As soon as the cathedral bell began to toll and the minute-guns to fire, announcing to the kingdom that it was without a king, the people gathered in crowds, stopping at street corners to talk together. The murmur now and then rose into a shout, and the shout into a roar. When Prince Dolor, quietly floating in upper air, caught the sound of their different and opposite cries, it seemed to him as if the whole city had gone mad together. “Long live the king!” “The king is dead--down with the king!” “Down with the crown, and the king too!” “Hurrah for the republic!” “Hurrah for no government at all!” Such were the shouts which traveled up to the traveling-cloak. And then began--oh, what a scene! When you children are grown men and women--or before--you will hear and read in books about what are called revolutions--earnestly I trust that neither I nor you may ever see one. But they have happened, and may happen again, in other countries besides Nomansland, when wicked kings have helped to make their people wicked too, or out of an unrighteous nation have sprung rulers equally bad; or, without either of these causes, when a restless country has fancied any change better than no change at all. For me, I don't like changes, unless pretty sure that they are for good. And how good can come out of absolute evil--the horrible evil that went on this night under Prince Dolor's very eyes--soldiers shooting down people by hundreds in the streets, scaffolds erected, and heads dropping off--houses burned, and women and children murdered--this is more than I can understand. But all these things you will find in history, my children, and must by and by judge for yourselves the right and wrong of them, as far as anybody ever can judge. Prince Dolor saw it all. Things happened so fast one after another that they quite confused his faculties. “Oh, let me go home,” he cried at last, stopping his ears and shutting his eyes; “only let me go home!” for even his lonely tower seemed home, and its dreariness and silence absolute paradise after all this. “Good-by, then,” said the magpie, flapping her wings. She had been chatting incessantly all day and all night, for it was actually thus long that Prince Dolor had been hovering over the city, neither eating nor sleeping, with all these terrible things happening under his very eyes. “You've had enough, I suppose, of seeing the world?” “Oh, I have--I have!” cried the prince, with a shudder. “That is, till next time. All right, your royal highness. You don't know me, but I know you. We may meet again some time.” She looked at him with her clear, piercing eyes, sharp enough to see through everything, and it seemed as if they changed from bird's eyes to human eyes--the very eyes of his godmother, whom he had not seen for ever so long. But the minute afterward she became only a bird, and with a screech and a chatter, spread her wings and flew away.