John was just stooping to pet the frightened deer, when an arrow
whizzed over his shoulder and struck the creature in the haunch. The
poor animal gave a cry of pain, and blood dyed the gray mantle of the
Hermit, the first blood shed in that place of peace.

With a shout of anger John leaped up and looked over his shoulder. A
familiar wicked face grinned back at him, as a horse and rider galloped
into the forest. The King's son had skulked behind to shoot that shaft.

"My son!" cried the Hermit, laying trembling hands on John's shoulder.
"It was meant for you. You would have died had you not stooped at that
moment to caress the doe."

"Poor doe!" said John, kneeling beside her and busying himself with the
arrow. "You have saved my life. Now we must save yours. My father, I
think she is not badly hurt."

And he began to stanch the blood and bind up the wound with the skill
which the Hermit had taught him.

But the old man stood for a long time gazing into the forest after the
party of huntsmen. "A murderer and a coward," he said. "In sanctuary
he has shed innocent blood. For many evil deeds the price will surely
be paid. And the price is heavy."




XVII