“Why, I gave it to Dame Dingle, who lives under the hill yonder,” replied the man, pointing far away over the fields; “and she gave me in exchange some medicine for my rheumatism, which has made the pain considerably worse. So to-day I threw the bottle into the river.”
They did not pause to listen further to the shepherd’s talk, for all were now intent on reaching the cottage of Dame Dingle.
So the soldiers saddled the horses, and in a few minutes they were galloping away toward the hill. It was a long ride, over rough ground; but finally they came near the hill and saw a tiny, tumbledown cottage just at its foot.
Hastily dismounting, Bud, Fluff, and the queen rushed into the cottage, where a wrinkled old woman was bent nearly double over a crazy-quilt upon which she was sewing patches.
“Where is the cloak?” cried the three, in a breath.
The woman did not raise her head, but counted her stitches in a slow, monotonous tone.
“Sixteen—seventeen—eighteen—”
“Where is the magic cloak?” demanded Zixi, stamping her foot impatiently.
“Nineteen—” said Dame Dingle, slowly. “There! I’ve broken my needle!”
“Answer us at once!” commanded Bud, sternly. “Where is the magic cloak?”