The great pageant moved on, and still on, under one triumphal arch after
another, and past a bewildering succession of spectacular and symbolical
tableaux, each of which typified and exalted some virtue, or talent, or
merit, of the little king’s. Throughout the whole of Cheapside, from
every penthouse and window, hung banners and streamers; and the richest
carpets, stuffs, and cloth-of-gold tapestried the streets,—specimens of
the great wealth of the stores within; and the splendor of this
throughfare was equaled in the other streets, and in some even
surpassed.
“And all these wonders and these marvels are to welcome me—me!” murmured
Tom Canty.
The mock king’s cheeks were flushed with excitement, his eyes were
flashing, his senses swam in a delirium of pleasure. At this point, just
as he was raising his hand to fling another rich largess, he caught
sight of a pale, astounded face which was strained forward out of the
second rank of the crowd, its intense eyes riveted upon him. A sickening
consternation struck through him; he recognized his mother! and up flew
his hand, palm outward, before his eyes,—that old involuntary gesture,
born of a forgotten episode, and perpetuated by habit. In an instant
more she had torn her way out of the press, and past the guards, and was
at his side. She embraced his leg, she covered it with kisses, she
cried, “O, my child, my darling!” lifting toward him a face that was
transfigured with joy and love. The same instant an officer of the
King’s Guard snatched her away with a curse, and sent her reeling back
whence she came, with a vigorous impulse from his strong arm. The words,
“I do not know you, woman!” were falling from Tom Canty’s lips when this
piteous thing occurred; but it smote him to the heart to see her treated
so; and as she turned for a last glimpse of him, whilst the crowd was
swallowing her from his sight, she seemed so wounded, so broken-hearted,
that a shame fell upon him which consumed his pride to ashes, and
withered his stolen royalty. His grandeurs were stricken valueless; they
seemed to fall away from him like rotten rags.
The procession moved on, and still on, through ever augmenting splendors
and ever augmenting tempests of welcome; but to Tom Canty they were as
if they had not been. He neither saw nor heard. Royalty had lost its
grace and sweetness; its pomps were become a reproach. Remorse was
eating his heart out. He said, “Would God I were free of my captivity!”
_FROM_ “THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN” (1876–83)