And now the west, which had been like a vast, stained-glass window, streaming with warm light, fell into gray opaqueness, and the grassy plateau became a place of shadows in which night things were born gently. And the king looked away to the beast-shaped bushes and to all the striving land. “Oh, my kingdom, my kingdom!” he cried, grieving. “Now, would that this little Peter here could help you in the making.” And then little Peter stood upright in the faint light. “May it please the king,” he said softly, “I will take the message to his people.” The king stared down at him. “You?” he said. “_You_, little man? And how, pray, would you take my message?” “May it please the king,” said little Peter, “I would tell everyone in the kingdom till all should have been told.” “Little man,” said the king, “you are no bigger than a trumpet.” “Ay,” said the little lad, “I think that is what I am. I would that I be not Peter, but Trumpeter. So send me forth.” At this the king laughed, and for the laughter his heart was the lighter. He touched the boy’s brow. “See, then, I touch your brow, little Trumpeter,” he said. “Go forth--and do you know my message?” “You had first touched my heart, your majesty,” said the little boy, “and the message is there.” You would think, perhaps, that Peter would have waited till the morning, but he would not wait an hour. He made a little packet of linen and of food, and just as the folk within the palace were beginning their evening revelry, he stepped out on the highway and fared forth under the moon. But fancy walking on such a highway as that! At first glance it looked like any other night road, stretching between mysterious green. But not anything there could be depended upon to stay as it was. A hillock, lying a little way ahead, became, as he reached it, a plumy shrub, trembling with amazement at its transformation from dead earth to living green. At a turn in the road, a low bush suddenly walked away into the wood, a four-footed animal. Everything changed as he looked at it, as if nothing were meant to be merely what it was. The world was beginning! At the foot of a hill, where the shadows were thick, Peter met the first one to whom he could give his message. The man was twisted and ragged and a beggar, and he peered down in Peter’s face horribly. “Sir,” said Peter, courteously, “the world is beginning. You must go and help the king.” “Help the king!” cried the beggar, and his voice was uneven, like a bark or a whine that was turning into words. “I can’t help the king without my supper.” “Supper is only supper,” said little Peter, who had never in his life been hungry. “One must help the king--that is more.” The beggar struck the ground with his staff. “I’m hungry,” he said like a bark. “I want some supper and some dinner and all the way back to breakfast before I help the king, world or no world!”