Dr. Fidelius threw his hands in the air. "Enough! You defeat me at my own trade!" And Glyneth jumped down from the platform.
"Now then, as to my potions and lotions, my powders, pills and purges; my analepts and anodynes: are they the alleviants I claim them to be? Sirs and ladies, I will make this guarantee: if, upon taking my remedies, you mortify and die, you return the unused medicine for a partial refund. Where else will you hear such a guarantee?
"I am particularly expert in the treatment of sore knees, especially those which creak, clack, or otherwise complain. If you or someone you know is afflicted with sore knees, then I want to see the sufferer.
"Now let me present my other associate: the noble and talented Sir Dhrun. He will play you tunes on the fairy-pipes, to make you laugh, to make you cry, to set your heels to twitching. Meanwhile, Glyneth will dispense the medicines while I prescribe. Sirs and ladies, a final word! You are hereby notified that my embrocations burn and tingle as if distilled from liquid flame. My medicines taste vilely, of cimiter, dogbane and galclass="underline" the body quickly returns to robust health so that it need assimilate no more of my foul concoctions! That is the secret of my success. Music, Sir Dhrun!"
As she circulated through the crowd Glyneth watched carefully for a person in a nut-brown suit and a scarlet feather in his green cap, especially one who heard the music with pleasure; but on this sunny forenoon at Long Danns, hard by the Forest of Tantrevalles, no such person showed himself, nor did any obvious scoundrel, of dark visage and long nose, come to Dr. Fidelius for treatment of his sore knees.
In the afternoon a breeze began to blow from the west, to set the banners fluttering. Glyneth brought out a table with high legs and a tall stool for Dhrun. From the wagon she carried a basket. As Dhrun played a jig on the pipes, Glyneth brought out her black and white cats. She tapped the table with a baton and the cats raised on their hind legs and danced in time to the music, hopping and skipping back and forth across the table, and a crowd quickly gathered. At the back a fox-faced young man, small and dapper, seemed to be especially enthusiastic. He snapped his fingers to the music, and presently began to dance, kicking this way and that with great agility. He wore, so Glyneth rioted, a green cap with a long red feather. Hurriedly she put her cats in the basket and sidling up behind the dancing man, snatched off his cap, and ran to the back of the wagon. In astonishment the young man chased after her. "What are you up to? Give me my hat!"
"No," said Glyneth. "Not till you grant my wishes."
"Are you mad? What foolishness is this? I can't grant wishes for myself, let alone you. Now give me my cap, or I'll have to take it from you, and beat you well in the bargain."
"Never," declared Glyneth bravely. "You are Rhodion. I have your hat, and I will never let it go until you obey me."
"We'll see about that!" The young man seized Glyneth, and they struggled until the horses snorted, reared and showing long white teeth lunged at the young man, who drew back in fear. Shimrod jumped down from the wagon and the young man cried out in fury: "This girl of yours is mad! She seizes my cap and runs off with it, and when I ask for it, most civilly, she says no, and names me Rhodion or something similar. My name is Tibbalt; I am chandler at the village Witherwood and I have come to the fair to buy wax. Almost instantly I am snatched hatless by a mad hoyden, who then insists that I obey her! Have you ever heard the like?"
Shimrod gave his head a grave shake. "She is not a bad girl, just a bit impetuous and full of pranks." He stepped forward. "Sir, allow me." He brushed aside Tibbalt's brown hair. "Glyneth, observe! This gentleman's ear-lobes are well developed."
Glyneth looked and nodded. "That is so." Tibbalt demanded: "What is this to do with my hat?"
"Allow me one more favor," said Shimrod. "Show me your hand... Glyneth, notice the fingernails; there is no trace of web and the fingernails are not filmy."
Glyneth nodded. "I see. So I may give him his hat?"
"Yes indeed, especially since the gentleman exudes the odor of bayberry and bees-wax."
Glyneth returned the hat. "Please, sir, forgive me my prank."
Shimrod gave Tibbalt a pottery jar: "With our compliments, please accept this half-gill of hair pomade, which will cause eyebrows, beard and mustache to grow silky and fine."
Tibbalt departed in good spirits. Glyneth went back to her table in front of the wagon and reported her mistake to Dhrun, who merely shrugged, and once again began to play the pipes. Glyneth again produced her cats, which hopped and danced with zeal, to the great wonder of those who halted to watch. "Wonderful, wonderful!" declared a portly little gentleman with spindle-shanks, thin ankles, long thin feet in green leather shoes with preposterous rolled-up toes. "My lad, where did you learn to play the pipes?"
"Sir, it is a gift from the fairies."
"What a marvel! A true gift of magic!"
The wind blew a sudden gust; the gentleman's green hat whisked from his head and fell at Glyneth's feet. She picked it up and noticed the scarlet feather. Dubiously she looked at the man who smilingly held out his hand. "Thank you, my pretty dear. I will reward you with a kiss."
Glyneth looked at the outstretched hand which was pale and plump, with small delicate fingers. The nails were carefully tended and polished milky-pink. Was this film? The flaps of skin between the fingers: was this web? Glyneth slowly looked up and met the gentleman's eyes. They were fawn-brown. Sparse sandy-red hair curled past his ears. Wind lifted the hair; in fascination Glyneth saw the lobes. They were smalclass="underline" no more than little dimples of pink tissue. She could not see the top of the ears. The gentleman stamped his foot. "My hat, if you please!"
"One moment, sir, while I brush off the dust." Sneezer and Smirrish once more were popped into the basket, and Glyneth ran off with the hat.
With notable agility the gentleman bounded after her, and so maneuvered to press her back against the front of the wagon where they could not be seen from the common. "Now, miss, my hat, and then you shall have your kiss."
"You may not have your hat until you grant my wishes."
"Eh? What nonsense is this? Why should I grant your wishes?"
"Because, your Majesty, I hold your hat."
The gentleman looked at her sidewise. "Who do you think I am?"
"You are Rhodion, King of the Fairies."
"Ha ha hah! And what do you wish me to do?"
"It is not a great deal. Lift the curse which hangs upon Dhrun and give him back his eyes."
"All for my hat?" The portly gentleman advanced upon Glyneth with his arms wide. "Now then, my downy little duckling, I will embrace you; what a sweet little armful you are! Now for the kiss, and perhaps something more..."
Glyneth ducked under his arms, jumped cleverly backward and forward, and ran behind the wagon. The gentleman chased after her, calling out endearments and imploring the return of his hat.
One of the horses thrust out its left head to snap viciously at the gentleman's buttocks. He only bounded the faster around the wagon, where Glyneth had halted, grinning in mingled mischief and distaste to see the portly little gentleman in such a state. "Now my little kitten! My adorable little comfit, come for your kiss! Remember, I am King Rat-a-tat-tat, or whatever his name, and I will grant your fondest desires! But first, let us explore beneath that brave doublet!"
Glyneth danced back and threw the hat at the gentleman's feet. "You are not King Rhodion; you are the town barber and a saucy lecher to boot. Take your hat and welcome!"
The gentleman uttered a hoot of exultant laughter. He clapped the hat to his head, and jumped high into the air, clicking his heels to both sides. In great glee he cried: "I tricked you! Oho! What joy to befuddle the mortals! You had my hat, you might have commanded me to your service! But now—"