“The Wise One has spoken truly,” returned the Elf, “but he has doubtless told you also that you must wait while this Cloak is woven especially for you.” “That he has,” replied Prince Ember. “But let it be done quickly, I beg of you, for who can tell what the Shadow Witch may suffer at the hands of her brother if my coming be long delayed.” “Not a moment shall be lost,” the Elf assured him. Still holding him by the hand, he drew him to a narrow door at the farther end of the room. He opened it, and revealed beyond it the Prince saw a vast chamber, filled with elves hurrying silently to and fro on tasks strange to him. The moment their master entered with Prince Ember, every elf stood still ready to hear and obey whatever command might be given to them. “Where is the Weaver of the Cloak?” inquired the Elf. “There is work for him to do.” Instantly a very ancient elf separated himself from his companions, and came to stand before the Elf of the Borderland. “I am ready, master,” he said. “The Cloak is to be for this Prince,” the Elf told him. “Use your best skill in the weaving, so that it may be potent against his enemies, for much depends upon it.” “It will not fail him, master,” responded the Weaver confidently. His keen old eyes swept the Prince from head to foot. He needed to take no other measure. Then he turned to a dim loom beside the wall, and standing before it, he began to spread the fairy warp under the watchful eye of the Elf. As he did so the elves came hurrying noiselessly with the magic ash which was to fill it. Deftly the Weaver began to weave, crooning the mystic weaving-song meanwhile, so that the magic of its words might sink into every part of the Cloak, and make its power certain. He feared not to weave it under the eyes of him who should receive it, for he knew well that he who wears the Cloak, may see it woven, and hear the song, but no sooner has the Cloak fallen upon his shoulders than he forgets what his eyes had beheld and his ears heard. Thus the secret of the ancient Weaver remains with the elves of the Borderland. Steadily the Cloak of Ash grew under the skilful hands of the Weaver, steadily the Prince watched the shuttle come and go. Never once did the ancient Weaver rest; never once did he cease to sing his mystic song, nor did the elves pause as they came and went, bringing the magic ash for the Cloak’s fashioning. At last the moment came when the Weaver’s shuttle stopped, the song ceased and the elves stood still. The Elf turned to the Prince. “The Cloak is finished,” he said. He bent down and lifted it soft and silvery from the loom, and Prince Ember stretched eager hands to receive it. [Illustration: Prince Ember stretched eager hands to receive it.]