"In us a well of water springing up," he murmured, as if to himself, as he drank and was refreshed. And touching the vase again, it folded up, like a convolvulus going to sleep when the sun sets.
I wondered he had not had the courtesy to offer me a draught.
He read my thoughts, and said, "This water is untransferable. Each of us must have his own jewel."
"Then," I replied, "if your Prince left those jewels to you at his departure, and has not returned since, how can his followers have increased, if this token is essential to them, and, indeed, as you intimated, an inducement to many to enlist under his banner?"
"It is free to all, and yet a secret," he replied. "Whenever any one desires to enlist in our Prince's service, he must repair alone, before daybreak, to a lonely beach on our shores, and wait there for what the King will send. There, when the sun rises, not always the first morning, or the second, or the third, but always at last, his first rays gleam on a new jewel, exactly like the others, sparkling among the shells and pebbles. The young soldier takes it up, presses it to his lips, murmurs the name written on it, binds it on his heart, and it is his own, and he is the King's for ever. None ever saw it come, though some fancy they have seen a streak of light on the sea when it first appears, as of the track of an illumination out on the waters."
"'What name is engraved on it?" I asked.
"The King's name," he replied, bowing his head reverently.
"May I see it," I said.
"You could not," he replied, gravely. "None of us can read that name, except on our own jewels."
I was silent for a moment.