Once more the Prince gave his promise, and stretching his hands in gratitude to the giver of so priceless a treasure, poured out his thanks.
But the Elf checked him. “Speak not of it,” he protested kindly. “The elves of the Borderland rejoice to have a part in any noble undertaking. Only succeed, and we are well repaid.”
“The Wise One has said that I shall be victorious,” declared the Prince confidently. “And when my task is done, and the Shadow Witch has returned in freedom to her own land, I shall preserve as my chief treasure this marvelous Cloak, which you have been at such pains to weave for me.”
The Elf smiled and shook his head. “Not so,” he answered. “None takes the Cloak of Ash from the Borderland.”
“Then I will return it safe to your hands,” the Prince assured him.
“There will be no need,” replied the Elf, “for the Cloak perishes when its work is done.”
With these words he led him from the dim room where the marvel had been wrought, and brought him to the outer threshold of his house. There the Prince bade him farewell.
“Good fortune go with you,” responded the friendly Elf in a cautious undertone. “Put on the Cloak now, and go forth.”
In obedience to his words, Prince Ember threw the Cloak about him and fastened it securely. As its soft and delicate folds enveloped him, the Cloak became invisible at the same time that the Prince himself became fully concealed by it.
He lifted the latch and opened the door and passed silently out into the Borderland.