There was a pause—­and then an echo of sound.  The curtain trembled; it was pressed forward at one side.  Slowly and with awful majesty King John appeared.  His crown was on his head, his kingly robe of ermine fell from his shoulders, there was a kingly staff in his hand.  His eyes were like a storm-cloud, his brow like thunder.

It was now that Truth spoke more impressively than she had done before, saying,—­

“And you—­it is true that you were not Prince Arthur’s father, but only his guardian.  And yet it may be you would atone for your crimes against the poor fatherless prince.  Come, Sire—­this boy who knew no father save you:  if I give him back into your keeping can you promise to love him better than you love yourself?”

The king frowned more darkly.  “Better than I love myself!” he said incredulously.  “Can a king love any one better than he loves himself?”

Truth continued:  “I cannot read the heart of kings.  It is for you, Sire, to speak.  I know not what a king’s highest vision may be; but I know no man should have power over another, save it be the power of self-sacrificing love.  I await your answer—­and the prince waits.”

But the king repeated, musingly and darkly—­“Can a king love any one better than he loves himself?”

There was a moment of suspense; and then Truth would have moved on; but at the last instant the king cried out, “Stay a moment—­I command you!” Twice he tried to speak; and then he said:  “That little prince, so helpless and beautiful!  You need not think that I have not repented me of my sins toward him.  In the dark nights the winds have brought me back the echo of his sighs; and by day I have seen in every ray of sunlight the gleam of his hair, and in the blue sky the beaming eyes of him.  Perhaps if I might try again, though he stood in my way . . . if you would send him hither . . .”

But he had not promised, and though Prince Arthur waited, ready to go to him, Truth did not give the signal.

The king was frowning mightily and saying to himself, “Can a king love any one better than he loves himself?  Nay, that could not be!”

In a nervous, slinking manner, he drew back behind his curtain.

Prince Arthur drew his cloak about him more closely, as if he were cold.  Then with an air almost spectral, yet very sad, he drew further and further away, always keeping his eyes upon the picture of the king.

He came to the folded hangings which opened no one knew whither.  He parted them and passed out.  While his hand still clung to the hangings there came a flash of lightning which revealed the chaos of nothingness without.  Thunder rumbled.  Then the hangings fell back into place and the prince was seen no more.

So it went on until all the children had been restored to their parents—­all save Everychild.  And now Truth paused before the curtain whereon the likeness of Everychild’s parents was painted.