“Exactly so, Herbert,” remarked Lathom, “the moral is decidedly the best part of this tale. The emperor is our Saviour; the daughter, the human soul. Measuring the elements, is typical of subduing the lust of the flesh. The fiery horse is a sinner changed by repentance; and the small bright stone, that conquers the power of fire, is a true and lively faith in our Saviour, utterly subjugating the fire of pride, luxury, and avarice.”
“What is the tale of the marriage by racing?” asked Thompson.
“Hardly worth relating at length.”
“Except as a hint to our poor friend Reginald.”
“The lady is to be won by no one who cannot outrun her. After many failures, comes one called Abibas, a poor, but shrewd fellow. Knowing the failings of the young lady, he prepares a garland of roses, a beautiful silken girdle, and a golden ball, on which was written, ‘whosoever plays with me, shall never be tired.’ The race begins, and the lady is just passing her competitor, when he skilfully jerks the rose garland on to her head. Attracted by the smell of the flowers, and despising the slow pace of Abibas, the lady stops to admire, and Abibas gets well ahead. She soon throws away the garland, and is off again after her competitor; nearer and nearer she comes, when Abibas slily drops the embroidered girdle in her path. She stops—admires—takes it up, and again loses ground. Again she throws away the tempting bait, and renews the race; the distance between her and her suitor is soon lessened, and the race draws towards its end. As a last resource, he casts the golden ball before her. She stops—reads the inscription—determines to try it for a moment—goes on and on with her pleasure, and is only awakened from her folly by the cries that hail Abibas as the winner of the race and the lady.”
“What makes you look so solemn, Herbert? Can you not persuade the repudiating father in your case, to run a race with you for the lady.”
“Tut-tut, Thompson; I was thinking whether any of those persons who promote or sanction what the world calls marriages of convenience, in which every one admits that love, or identity of feelings, has nothing at all to do, ever read the commencement of the exhortation in the marriage service. Surely it can never occur to them, that we are there told that marriage signifies unto us the mystical union between our Saviour and his Church.”
“It were charity to suppose they were ignorant,” replied Lathom; “but let us leave these speculations; we are by no means in a proper tone of mind for them, and are more ready to laugh than to reason.”
“Let us then return to our sorcerers and witches,” said Thompson.
“Nay, rather let me demand your attention for a tale of some length, but not less interest, and which combines just sufficient magic in its incidents to satisfy Herbert’s love of the marvellous. I will read you the story of