Long, long ago there lived a king who was crude and very much like a savage. He had learned some manners from his Latin neighbors, but mostly he was barbaric, loud, and gruff. He had none of the grace and polish of his neighbors. He was a man of great fancies and even greater enthusiasm. Because he had so much authority as a king, he was able to force some of these fancies into reality. Or at least he tried to.

His personality was normally calm when everything was in order. When there was a little hitch, however, he was exultant and happy. He loved it when things went wrong because that meant that he could then correct them. He loved to make the crooked straight, to crush down the uneven places in life.

He decided that there should be a way to add culture to the lives of his subjects. His method was the public arena. There, humans and beasts performed before audiences. But his fancies asserted themselves here. The arena that he built was not for the honor and glory of gladiators. It was not for beasts to fight each other to the finish. It was not even for throwing religious heretics to the lions. It was, he believed, for the purpose of widening and developing the mental energies of his people. It was a vast amphitheater with encircling galleries, mysterious vaults, and unseen passages. It was to be a means for poetic justice. It was to be a place where crime was punished or virtue rewarded—all by chance.

When the king was interested in people and their crimes, he would dictate that their fate should be decided in the arena. This king knew no traditions from other kingdoms. His only allegiance was to himself and to his own fancies. This fancy, the chance-fate decision in the arena, came about because of his romantic, yet barbaric, idealism. When all the people had gathered in the galleries and the king was seated on his throne high up on one side of the arena, he would give a signal. A door beneath him would open, and the accused person would step out into the amphitheater. Directly opposite the accused there were two doors, exactly alike and side by side. The person on trial had to walk over to these doors and open one of them. He could open whichever door he wanted; he was subject to no pressure from the king or his court. The only influence was that of fate or luck.

If the accused opened one door, a hungry tiger came out. It was the fiercest and most cruel that could be found, and it immediately jumped on him and tore him to pieces as a punishment for his guilt. When the fate of the criminal was thus decided, sad iron bells were rung, and great wails went up from the hired mourners who were posted outside the arena. The audience went home with bowed heads and doleful hearts, said that one so young and fair (or so old and respected) should have merited such a fate.

If he opened the other door, a lady came out. The king always chose the ladies himself. He made sure that each was of the same age and station as the accused and that she was beautiful. The rule was that the accused was to marry her immediately. It didn't matter if he were already married and had a family. The lady was a sign of his innocence, so if the accused already loved another, that other was to be forgotten. It was the king's way. He allowed nothing to interfere with his design. Indeed, immediately after the lady appeared, another door beneath the king opened and out came a priest, musicians, singers, and a troupe of dancers. In a procession, they all cheerfully marched and sang for the couple standing in the middle of the arena. The bells rang, the audience shouted its approval, and the innocent man, preceded by children strewing flowers in the couple's path, led his new bride to his home.

This was the king's semibarbaric method of administering justice, and its fairness is obvious. The criminal could not know which door the lady was behind. He opened whichever door he wanted to without knowing whether in the next instant he was to be eaten or married. On some occasions the tiger came out of one door, and on other occasions it came out of the other. In this system, there was instant punishment for guilt and instant reward for innocence—whether the accused wanted the reward or not. There was no escape from the judgment of the king's arena.

The institution was a popular one. When the people gathered together on one of the trial days, they never knew whether they were to witness a bloody slaughter or a festive wedding. This element of uncertainty usually made the occasion more interesting than it would have been otherwise. The people were entertained, and no one doubted that justice was being served. All believed that the accused had his fate in his own hands.

The semibarbaric king had a daughter whom he loved deeply. She was as passionate, fanciful, and strong as her father and was devoted to him. As is the case in many fairy tales, this daughter, the apple of her father's eye, was in love with a young man who was below her in station. He was a commoner. He was also brave, handsome, and daring, and he loved the royal daughter with all his being. The princess had enough barbarism in her that their love affair was dramatic ... too dramatic. It was a secret for months, but then the king found out about it.

The king didn't hesitate for a minute. He sent the young man to prison and set a date for his trial in the arena. When the date arrived, everyone in the kingdom wanted to attend. They all knew of the king's interest in the case, and there was excitement in the air.

The king's men searched for the fiercest tiger in the realm. They also searched for the fairest maiden in the land so that he could have a fitting bride in case he were found innocent. Of course, everyone knew that he had committed the "crime" of loving the princess, but the king did not allow the facts of the case to alter his decision. The trial would go on as planned. The youth would be gone no matter what happened; he would either be dead or married. The king could enjoy the proceedings for the sport of it.

The day arrived. The people were standing in every corner of the arena. All was ready when the moment came. A signal was given and the door opened, allowing the princess's lover to enter. The crowd gasped. He was handsome. Half the audience did not know that same one so attractive had lived among them; no wonder the princess loved him! How terrible for him to be there!

The princess had thought about this trial day and night for a long time. She knew she couldn't bear to miss the spectacle, but there was another reason for her being there. She had such power, influence, and force of character (as well as plenty of gold) that she did what no one had ever done before; she found out the secret of the doors for that day. She knew in which room stood the hungry tiger and in which waited the lady. She knew, too, that the doors were so thick that there was no way anyone could ever hear some hint from behind them. If she were going to warn her lover, she would have to do it by signal.

She also knew something which made the whole process more complicated. She knew that the lady was one of the most beautiful maidens in the whole country, and the thought of her young man living with this woman enraged her. She hated the lady and hated what might happen.

When the accused bowed to the royal box, as was the custom, he looked only at the princess, and immediately he knew. He had expected her to find out the secret of the doors, and now he knew that she had the answer. It was only left for her to tell him.

His quick glance at her asked, "Which?" It was as plain as if he had shouted it. There was no time to lose; the quick question had to be answered just quickly so that the king would not suspect. Her right hand was resting on a pillow in front of her. She raised it slightly and made a small, fast movement to the right. No one but her lover saw her. Every eye in the arena was fixed on him.

He turned, and with a firm and rapid step he walked across the empty space. Every heart stopped beating, every breath was held, every eye was upon him. Without hesitation, he went to the door on the right and opened it.

Did the tiger come out of that door, or did the lady?

The more we think about this question, the harder it is to answer. It involves a study of the human heart which leads to mazes of passion, love, hate, and excitement. Do not answer this for yourself, but put yourself in the place of the princess.

She was hot-blooded and semibarbaric, and her soul burned with the twin desires of longing and jealousy. She knew that she had already lost him. But to whom?

How often she had lain awake at night imagining the horror of her lover being killed by a tiger! Even in her dreams, she had covered her face with her hands to hide from the cruelty.

But how much more often had she seen him at the other door! In her mind she had screamed and torn her hair when she saw his happy face at opening the door to the lady. Her soul burned in agony as she saw him rush to that woman and then be wedded in the next moment, when all about her were joyous. She lived through the misery of the procession, the happy couple, the singing and dancing, the shouts of the crowd, the laughter of the wandering children. Her tears, of course, were lost in all the joy.

Would it be better for him to die at once? Then he could go to the place after death and wait for her.

And yet, that awful tiger, those shrieks, that blood!

Her instinct had known that he would ask, but she had put off her decision until the last moment. She finally decided, and without hesitation, she indicated the right-hand door.

This is not a question to be taken lightly. Her decision was serious for her, so I do not presume to answer for her. I leave it to all of you. Which came out of the opened door—the lady, or the tiger?