In the center of this room was a spinning wheel, and before this spinning wheel was the One-Armed Sorcerer whom I had met in the adventure which had gained me the Princess for my wife; a spare old man, with bright blue eyes in a rosy face and long white hair and beard, and clothed in a blue gown spangled with silver stars. He rose, smiling at us kindly, and motioning us with his only hand (his left) to sit down; and when we were seated, the Princess told him the story of the old vagabond who had granted me a wish. He nodded understandingly, and the Princess said: “We have come to you for help. Will you help him get rid of his curse?” I laughed merrily. “I’m pretty well satisfied as I am,” I said. “I don’t wish to be cured of anything.” “And yet,” said the One-Armed Sorcerer, “you ought to want to be cured. Your trouble is, that you can’t weep. Let me tell you something. When people can weep, it’s because there’s some good in them. When they can’t weep, it’s because all the good in them is frozen up hard. Nobody can weep all the time, any more than anybody can be happy all the time, unless it’s a bewitched creature like yourself. I’m not sure which would be worse, to weep all the time or to be happy all the time; but one thing I’m sure of, and that is that it’s best for us all to have a little weeping and a little happiness, sometimes the one and sometimes the other, woven together in all shades of light and dark; and if you want to come out in a beautiful pattern at last, there’s no other way to do it. Laugh and weep; weep and laugh; that’s the whole story, and a fine story it is too, and well worth having a part in.” “Oh!” cried the Princess, who was now weeping softly, “will you help him to have a part in it like the rest of us?” “I’m very comfortable as I am,” said I, smiling. “Do you know,” said the Princess, “how to cure him?” “I can tell him how to cure himself,” said the sorcerer. “Then please tell us at once!” said the Princess. “There is danger in it,” said the sorcerer. “Danger doesn’t bother me,” said I, beginning to take an interest. “Good,” said the sorcerer. “Then I will tell you. Have you ever heard of the half-moon pasture of Korbi, by the river Tarn?” Neither of us had ever heard of it. “It lies far beyond the Great Sea. Would you like to make a journey there?” “That would be jolly!” I cried. “The half-moon pasture of Korbi is the end of your journey, where you will get rid of the third black hair, and be cured.” “What?” I cried in astonishment. “Yes, the third of the three black hairs in your head.” I had forgotten all about them. Certainly this was a knowing old sorcerer. _The Old Man of Ice, the Laughing Nymph, and the Great Horned Owl_