than their clumsy legs."
"When I returned—"
Here the narrator's voice failed him. After an instant of deep emotion, during which the three listeners maintained a respectful silence, he continued:
"You may already have surmised it. My tender bride—the brightest, most glowing of all—she had disappeared; kidnapped by cruel human beings. The still, dewy grass-plot was trampled, and her favorite place by the ditch was dark and deserted. I was alone in the world."
Here the impressionable rabbit once again pulled down an ear, and wiped a tear from his eye.
"Since that time I have been a different creature. I have an aversion for all idle pleasures. I think only of her whom I have lost, and of the time when I shall see her again."
"Really! Do you still hope to?" said the rabbit, rejoiced.
"I more than hope—I am certain. In heaven I shall see my beloved again."
"But—" the rabbit objected.
"Bunnie," said the glow-worm, gravely, "I can understand that one who was obliged to grope about in the dark might doubt, but when one can see, with his own eyes! That puzzles me. There!" said the glow-worm, gazing reverently up at the star-dotted skies; "there I behold them—all my forefathers, all my friends, and her, too, more gloriously radiant than