hands and lifting it to peck at his lips as it always loved to do.
"You have come to me safely from far away. You have come from the
place where my dear father is. Have you brought me word from him?"

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!"