Tale II.
When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had missed the end and object of his journey, he forthwith set out again, without loss of time, or so much as returning to his Master and Teacher, Nâgârg′una, but taking only a meal of his cake which never diminished; thus, with similar toils and fears as the first time, he came again at last to the cool grove where lay the child-dead, and among them the Siddhî-kür. And the Siddhî-kür rose up before him, and clambered up the mango-tree. And when the Well-and-wise-walking Khan had summoned him with proud sounding words to come down, threatening that otherwise he would hew down the tree with his axe “White Moon,” the Siddhî-kür came down, rather than that he should destroy the mango-tree. Then he bound him again in his bag of many colours, in which was place to stow away an hundred, and bound the mouth thereof with the cord woven of an hundred threads of different tints, and bore him along to offer to his Master and Teacher, Nâgârg′una.
But at the end of many days’ journey, the Siddhî-kür said,—
“Now, in truth, is the length of this journey like to weary us even to death, as we go along thus without speaking. Wherefore, O Prince! let me entreat thee beguile the way by telling a tale.”
But the Well-and-wise-walking Khan, remembering the words of his Master and Teacher Nâgârg′una, which he spoke, saying, “See thou open not thy lips to speak by the way,” remained silent, and answered him never a word. Then the Siddhî-kür, when he found that he could not be brought to answer him, spake again in this wise: “If thou wilt not tell a tale, then, at least, give some token by which I may know if thou willest that I should tell one, and if thou speak not, at least nod thine head backwards towards me; then will I tell a tale.”
So the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards towards the Siddhî-kür, and the Siddhî-kür told this tale, saying,—
The Gold-spitting Prince.
Long ages ago there was a far-off country where a mighty Khan ruled. Near the source of the chief river of this country was a pool, where lived two Serpent-gods[1], who had command of the water; and as they could shut off the water of the river when they pleased, and prevent it from overflowing and fertilizing the country, the people were obliged to obey their behest, be it what it might. Now, the tribute they exacted of the country was that of a full grown man, to be chosen by lot, every year; and on whoso the lot fell, he had to go, without redemption, whatever his condition in life. Thus it happened one year that the lot fell on the Khan himself. In all the kingdom there was no one of equal rank who could be received instead of him, unless it had been his only son. When his son would have gone in his stead, he answered him, “What is it to me if the Serpents devour me, so that thou, my son, reignest in peace?” But the son said, “Never shall it be that thou, my Khan and father, shouldst suffer this cruel death, while I remain at home. The thought be far from me. Neither will the land receive harm by my death; is not my mother yet alive? and other sons may be born to thee, who shall reign over the land.” So he went to offer himself as food to the Serpent-gods.
As he went along, the people followed him for a long stretch of the way, bewailing him; and then they turned them back. But one there was who turned not back: it was a poor man’s son whom the Prince had all his life had for his friend; he continued following him. Then the Prince turned and said to him, “Walk thou according to the counsels of thy father and thy mother, and be prosperous and happy on the earth. To defend this noble, princely country, and to fulfil the royal word of the Khan, my father, I go forth to be food to the Serpent-gods.”