“Zounds! I am afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead. How if
he should counterfeit too, and rise?”
Quite possible! Sir John knew very little of the defunct Percy’s
character. How was he to divine that Hotspur had but been distinguished
by the worser part of valour--brute courage? For aught he knew, the
young Northumbrian might have been as sensible a man as himself. But let
us not interrupt the knight’s soliloquy.
“I am afraid he would prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I’ll make
him sure; _yea, and swear I killed him_. Why may not he rise as well as
I? Nothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees me.”
(This episode of the civil war may be supposed to have taken place in
a sheltered ravine of the plain of Shrewsbury, then intersected by
the numerous branches of a stream, the source of which--on the hill of
Haughmond--is now dried up.)
“Therefore, sirrah, with a new wound in your thigh, come you along with
me.”
Saying these words, Sir John Falstaff inflicted a gash upon the still
warm body of Percy, which he proceeded to hoist on his shoulders. Not
an easy task, considering our knight’s bulk; but he was born to face and
conquer difficulties!
The native impetuosity of the Prince of Wales’s character cannot be
better illustrated than by his impatience to procure a witness of some
kind or another to his recent achievement. In the absence of a better,
he pounced upon his little brother John, Prince of Lancaster, and
possibly the most uninteresting character in English history. He dragged
that mild prince to the scene of action, which they reached just in
time to meet Sir John Falstaff bearing off the mortal remains of the
illustrious Percy.
Bewilderment and utter confusion of the distinguished
visitors--especially Prince Henry.
“Now then, Hal,” said Prince John (I translate the stilted versification
of Shakspeare into familiar prose); “I thought you told me this stout
party had gone to that thingamy from which no what-do-you-call-it
returns?”
“Ahem! so I did,” replied the elder, stammering and blushing a little.
“I saw the individual in question in a positively door-nail condition,
not ten minutes ago; and I can scarcely believe my senses----”
“Mr. Paunch--are you dead?”
No reply.
“Because, if you are, be so kind as to say so--like a man. Seeing is by
no means believing in this exceptional case. I should be an ass, indeed,
if I were to say I am all ears; but I listen attentively for your own
testimony as to whether you are what you appear to be, or not.”
“No, that’s certain,” replied Sir John, throwing down his body (I now
quote the chronicler textually). “I am not a double man. There is Percy:
if your father will do me any honour, so; if not, let him kill the next
Percy himself. I look to be either earl or duke, I can assure you.”
The Prince of Wales scratched his ear, and looked very uncomfortable.
The Prince of Lancaster eyed his brother with an unmistakeable
expression of opinion that the latter was the greatest humbug in the
family--which was saying a good deal.
“Why,--” Prince Henry stammered awkwardly, addressing himself to Sir
John Falstaff,--“Percy I killed myself, and saw thee dead.”
Prince John of Lancaster whistled a popular melody in a low key.