So the Mer Princess willingly bit through the strings of the false tails—and everybody put on his or her proper tail again, with great comfort and enjoyment—and they all swam toward the town. And as they went they heard a great noise of shouting, and saw parties of Under Folk flying as if in fear. “I must make haste,” said the King, “and see to it that our Peace Conference be not too late”—so they hurried on. And the noise grew louder and louder, and the crowds of flying Under Folk thicker and fleeter, and by and by Ulfin made them stand back under the arch of the Astrologers’ Tower to see what it was from which they fled. And there, along the streets of the great city of the Under Folk, came the flash of swords and the swirl of banners and the army of the Mer Folk came along between the great buildings of their foes, and on their helmets was the light of victory, and at their head, proud and splendid, rode the Princess Maia and—Reuben. “Oh—Reuben, Reuben! We’re saved,” called Mavis, and would have darted out, but Francis put his hand over her mouth. “Stop!” he said, “don’t you remember we promised not to escape without the Queen’s permission? Quick, quick to the Palace, to make peace before our armies can attack it.” “You speak well,” said the Mer King. And Ulfin said, “This is no time for ceremony. Quick, quick, I will take you in by the tradesmen’s entrance.” And, turning their backs on that splendid and victorious procession, they marched to the back entrance of the royal Palace. CHAPTER TWELVE _The End_ THE QUEEN of the Under Folk sat with her husband on their second-best throne, which was much more comfortable than their State one, though not so handsome. Their sad faces were lighted up with pleasure as they watched the gambols of their new pet, Fido, a dear little earth-child, who was playing with a ball of soft pink seaweed, patting it, and tossing it and running after it as prettily as any kitten. “Dear little Fido,” said the Queen, “come here then,” and Fido, who had once been Cathay, came willingly to lean against the Queen’s knee and be stroked and petted. “I have curious dreams sometimes,” said the Queen to the King, “dreams so vivid that they are more like memories.” “Has it ever occurred to you,” said the King, “that we have no memories of our childhood, of our youth—?” “I believe,” said the Queen slowly, “that we have tasted in our time of the oblivion-cup. There is no one like us in this land. If we were born here, why can we not remember our parents who must have been like us? And dearest—the dream that comes to me most often is that we once had a child and lost it—and that it was a child like us—”