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This student of Machiavelli's "Prince," without passion or hate, pity or regret, marked men for destruction, as a woodman does tall trees, the highest and proudest names in the Kingdom being set down in his little notebook under the head of either "Heresy" or "Treason."
"I verily believe that all are going mad," he thought. As he went away, he heard Bly say: "Verily, if you doubt that this one Martin is a witch, fall but once in her power, and you will give ear to what I have said of her." Next day he met John Kembal, a woodman. Kembal had his axe on his shoulder, and his face was very pale. "Charles, why did you not tarry in the west?" he asked.
"For goodness sake don't drop that anchor," said the Tin Woodman anxiously. "Why not?" inquired the Scarecrow. "If you did I'd tumble to the ground, where my tin would be badly dented by the fall. Also you would shoot into the air and alight somewhere among the tree-tops." "Then," said the Scarecrow, earnestly, "I shall hold fast to the anchor."
Gaston, who knew only one-half of the errand upon which they had come, produced the pieces of silver that the Rector and John had sent, with a message of thanks to the old woodman for his help in directing the Prince and his company to the robbers' cave at such a favourable moment.
"And that's about what they look like," replied Martin. "Look at 'em!" The woodman was naturally a rougher and even wilder figure than the gardener. His face also was brown, and looked like an antique parchment, and it was framed in an outlandish arrangement of raven beard and whiskers, which was really a fashion fifty years ago, but might have been five thousand years old or older.
"And perhaps Nimmie Amee will be with him," said the Scarecrow in a cheerful voice. While they waited, the Tin Woodman went to the door of the workshop and, finding it unlocked, entered and looked curiously around the room where he had been made. "It seems almost like home to me," hie told his friends, who had followed him in.
"What sort of a Professor is your husband?" inquired the Tin Woodman curiously. "He is Professor of Cabbage Culture and Corn Perfection. He is very famous in his own family, and would be the wonder of the world if he went abroad," said Mrs. Swyne in a voice that was half proud and half irritable.
As the woodman spoke, he handed to Count Emerich, with a hoarse whisper, a bloody pocket-book, taken from the dead body, and turning to Juana, said something loud and threatening to her in the Russian tongue; at which the lady only bowed her head, seeming of all in the hut to be the least surprised or concerned at the death of her brother.
There was something strangely interesting in this simple circumstance. Imagine the long-dead woodman, and his long-dead wife and family, and the old man who was a little child when the wood was cut, coming back from their graves, and trying to make a fire with this mossy fuel. September 19th.
It was a lovely country, with plenty of flowers and fruit trees and sunshine to cheer them, and had they not felt so sorry for the poor Scarecrow, they could have been very happy. They walked along as fast as they could, Dorothy only stopping once to pick a beautiful flower; and after a time the Tin Woodman cried out: "Look!"
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