At his rough tones and gestures the birds fluttered away, frightened, and the animals slunk into the corners, trembling.  The peace of the little hut was rudely disturbed.

“Nay, my son, nay!” cried the old man in horror.  “Say not such wicked words!  See how you frighten our peaceful friends.  What have I tried to teach you?  It is not yours to avenge.  The Lord himself will punish as he sees best.  Perhaps even now he chastens that wicked heart.  Already the King has lost his dearest, oldest son.  He was killed five years ago while hunting a wild boar in the forest.  But now—­”

At this moment there was a loud knock on the door of the hut.  The Hermit and John started and looked at each other in wonder.  When had such a thing happened before!  Brutus and the wolf arose, bristling.  The bear growled savagely.  The raven gave a screech of fear and burrowed under John’s cot.  There was a moment’s pause.  Then the Hermit, crossing himself, called loudly,—­

“Enter, if your errand be peace.  Enter, in the name of the Lord.”

Quickly the latch clicked and the door flew open.  Into the midst of the startled group stumbled a man, breathless and covered with dust from head to foot.  His hat was gone.  His hair was disheveled, and his eyes bloodshot.

“Hasten!” he cried, turning to the Hermit.  “You are the man I seek,—­you, skilled in herbs and healing.  The King sends for you.”

[Illustration:  The King sends for you.]

“The King!” The Hermit and John spoke the word together, staring wildly.

“Yes, the King,” repeated the man.  “I have killed my horse to get here.  He fell in the forest yonder, even as I spied the light from your window.  There is no time to be lost.  We must go on foot to the nearest town, where horses may be had.  Hasten, old man, and bring your herbs and balsams.”

“But whither?  And for what purpose?” asked the Hermit, still standing with one trembling hand on the holy book.

“The King’s son is wounded,” cried the messenger.  “Five days ago he was hunting the deer, and an arrow, glancing falsely, pierced his breast.  He was grievously hurt.  Even now he may be dying.  Why do we waste words?  The physicians have done their best, but they have given him up at last.  The King raved; he was beyond reason.  Suddenly, in his madness he spoke of you, the wizard of this forest.  He recalled that day when you cursed him for the sake of your brute creatures.  He vowed it was all enchantment.  ‘Send for the wizard!’ he cried.  ’Let him cure my son.  He dare not refuse, for he claims to be a servant of God.’”

The Hermit was trembling now with emotion.  “It is the Lord’s will!” he said.  “He was wounded while hunting an innocent beast.  On the strength and speed of another beast hung his chance for life.  And now, only with the aid of another can we reach him in time.—­Nay, upon a fourth we must rely to find our way out of the forest.  Brutus only can help us.  But let us hasten.  Come, my friend!  Back to the city once more.”  Calling to the dog, he began to make hurried preparations for departure.