The Beautiful Wicked Witch laughed.  “Get him if you can,” she said.  Then she turned her back on the children and began to braid her black hair among the mirrors.

They went to the window and waited there, watching her.

“The door doesn’t open out,—­only in, I think,” Eric whispered.  “So we can’t get out.”

“Mother has told me how it would be,” Ivra whispered back.  “We’ll have to wait until she’s asleep and then find a way.”

Then Ivra sat down on the floor and began to rock back and forth and sing a lullaby.  It was a lullaby her mother had sung to her all her babyhood, Ivra sang in a very little voice, almost a murmur only, but by listening Eric and the Beautiful Wicked Witch could catch the words.  She sang the same words over and over and over.

  Night is in the forest,
    Tree Mother is nigh. 
  By-abye, by-abye-bye.

  Sleep is in the forest—­
    His feathers brush your eye. 
  By-abye, by-abye-bye.

  Mother’s arms are holding you,
    Forest dreams are folding you. 
  By-abye, by-abye—­bye.

The Beautiful Wicked Witch sat down before the mirrors after a while, still watching her reflection, but listening to the song, too.  Her head gradually sank lower and lower, first resting chin in hand and at last right down on her arm stretched along the floor.  Her face lay turned towards the children, and they saw the mirth slowly fade in her great black eyes, the lids drop lower and lower,—­and then she was asleep suddenly.  Now she looked almost as young as themselves, and like a pale child who has fallen to sleep at its play.

But the children did not stop to look at her.  Once they were sure she was asleep they were off searching for the door.  Up and down the stairs and all around the rooms they ran on tiptoes.  But it was no use, and at last they came back to the window.

“We must jump,” whispered Ivra.

Eric looked down, and wondered.  It was a long way to the ground!

“The snow is soft beneath the crust,” Ivra said.  “It will only cut us a little.”

“Let’s take the bird,” Eric said.  Ivra ran to it, and opened the cage door.  It hopped onto her finger eagerly, and she held its bill so that it would not sing.

Eric opened the window.  “I’ll jump first,” he whispered.

But Ivra said, “Oh, let’s hold hands and jump together.”

The Beautiful Wicked Witch felt the cold night air from the window on her face, and stirred in her sleep.  Her eyelids quivered.  So the children did not wait a minute more.  They climbed up onto the window sill, Ivra still holding the bird.  “One, two, three,” she whispered, and they jumped.

Out and down they went like two shooting stars and plunked through the snowcrust.  They were up in a second.  Their wrists and elbows were a little bruised and cut, but they were not really hurt at all.  But strange and strange, the bird had fluttered near Ivra’s hand for that second, and then flew straight back up and into the open window.  It had been caged so long it did not really want its freedom after all.  Eric cried out with regret.