Free A Tale Without a Name by Penelope S. Delta Page B

above the gold-leaf cabinet.
    “I am thinking, father, that we must go down to Cunningson’s house,” replied the Prince, “search his cellar immediately, and find the things that he stole from us. We must sell these at once, so that we might, with the florins we shall get in return, arm our nation—”
    “Stop! Enough is enough—I am fed up with you! Since early this morning I have dragged myself everywhere with you!” the King interrupted dispiritedly. “Leave me in peace awhile. I don’t know what’s got into you!”
    He rose from the table and went to lie down on the sofa.
    “You may go where you wish,” he added more calmly, “as long as you leave me be.”
    And turning his back to all and sundry, he fell asleep.
    From where it hung above the gold-leaf cabinet, the donkey’s head was still staring at them, with its broad, sardonic grin.
    In her back kitchen, however, Little Irene and the equerry Polycarpus, chatting and laughing, were rinsing and drying the glasses and the plates. This is where the Prince found them.
    “Little Irene,” he said, “I will be going to town. Will you come with me?”
    She cast off her apron on the spot, and followed him.
    “We are going to Cunningson’s house,” he said.
    And he told her the contents of Faintheart’s letter, and what great need there was for them to find immediately the stolen treasure, so they could purchase arms.
    They descended the mountain and reached the town; they went straight to the High Chancellor’s house. The door had been left wide open.
    “This is strange!” said the Prince. “Could he have gone out last night without locking his door?”
    They went inside, and into all the rooms. Yet they found nothing but some old wooden furniture. They pulled out all the drawers, and opened every cupboard, but they were all empty.
    Little Irene stepped on something hard that was lying on the floor near the door. She bent down, picked it up and showed it to her brother.
    “A jingle bell,” she said.
    The Prince took it and looked at it.
    “It belongs to the jester,” he replied. “You can still make out the royal crown embossed on it, even though the gilding is gone. It wouldn’t be so strange if Cunningson had found it and taken it, in the hope that it too would be worth something. Now let us go to the cellar.”
    They went down a narrow stone staircase, and came before a small iron door.
    The Prince examined the lock carefully.
    “He hid his treasures well!” he said. “We shall need a blacksmith to open up such a door…”
    “That won’t be necessary,” said Little Irene, “here is the key.”
    And she picked up from the ground a small, elegant key that fit the lock just right.
    “It is as though he dropped it here on purpose, so we might find it more easily,” she added, laughing.
    “Just as he left the door ajar, so we might enter the house unhindered. It all seems too easy,” muttered the Prince.
    He turned the key and the door opened.
    The room that the two siblings entered was small, with a low ceiling and no windows.
    There was a lantern still burning on the ground, and its flickering flame lit up the four bare stone walls.
    Beside the lantern, there was an empty wooden chest, its lid gaping wide open.
    The Prince looked around him.
    Lying in a corner on the floor, there was something white against the darkness. He lifted it up to the light of the lantern and examined it.
    It was a small baton, its gilding tarnished, with a doll’s head at one end and trimmed with ribbons and jingle bells.
    “What have you found?” asked Little Irene.
    “The thief’s signature,” replied the Prince. “In other words, the jester’s sceptre. We have come too late, Little Irene! The treasure is lost!”
    “What are you saying!” cried his sister.
    “I am saying,” answered the Prince, pointing to the plaything he had found, “that this explains the open door, the jingle bell on the floor, the little key by the cellar door, the