But if the stories that the Shadows told were
printed, they would make a book that no publisher could produce fast
enough to satisfy the buyers. I will record some of the things that the
king heard, for he told them to me soon after. In fact, I was for some
time his private secretary.
"I made him confess before a week was over," said a gloomy old Shadow.
"But what was the good of that?" rejoined a pert young one. "That could
not undo what was done."
"Yes, it could."
"What! bring the dead to life?"
"No; but comfort the murderer. I could not bear to see the pitiable
misery he was in. He was far happier with the rope round his neck, than
he was with the purse in his pocket. I saved him from killing himself
too."
"How did you make him confess?"
"Only by wallowing on the wall a little."
"How could that make him tell?"
"_He_ knows."
The Shadow was silent; and the king turned to another, who was
preparing to speak.
"I made a fashionable mother repent."
"How?" broke from several voices, in whose sound was mingled a touch of
incredulity.
"Only by making a little coffin on the wall," was the reply.
"Did the fashionable mother confess too?"
"She had nothing more to confess than everybody knew."
"What did everybody know then?"
"That she might have been kissing a living child, when she followed a
dead one to the grave.--The next will fare better."
"I put a stop to a wedding," said another.
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