He did so. He learned how to take advice before attempting to give it,
to obey before he could righteously command. He assembled round him all
the good and wise of his kingdom--laid all its affairs before them, and
was guided by their opinions until he had maturely formed his own.

This he did sooner than anybody would have imagined who did not know
of his godmother and his traveling-cloak--two secret blessings, which,
though many guessed at, nobody quite understood. Nor did they understand
why he loved so the little upper room, except that it had been his
mother's room, from the window of which, as people remembered now, she
had used to sit for hours watching the Beautiful Mountains.

Out of that window he used to fly--not very often; as he grew older, the
labors of state prevented the frequent use of his traveling-cloak; still
he did use it sometimes. Only now it was less for his own pleasure and
amusement than to see something or investigate something for the good
of the country. But he prized his godmother's gift as dearly as ever.
It was a comfort to him in all his vexations, an enhancement of all his
joys. It made him almost forget his lameness--which was never cured.

However, the cruel things which had been once foreboded of him did not
happen. His misfortune was not such a heavy one, after all. It proved to
be of much less inconvenience, even to himself, than had been feared.
A council of eminent surgeons and mechanicians invented for him a
wonderful pair of crutches, with the help of which, though he never
walked easily or gracefully, he did manage to walk so as to be quite
independent. And such was the love his people bore him that they never
heard the sound of his crutches on the marble palace floors without a
leap of the heart, for they knew that good was coming to them whenever
he approached.