“Oh, wretched one!” cried the Talisman, “oh, wretched one! Fly while there is yet time--fly, for thy doom is near! Do not push the door open, for it is not locked!” The young man struck his head with his clinched fist. “What a fool am I!” he cried. “Will I never learn wisdom. Here have I been coming to this place seven months, and have never yet thought to try whether yonder door was locked or not!” “Open the door!” cried the queen. They went forward together. The young man pushed the door with his hand. It opened swiftly and silently, and they entered. Within was a narrow room as red as blood. A flaming lamp hung from the ceiling above. The young man stood as though turned to stone, for there stood a gigantic Black Demon with a napkin wrapped around his loins and a scimitar in his right hand, the blade of which gleamed like lightning in the flame of the lamp. Before him lay a basket filled with sawdust. When the queen saw what she saw she screamed in a loud voice, “Thou hast found it! Thou hast found it! Thou hast found what alone can satisfy all thy desires! Strike, O slave!” The young man heard the Demon Zadok give a yell of laughter. He saw a whirl and a flash, and then he knew nothing. The Black had struck--the blade had fallen, and the head of Aben Hassen the Fool rolled into the basket of sawdust that stood waiting for it. “Aye, aye,” said St. George, “and so it should end. For what was your Aben Hassen the Fool but a heathen Paniem? Thus should the heads of all the like be chopped off from their shoulders. Is there not some one here to tell us a fair story about a saint?” “For the matter of that,” said the Lad who fiddled when the Jew was in the bramble-bush--“for the matter of that I know a very good story that begins about a saint and a hazel-nut. “Say you so?” said St. George. “Well, let us have it. But stay, friend, thou hast no ale in thy pot. Wilt thou not let me pay for having it filled?” “That,” said the Lad who fiddled when the Jew was in the bramble-bush, “may be as you please, Sir Knight; and, to tell the truth, I will be mightily glad for a drop to moisten my throat withal.” “But,” said Fortunatus, “you have not told us what the story is to be about.” “It is,” said the Lad who fiddled for the Jew in the bramble-bush, “about--” Ill-Luck and the Fiddler Once upon a time St. Nicholas came down into the world to take a peep at the old place and see how things looked in the spring-time. On he stepped along the road to the town where he used to live, for he had a notion to find out whether things were going on nowadays as they one time did. By-and-by he came to a cross-road, and who should he see sitting there but Ill-Luck himself. Ill-Luck’s face was as gray as ashes, and his hair as white as snow--for he is as old as Grandfather Adam--and two great wings grew out of his shoulders--for he flies fast and comes quickly to those whom he visits, does Ill-Luck.