Then high up in the tree trunk a window opened, and he heard the bird singing.  The Beautiful Wicked Witch’s face appeared at the window, looking down at him.  Her black eyes were sparkling and she nodded good-morning to him as though he were a prince, or at least a grown-up.  He could not help nodding back.  He liked her very much, she was so beautiful and so friendly.

“Come in and get warm,” she called, “and I’ll show you my pretty bird.”

Eric remembered Ivra’s warnings, but he wanted to go in so much that he found himself doing it.  The door tinkled louder music when he touched it, and he pushed his way through, as a bee pushes his way into a flower.

The Witch came running twinklingly down a spiral stairway.  She kissed his mouth, took off his winged cap and coat, threw them somewhere out of sight, and then he had time to look at her well.

Her gown was green satin, the color of the fir boughs, and her little sandals were green satin, too.  A green fir frond bound her forehead; and her black hair hung loose, soft and electric to her waist.  Eric had never seen a prettier person in the world, nor one more kind.

She took his two hands and began to whirl in a happy dance.  Eric danced, too, for joy and good comradeship.  Round and round the room they whirled until their breath was spent.

Then the Beautiful Wicked Witch took him up the spiral staircase to show him the bird.  Up and up they went, until they came to a little room high in the tree.  The floor was carpeted with yellow satin, and yellow curtains hung at the window.  Deep blue mirrors lined the walls, and they reflected Eric and the Beautiful Wicked Witch dozens of times over.

The pretty bird cage, all made of flowers and leaves, hung in the very middle of the room.  Eric stood by it a long time.  He put his fingers through the bars, and stroked the bird’s soft feathers.  But the gorgeous bird paid no attention to him, and did not sing.

“Why doesn’t it hop about?” he asked the Beautiful Wicked Witch.

The Witch frowned and pouted.  “It ought to, I’m sure.  I like to see it hopping.  But it would rather sulk.  It thinks all the time about the forest, and its mate who is out there somewhere.  Sometimes it sings, though.  Its voice is wonderful.”

“Oh, let’s open the cage and free him,” cried Eric.

But the Beautiful Wicked Witch seized his hand.  “No, no, no!  It is mine.  I have caged it in my pretty cage.  And it fits into the room, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Eric.

“Why, you fit into it, too,” said the Witch, looking hard at him.  “Your yellow hair and blue eyes match the yellow and blue flowers.  Would you like me to make a pretty cage for you and put you into it?”

“No, no!” Eric was suddenly afraid of the Beautiful Wicked Witch.