“Let’s follow it,” said Sylvie: and this also turned out a happy thought. The mouse at once settled down into a business-like jog-trot, with which we could easily keep pace. The only phenomenon, that gave me any uneasiness, was the rapid increase in the _size_ of the little creature we were following, which became every moment more and more like a real lion. Soon the transformation was complete: and a noble lion stood patiently waiting for us to come up with it. No thought of fear seemed to occur to the children, who patted and stroked it as if it had been a Shetland-pony. “Help me up!” cried Bruno. And in another moment Sylvie had lifted him upon the broad back of the gentle beast, and seated herself behind him, pillion-fashion. Bruno took a good handful of mane in each hand, and made believe to guide this new kind of steed. “Gee-up!” seemed quite sufficient by way of _verbal_ direction: the lion at once broke into an easy canter, and we soon found ourselves in the depths of the forest. I say ‘_we_,’ for I am certain that _I_ accompanied them—though _how_ I managed to keep up with a cantering lion I am wholly unable to explain. But I was certainly one of the party when we came upon an old beggar-man cutting sticks, at whose feet the lion made a profound obeisance, Sylvie and Bruno at the same moment dismounting, and leaping into the arms of their father. “From bad to worse!” the old man said to himself, dreamily, when the children had finished their rather confused account of the Ambassador’s visit, gathered no doubt from general report, as they had not seen him themselves. “From bad to worse! That is their destiny. I see it, but I cannot alter it. The selfishness of a mean and crafty man—the selfishness of an ambitious and silly woman—the selfishness of a spiteful and loveless child—all tend one way, from bad to worse! And you, my darlings, must suffer it awhile, I fear. Yet, when things are at their worst, you can come to me. I can do but little as yet——” Gathering up a handful of dust and scattering it in the air, he slowly and solemnly pronounced some words that sounded like a charm, the children looking on in awe-struck silence:— “Let craft, ambition, spite, Be quenched in Reason’s night, Till weakness turn to might, Till what is dark be light, Till what is wrong be right!” The cloud of dust spread itself out through the air, as if it were alive, forming curious shapes that were for ever changing into others. “It makes letters! It makes words!” Bruno whispered, as he clung, half-frightened, to Sylvie. “Only I _ca’n’t_ make them out! Read them, Sylvie!” “I’ll try,” Sylvie gravely replied. “Wait a minute—if only I could see that word——” “I should be very ill!” a discordant voice yelled in our ears. “‘Were I to swallow this,’ he said, ‘I should be very ill!’” CHAPTER IX. A JESTER AND A BEAR.