"What has given the King that antique form of speech?" pursued Norman.
"Before his mind left him, he had as a boy read one book—that of Makso."
"A! a great book!" cried Norman. "There is real fire in his tales of chivalry."
"And poetry, too," added Sforelli, "of no inconsiderable merit. Well, you know how the greatness of Kradenda is ever being sung therein. And ever since the boy, as he has heard but little human speech about him, has had faint echoes of the immortal language of Makso trickling through his brain."
"One hardly realized he was so young," said Norman, with a sudden pity.
"He is your age," replied Sforelli.
"Is there no hope of cure?"
"None," said the doctor, decisively. "None—on my professional honour. His delusions come from mental weakness, not from aberration. I might cure a man who had wandered from the road of reason, but not one who has never taken it."
So saying they started for the palace, on foot as Sforelli advised, to attract less attention.
"You are still determined not to have Andrea killed?" inquired Sforelli.