“‘Beware the daring little fellow
Who lives within a house of yellow;
He sails the sky in a skiff of pearl—
Through your window he will whirl.
He will bring what harm can do:
He will make you endless rue.’”
When they heard this fateful rhyme, all of the courtiers shuddered with terror. A little moan escaped from the lips of the princess. As for Peterkin, his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth.
“Take him away!” ordered the King. “Away to the dungeon with him! And send out my royal army in search of the toothless farmer, that arch enemy of the Four Kingdoms. Away, to the deep, black dungeon!”
At once Peterkin was smothered in a great crowd of stalwart guards who bound him in heavy chains, who lifted him away and out of the banquet hall. The last thing he heard was the scream of the little princess.
Down, down, into the darkness of narrow cellars; down steep stairs of crumbling stone, where the air was damp and smelling of old mosses; down, still further down, they carried him. At last they came to a little iron door in a wall of black rock. There was a creaking of a rusty iron key in its lock, and a swinging of the little door on its stiff hinges.