The Prince stirred uneasily. Again the strange quality of the boy’s voice touched some hidden spring of memory. Taking his silence as consent, the boy laid a soft, cool hand on either side of Keiki’s temples, pressing them with his finger-tips. The action, the touch, recalled in an instant a memory that was better than sleeping. It was thus the Lady Wistaria had been wont to woo away the pain that beset his brow when he had lain ill in her father’s house.
Suddenly the Prince clasped his hands over those on his brow. Gradually he was drawing Jiro to a position facing him, when, eluding the Prince’s grasp, Jiro sank to the floor and laid his head at Keiki’s feet.
“Oh, my lord, I beseech you not to be angry with me for my forwardness. It was my solicitude for your pain—”
“Nay, rise,” said the Prince, gently. “Pray do not confound me with apologies.”
With his head still drooping, the boy retreated towards the door.
The Prince smiled at the fear apparent in Jiro’s demeanor.
“You have done me no ill,” he said, kindly; “you have actually soothed away the pain. I thank you.”
