‘“The princess is lying on her bed, and has barely a few minutes to live. Oh! can no one save her?”
‘“I can,” answered the third, taking a small box from his turban; “this ointment will cure any illness. But how to reach her in time?”
‘“Give it to me,” said the first. And he wished himself by the bedside of the princess, which was surrounded by the sultan and his weeping courtiers. Clearly there was not a second to lose, for the princess had grown unconscious, and her face cold. Plunging his finger into the ointment he touched her eyes, mouth and ears with the paste, and with beating heart awaited the result.
‘It was swifter than he supposed. As he looked the colour came back into her cheeks, and she smiled up at her father. The sultan, almost speechless with joy at this sudden change, embraced his daughter tenderly, and then turned to the young man to whom he owed her life:
‘“Are you not one of those three whom I sent forth to learn a trade six months ago?” asked he. And the young man answered yes, and that the other two were even now on their way to the palace, so that the sultan might judge between them.’
At this point in his story the nightingale stopped, and asked the prince which of the three he thought had the best right to the princess.
‘The one who had learned how to prepare the ointment,’ replied he.
‘But if it had not been for the man who could see what was happening at a distance they would never have known that the princess was ill,’ said the nightingale. ‘I would give it to him.’ And the strife between them waxed hot, till, suddenly, the listening princess started up from her cushions and cried: