Just then the deep, sweet song of a nightingale swept across the still wastes of the night.

“Saved!” the king said.  “Saved!  It is the sacred bird, and the prophecy is come true.  The gods themselves protected me from error in the choice.”

He could hardly contain his joy; he could not word his gratitude.  Every few moments, now he thought he caught the sound of approaching succor.  But each time it was a disappointment; no succor came.  The dull hours drifted on.  Still no help came—­but still the sacred bird sang on.  He began to have misgivings about his choice, but he stifled them.  Toward dawn the bird ceased.  The morning came, and with it thirst and hunger; but no succor.  The day waxed and waned.  At last the king cursed the nightingale.

Immediately the song of the thrush came from out the wood.  The king said in his heart, “This was the true-bird—­my choice was false—­succor will come now.”

But it did not come.  Then he lay many hours insensible.  When he came to himself, a linnet was singing.  He listened with apathy.  His faith was gone.  “These birds,” he said, “can bring no help; I and my house and my people are doomed.”  He turned him about to die; for he was grown very feeble from hunger and thirst and suffering, and felt that his end was near.  In truth, he wanted to die, and be released from pain.  For long hours he lay without thought or feeling or motion.  Then his senses returned.  The dawn of the third morning was breaking.  Ah, the world seemed very beautiful to those worn eyes.  Suddenly a great longing to live rose up in the lad’s heart, and from his soul welled a deep and fervent prayer that Heaven would have mercy upon him and let him see his home and his friends once more.  In that instant a soft, a faint, a far-off sound, but oh, how inexpressibly sweet to his waiting ear, came floating out of the distance: 

“Waw . . . he! waw . . . he! waw-he!—­waw-he!—­waw-he!”

“That, oh, that song is sweeter, a thousand times sweeter than the voice of the nightingale, thrush, or linnet, for it brings not mere hope, but certainty of succor; and now, indeed, am I saved!  The sacred singer has chosen itself, as the oracle intended; the prophecy is fulfilled, and my life, my house, and my people are redeemed.  The ass shall be sacred from this day!”

The divine music grew nearer and nearer, stronger and stronger and ever sweeter and sweeter to the perishing sufferer’s ear.  Down the declivity the docile little donkey wandered, cropping herbage and singing as he went; and when at last he saw the dead horse and the wounded king, he came and snuffed at them with simple and marveling curiosity.  The king petted him, and he knelt down as had been his wont when his little mistress desired to mount.  With great labor and pain the lad drew himself upon the creature’s back, and held himself there by aid of the generous ears.  The ass went singing forth from the place and carried the king to the little peasant-maid’s hut.  She gave him her pallet for a bed, refreshed him with goat’s milk, and then flew to tell the great news to the first scouting-party of searchers she might meet.