Seeing no sign of it, she turned to the Captain’s cabin-boy, who had just come up, and asked him where the bird of paradise was.
“Come along,” he said, “and you shall see him.” He gave her a hand lest she might fall down the hole; then walking backwards, he led her down the companionway into the Captain’s cabin—a fine room, with polished mahogany walls and mahogany furniture.
In there, sure enough, was the bird of paradise!
The bird was even more beautiful than her imagination had pictured it. It was not alive, yet it stood in the middle of the table—whole and perfect in all its gorgeous plumage.
The little girl climbed up on to a chair and from there to the table. Then she sat down beside the bird and regarded its beauty. The cabin-boy, who stood by, showed her its long, light, drooping feathers.
“Look!” he said. “You can see he’s from Paradise, for he hasn’t any feet.”[[1]]
Now that seemed to fit in very well with her own concept of Paradise: a place where one did not have to walk but moved about on wings. She gazed at the bird in adoration, her hands folded as in prayer. She wondered if the cabin-boy knew it was the bird that protected Captain Strömberg, but dared not ask him.
The child could have sat there all day lost in wonder; but her reverie was suddenly interrupted by loud shouts from the deck. It sounded as if someone were calling, “Selma! Selma!”
Immediately afterwards, they all came rushing into the cabin—Lieutenant Lagerlöf, Back-Kaisa, Fru Lagerlöf, Captain Strömberg, Johan, and Anna. They were so many they quite filled the room.
“How did you get here?” they asked as with one breath—wonder and amazement depicted on their faces.