“And felt more. Yet you will perhaps think the result of all my experience very slight, for I can only say unto thee, trust not in thyself.”
“It is a great truth,” remarked Iduna, “and leads to a higher one.”
“Even so,” replied the Eremite. “We are full of wisdom in old age, as in winter this river is full of water, but the fire of youth, like the summer sun, dries up the stream.”
Iduna did not reply. The Eremite attracted her attention to a patch of cresses on the opposite bank of the stream. “Every morn I rise only to discover fresh instances of omnipotent benevolence,” he exclaimed. “Yesterday ye tasted my honey and my fish. To-day I can offer ye a fresh dainty. We will break our fast in this pleasant glen. Rest thou here, gentle youth, and I will summon thy brother to our meal. I fear me much he does not bear so contented a spirit as thyself.”
“He is older, and has seen more,” replied Iduna.
The Eremite shook his head, and leaning on his staff, returned to the cavern. Iduna remained, seated on a mossy rock, listening to the awakening birds, and musing over the fate of Iskander. While she was indulging in this reverie, her name was called. She looked up with a blush, and beheld Nicæus.
“How fares my gentle comrade?” inquired the Prince of Athens.
“As well as I hope you are, dear Nicæus. We have been indeed fortunate in finding so kind a host.”
“I think I may now congratulate you on your safety,” said the Prince. “This unfrequented pass will lead us in two days to Epirus, nor do I indeed now fear pursuit.”
“Acts and not words must express in future how much we owe to you,” said Iduna. “My joy would be complete if my father only knew of our safety, and if our late companion were here to share it.”