And let all men your virtue know.”
As he spoke the last words he clapped his hands together and shouted; and lo! the parts of the pine tree came suddenly into their right places, and it stood there as whole and as beautiful as it had been before the lightning smote it.
“Good!” cried the young man. “The ointment is as it should be. None could be better.”
Then, with the pot balanced carefully on his shoulder, he started homeward. Every now and then, as he went down the slope, he paused to try the healing mixture on splintered rocks and broken bowlders; and he smiled as he saw the rough stones knit themselves together and the gaping fissures close up and disappear.
When at length he approached his father’s cottage he heard loud groans within—groans of some one suffering deadly pain. He listened and knew that they came from the wounded [[29]]Minstrel; he knew that now there was great need of his magic ointment.
The Graybeard met him at the door. “What news, my son?”
“Good news, my father,” he answered. “Never was there better salve than this. I could fuse the hills together with it if I had the mind to try.”
The father took the pot and carried it into the house. He dipped his finger gently into the ointment; he touched it to the tip of his tongue.
“The mixture seems perfect,” he said. “Now we shall see wonders.”
The Minstrel was lying upon the bed and groaning at every breath. True, the bleeding had ceased, but the fever of Iron was upon him. He knew not where he was. He had forgotten his family, his home, and his sweet country. The madness of Iron had clouded his mind.