Part 12

“But, mother”--began Claude, and then stopped suddenly. His mother was right, it was nothing but a mountain,--how could he have been so deceived? “And yet,”--

Claude rose, and dressed himself slowly, often glancing at the window, where now the mountain (nothing but a mountain) was fading slowly under the bright rays of the rising sun, which shone full upon it.

Claude paid but little attention to his breakfast, or his dinner either, he was so anxious to have night come and go again, that he might see if the enchanted palace, as he called it, would reappear.

The next morning, as soon as there was light enough to see any thing, his eager eyes started open, and turned at once to the upper centre pane of glass, which was, indeed, the only one bearing any intelligible picture, all the rest being covered with a thick white coat, looking like nothing, unless it was a curtain, to hide what might be behind. But there, where it had stood before, rose clear and sharp the fairy palace; and Claude wondered how he could have taken it for a mountain.

After looking at it for a while, the boy suddenly noticed a new feature in his picture.

This was a large fir-tree, standing in the middle of the plain, quite alone, its lower branches dead and broken, while the top was dense and flourishing. Under the tree was an object which Claude could not make out.

“It must be a little bush,” thought he, and turned his eyes again toward the palace.

The next morning Claude slept late, and when he woke was obliged to jump up directly.

He looked at the window, but saw nothing except a shapeless mark, hardly resembling even a mountain.

All that day Claude was sad and uneasy, feeling as if something were wanting to his happiness which he knew not where to find.

The next morning, however, he waked betimes, and turned eagerly to the window. Clear and splendid rose the palace in the frosty air; stern and sad stood the lonely tree,--but, that shrub at its foot! How blind he had been! It was the perfect and graceful figure of a young girl,--her long hair hanging about her, her gossamer looking robe and scarf fluttering in the morning air. She seemed looking down at something lying at the foot of the old fir, something quite as vague to Claude, however, as the girl herself had been when he first saw her.

Full of delight, he bounded from his bed, and rushed to the window to examine more closely this new figure in the strange frost picture; but, when he reached it, look as he might, he could see nothing but a rugged mountain, a tree, and a bush.

Sad and disappointed, Claude crept back to bed, but comforted himself by thinking,--“Somewhere, somewhere in this world, stands that palace,--lives that maiden. In a few years I shall be a man, and then I will go and find them.”

Again he turned his eyes upon the window, through which the sun’s first rays were streaming. Under their influence the picture began to disappear; but for one moment first, they stood out, clear and distinct as over,--the palace and the maiden.

Many mornings came and went. Often the enchanted palace greeted Claude’s wakening eyes, but there were also long intervals in which he saw nothing, or only the shapeless mountain.

Still the idea grew in his mind, that somewhere he should find the palace, the tree, and the maiden who waited beneath it,--waited, perhaps, for him.

Years rolled away. Claude left his home, and travelled in many countries.

He found himself in glowing southern lands, with pictures all around him,--pictures painted by men, which thrilled his heart as he gazed at them; pictures in the trees and flowers, such as he had known and loved at home; beautiful women and beautiful palaces; but none ever contented him or held him long; still he whispered to himself,--

“Here is not my palace or my maiden,” and then he wandered on.

At last he left this warm and glowing land, and found himself in a frozen, wintry region, where on every side rose steep and snow-clad mountains, upon whose summits the foot of man had never rested.

Here Claude felt more content, and looked eagerly around him for the mountain he had known so many years.

No, it was not here; and still he wandered on.

On, through level, fertile plains, over which he hastened impatiently; on, through cities and over seas, ever looking, ever longing.

At last he reached a frozen country, where people hardly dared breathe the cutting, icy air; and where no trees and flowers grew, except the strongest and bravest of their kind.

On wandered Claude, a wild impatience burning in his heart; a feeling as if what he so long had sought was close at hand,--almost within his grasp.

Late one night he reached a lonely hut, far beyond all towns and farms, where dwelt an old man with his old wife. They welcomed the youth, gave him of their reindeer’s milk and coarse bread, and then spread a couch of lichens in the corner of the hut, where Claude slept soundly till morning light. Then, springing up, he bade the aged couple good-by with many thanks, and was leaving the hut, when the old man said kindly,--

“But, my son, where will you go? Beyond here lies only the country of King Frost; a country in which no man can live a day.”

“Stay with us till summer comes, or else go back from whence you came; you are too young and too beautiful to die in the cold grasp of the frost-king.”