“I have seen a casket like this. I have _had_ a casket like this. Nay, but the very earliest thing that ever I can remember is a casket like this from which no one knew how to release this little living spirit.” For the little spirit was fast in the crystal prison, and if one broke the casket, one would almost certainly harm the spirit--but what other way was there to do? With the casket in his hand and the little spirit fluttering within, Hazen ran back below stairs to the old man. “Look!” Hazen cried. “This casket! It is from the closet shelf of some child’s room. I remember a casket such as this, and within it a little living spirit. I have _had_ a casket such as this! What does it mean?” Then the old man, who had been keeper there when the castle was taken, trembled and peered into Hazen’s face. “Who are you?” the old man cried. “Who are you--and what is your name?” “Alas,” said Hazen, sadly, “I was but the furnace boy to the king of a neighbouring country, and who I am I do not know. But as for my name, that is Hazen, and I know not what else.” Then the old man cried out, and tried to bow himself, and to kiss Hazen’s hand. “Prince Hazen!” cried he. “You are no other. Ah, God be praised. You are the son of my own beloved king.” As well as he could for his joy and agitation, the old man told Hazen everything: how the castle had been taken by that king of a neighbour country--who did _not_ know that neighbours are nearly one’s own family--how Hazen had been made prisoner, and how he was really heir to this kingdom and to all its ample lands. And how the magic casket, which after all these years the old man now remembered, was to make Hazen, and no other, wise and _really_ good and loved and beautiful, if only the little spirit could be freed. “But how am I to do that?” Hazen cried. “For to break the casket would be to harm the spirit. And what other way is there to do?” “Alas,” answered the old man, “that I do not know. I think that this you must do alone. As for me, my life is almost spent. And now that I have seen you, my prince, the son of my dear sovereign, there is left to me but to die in peace.” At this, Hazen, remembering how much he owed the wonderful old man for that enchanted talk in the wood, when he had taught him fascinating things about the stars and the earth and the ways of men, and had shown him the inside of his own head and all those Selves of his and he their king if he would be so--remembering all these things Hazen longed to do something for him in return. But what could he do for him, he the heir of a conquered kingdom and a desolate palace? Yet the old man had been his father’s servant; and it was he whom the Thought at the fountain had bidden him to help; but chiefly Hazen’s heart overflowed with simple pity and tenderness for the helpless one. And in that pity the Thought spoke again:-- “Give him the casket,” it said.