The bright season could not last. In the palace of Caesar the King and his elder sons had watched with growing wrath as the multitudes turned toward the Cathedral of the Holy Crystal Church. For many years the Church had spoken against the court's corruption, its luxury, its injustice, and its shameless pleasures. Now this new work, drawing the hearts of the people to the little prince, was more than they could bear. The nobles, long chafed by the Bishop's rebukes, joined their strength to the King's. Together they struck.
A proclamation was read throughout the kingdom. It declared that the Holy Crystal Church had fallen into madness and treason. The crystal vial, they said, was no gift of Heaven but a subtle poison, a hallucinogenic drug meant to deceive the simple and stir rebellion. Worse still, the Bishop and the little prince were accused of plotting with enemy nations to weaken the realm from within. Thus, in the name of the people's safety, the King commanded that the source of this evil should be cut out.
That very day the soldiers came. They marched upon the cathedral while the people were still gathered after Mass. The little prince stood beside the Bishop at the altar, the vial in his hands, when the doors were flung open with a crash and armed men poured in.
"Stand back, my children," cried the Bishop in a voice like thunder. He stepped forward, his aged frame straight and fearless, spreading his arms to shield the worshippers behind him. "This is the house of God. You shall not profane it."
But the soldiers had their orders. A sword flashed. The Bishop fell where he stood, defending his flock to the last. His blood ran upon the crystal floor that had once been born from an angel's sacrifice. Many priests who tried to protect the people were slain beside him. Then the work of destruction began. Torches were set to the ancient hangings, and soon flames roared up the walls. The beautiful crystals, blessed by long tradition, were pried loose by greedy hands. The soldiers quarreled over them even as the roof began to fall, breaking them off to sell later in the markets.
Outside, the little prince was seized. He struggled to reach the Bishop's body, but rough hands dragged him away. As they marched him through the streets he saw the old man's severed head raised upon a pike and set high upon the city gate, a grisly warning to all who might still believe. The sight burned itself into his soul. He cried out in horror and fury, but no one listened.
Those citizens who dared speak in defence of the Church were rounded up at once. They and their families were thrown into prison and later driven out of the kingdom, sent in chains toward the distant borders. In their exile they carried the story of the little prince and the crystal vial into other lands.
The little prince himself was cast into a dark dungeon beneath the palace. There they stripped him of his dignity as well as his outer garments. They beat him with rods and mocked him with cruel words, calling him traitor, fool, and false prophet. The pain of the body was sharp, but far sharper was the anguish of his spirit.
In the darkness of his cell, chained and bleeding, the little prince felt his whole world collapse. Even the holy place had been reduced to ashes. The Bishop, that good and faithful man, lay dead, his head displayed like that of a common criminal. All the joy and miracles of the past months seemed now only a cruel dream. "How is this possible?" he whispered through swollen lips. "Even the sacred things of God are twisted and broken by the selfishness of men. The very crystals that remember the angel's blood have been torn down and sold for profit. Is there nothing pure left in this world that human hands will not defile?"
A great despair settled over him, heavier than the chains that bound him. For the first time he wondered whether the angel's gift had been in vain. If men could do this to the house of God and to His servant, what hope remained for any mercy?
Yet in the deepest hour of the night, when the pain was worst and the darkness most complete, his hand found its way to a small hidden place in his clothing. There, miraculously preserved through all the violence, was the crystal vial. It still glowed with its faint, pure light. He clutched it tightly to his breast, as a drowning man clings to a spar of wood.
In that black cell, surrounded by stone and shadow, the little prince held the last unbroken thing in all the kingdom.
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