With a soft coo the pigeon nestled closer in John’s arms.  Reaching under its wing, he found a scroll of writing tied there securely with a silken cord.

“A letter from my father!” he cried, untying it eagerly.

It was indeed a long letter in the good man’s clear script.  It told of their safe arrival, after a hard journey through the night; of their reception by the King.  They had come almost too late.  But when they arrived the Prince was still breathing.  They were ushered into his chamber, where he lay white and still.  No one could rouse him to life or consciousness.  By his bedside sat the King, his face like a mountain-top wrapped in clouds.

“Save my son!” he had cried when he saw the Hermit.  “Save my son, sorcerer, and I will give you whatever your heart craves.”

“I am no sorcerer,” the Hermit had answered.  “I am God’s servant, with some skill in healing, because I have studied the work of His hands and the uses of His gifts.  If it be His will, I may save the young man.  If otherwise, we may not hope to prevail.”

“Oh, he must not die!” cried the King.  “You foretold it, I remember, in the forest.  But think—­he is my only son.  He must be king after me.  He must live!”

“Other sons have died,” said the Hermit solemnly.  “Other princes have not lived to reign.  And what of them?”

The King shuddered.  “Save my son!” he repeated.  “Only save this boy, and I will do whatever you ask.”

“Then” (said the Hermit’s letter) “I did my best.  I bathed the youth’s wound with my healing balsam.  I gave him soothing draughts to drink.  I sat by his bedside and prayed that the Lord’s will might be done through me.  And then came a change.  A faint color blossomed in his cheeks.  His lips trembled; his eyes opened and he looked at me.  Then he sighed and closed his eyes.  What he thought I know not.  But he had paused in his march towards death.  From that day he mended.  The Prince’s wound is now healed.  The King’s gratitude knew no bounds.  He promised me rewards beyond belief,—­which, as you know, mean naught to me.

“But, John, a strange thing has befallen.  The Prince should now be well upon the road to health.  He should be gaining strength every day.  There seems no reason otherwise.  But such happens not.  He lies passive and dazed.  He seems not to care whether he lives or dies.  He never speaks nor smiles, only looks sometimes at me as if he wanted to ask me something.  The doctors say that he is slowly dying.

“And now, John,” concluded the Hermit’s letter, “now comes the reason for these long, tedious words to you.  I have done my utmost, but I am powerless.  Will you come?  Will you try what your own skill and youth may do?  It may be your mission in life to save this lad who tried to kill you.  I know that if he could but once smile, he would get well.  Therein lies your power.  Come, as quickly as you may.  Bring with you our animal friends who cannot be left behind.  Brutus will lead you to the village, and thence you must find your way to the Capital.  And one word more:  if you find yourself in trouble or need, show the silver talisman which you wear about your neck, and I think all will be well.  Remember my teachings, John, and come as soon as may be.”