“See the madmen!” cried the Fool, clapping his hands in glee.
“By the beard of my uncle!” cried the King. “I feel better! It’s going! It’s gone! It’s all over! I’m cured! Oh, wonderful young man, come to my arms! What do you say? I knew you could do it all the time. I’m cured!”
He grasped my arm and pulled me from the room, and down the stairway to the front door. A great throng filled the grounds, from the door to the gate; and commanding silence, the King announced in a loud voice that I was ready with my cure, and that whoever wished to be cured should give up the remainder of his dead leaves.
There was a moment’s hesitation, but the anguish of their affliction was too great; the people whispered together, doubtless remarking that they would soon get back their leaves in trade; and at any rate they began to file before me, and my healing work commenced; but not before I had applied my salve, in sight of all, to my sister’s palms, and given her immediate relief.
All that day and the next and for several days the work continued, and in each case the itching vanished at once; the city was cured again, and my vat in the public square was filled to the brim, with all the dead orange leaves that the people owned. The glory of my future was beyond calculation; my sister, I resolved, should yet be Queen; and I planned for myself such offices in the state as should give me power even greater than the King’s.
When I awoke in my bed on the following morning, I found that I was rubbing my hands.
I dressed hurriedly, and my sister came to me in tears. She was rubbing her hands.
We hurried to the King. He was running up and down, rubbing his hands.
We fled from him and ran out upon the palace steps, not knowing where next to go; and as we stood there, hesitating, the King’s brother appeared before us, and spoke with excitement.
“Beloved!” he cried. “We love each other—what more is needed? Quick, it is not yet too late! Say that you love me—let me hear it again!”