Pinocchio

‘If I had enough breath to get to that house, perhaps I’d be safe,’ he told himself.

Wasting no time, he ran through the wood, with the assassins on his track.

After a desperate race of nearly two hours, he arrived at last, worn out, at the door of the little house.

He knocked, but no one answered.

He knocked again, louder, for he heard the footsteps of the assassins; but all was silent as before.

Seeing that it was useless to knock, he began kicking the door, and beating it with his head. At that, a lovely child opened the window. Her hair was blue, and her face as white as wax; her eyes were closed, and her hands were crossed on her breast.

Without moving her lips she said in a very low voice that seemed to come from another world, ‘There is nobody in this house. They are all dead.’

‘But at least you should open the door and let me in,’ cried Pinocchio, weeping, and entreating her.

‘I am dead, too.’

‘Dead? Then what are you doing at the window?’

‘I am waiting for the bier to come, and take me away.’

As she said this she disappeared, and the window closed itself, silently.

‘Oh, beautiful blue-haired child,’ cried Pinocchio, ‘open the door, for pity’s sake! Have mercy on a poor boy pursued by assass –’

But before he could finish, he felt himself seized by the neck, and heard those cruel threatening voices, ‘This time you won’t escape!’

The puppet, feeling that his end was near, began to tremble, so violently that the joints of his wooden legs creaked, and the gold pieces under his tongue clinked together.

‘Now, then,’ demanded the assassins, ‘will you open your mouth, or will you not? You won’t answer, eh? Well, leave it to us. We’ll open it for you this time!’

And, drawing two great knives as sharp as razors – Slash! they stabbed him savagely.

Luckily the puppet was made of the hardest wood, and the knives broke into a thousand pieces. Only the handles remained in the assassins’ hands, who stood staring at each other.

‘Now I see,’ said one of them, ‘he must be hung. Let us hang him!’

‘Let us hang him!’ repeated the other.

No sooner said than done. They bound his arms behind his back and, putting a running noose around his throat, they tied him to a branch of a big oak tree.

Then they sat down on the grass, and waited for his last kick; but after three hours, the puppet’s eyes were still wide open, and he was kicking stronger than ever.

Losing their patience, and tired of waiting, they turned to Pinocchio, and said with a sneering voice, ‘Good-bye, until tomorrow, when we shall be back. And let’s hope you’ll be so polite as to see that we find you very dead, and your mouth wide open!’ Then they left.

Meanwhile, a stormy north wind had begun to blow, and it raged, and whistled, and blew the poor puppet back and forth as fast as a bell-clapper on a wedding-day. It hurt him dreadfully, and the running noose tightened around his throat so that he could not breathe.

Little by little his eyes grew dim, and, although he felt that death was near, still he hoped that some kind person might come and save him. He waited and waited, but nobody came – absolutely nobody.

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