By this time the parrots all around had become perfectly silent, and none of the people ventured to say a word, for they feared the malice of the gipsy. She was trembling dreadfully, and her dark eyes, which had been so bright and piercing, had become dull and almost dim; but when she found there was no help for it, she said:
“Well, pass out Jack’s handkerchief. I will set you free if you will bring out mine with you.”
“Share and share alike,” answered the parrot; “you must let all my friends out too.”
“Then I won’t let you out,” answered the gipsy. “You shall come out first, and give me my handkerchief, or not one of their cages will I undo. So take your choice.”
“My friends, then,” answered the brave old parrot; and he poked Jack’s handkerchief out to her through the wires.
The wondering crowd stood by to look, and the gipsy bandaged her eyes tightly with the handkerchief; and then, stooping low, she began to murmur something and clap her hands—softly at first, but by degrees more and more violently. The noise was meant to drown the words she muttered; but as she went on clapping, the bottom of cage after cage fell clattering down. Out flew the parrots by hundreds, screaming and congratulating one another; and there was such a deafening din that not only the sound of her spell but the clapping of her hands was quite lost in it.
But all this time Jack was very busy; for the moment the gipsy had tied up her eyes, the old parrot snatched the real handkerchief off his wife’s shoulders, and tied it round her neck. Then she pushed out her head through the wires, and the old parrot called to Jack, and said, “Pull!”
Jack took the ends of the handkerchief, pulled terribly hard, and stopped. “Go on! go on!” screamed the old parrot.
“I shall pull her head off,” cried Jack.
“No matter,” cried the parrot; “no matter—only pull.”