"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