London was fifteen hundred years old, and was a great town--for that day.

It had a hundred thousand inhabitants--some think double as many. The

streets were very narrow, and crooked, and dirty, especially in the part

where Tom Canty lived, which was not far from London Bridge. The houses

were of wood, with the second story projecting over the first, and the

third sticking its elbows out beyond the second. The higher the houses

grew, the broader they grew. They were skeletons of strong criss-cross

beams, with solid material between, coated with plaster. The beams were

painted red or blue or black, according to the owner's taste, and this

gave the houses a very picturesque look. The windows were small, glazed

with little diamond-shaped panes, and they opened outward, on hinges,

like doors.

The house which Tom's father lived in was up a foul little pocket called

Offal Court, out of Pudding Lane. It was small, decayed, and rickety,

but it was packed full of wretchedly poor families. Canty's tribe

occupied a room on the third floor. The mother and father had a sort of

bedstead in the corner; but Tom, his grandmother, and his two sisters,

Bet and Nan, were not restricted--they had all the floor to themselves,

and might sleep where they chose. There were the remains of a blanket or

two, and some bundles of ancient and dirty straw, but these could not

rightly be called beds, for they were not organised; they were kicked

into a general pile, mornings, and selections made from the mass at

night, for service.

Bet and Nan were fifteen years old--twins. They were good-hearted girls,

unclean, clothed in rags, and profoundly ignorant. Their mother was like

them. But the father and the grandmother were a couple of fiends. They

got drunk whenever they could; then they fought each other or anybody

else who came in the way; they cursed and swore always, drunk or sober;

John Canty was a thief, and his mother a beggar. They made beggars of

the children, but failed to make thieves of them. Among, but not of, the

dreadful rabble that inhabited the house, was a good old priest whom the

King had turned out of house and home with a pension of a few farthings,

and he used to get the children aside and teach them right ways secretly.

Father Andrew also taught Tom a little Latin, and how to read and write;

and would have done the same with the girls, but they were afraid of the

jeers of their friends, who could not have endured such a queer

accomplishment in them.

All Offal Court was just such another hive as Canty's house. Drunkenness,

riot and brawling were the order, there, every night and nearly all night

long. Broken heads were as common as hunger in that place. Yet little

Tom was not unhappy. He had a hard time of it, but did not know it. It

was the sort of time that all the Offal Court boys had, therefore he

supposed it was the correct and comfortable thing. When he came home

empty-handed at night, he knew his father would curse him and thrash him

first, and that when he was done the awful grandmother would do it all

over again and improve on it; and that away in the night his starving

mother would slip to him stealthily with any miserable scrap or crust she

had been able to save for him by going hungry herself, notwithstanding

she was often caught in that sort of treason and soundly beaten for it by

her husband.

No, Tom's life went along well enough, especially in summer. He only

begged just enough to save himself, for the laws against mendicancy were

stringent, and the penalties heavy; so he put in a good deal of his time

listening to good Father Andrew's charming old tales and legends about

giants and fairies, dwarfs and genii, and enchanted castles, and gorgeous

kings and princes. His head grew to be full of these wonderful things,

and many a night as he lay in the dark on his scant and offensive straw,

tired, hungry, and smarting from a thrashing, he unleashed his

imagination and soon forgot his aches and pains in delicious picturings

to himself of the charmed life of a petted prince in a regal palace. One

desire came in time to haunt him day and night: it was to see a real

prince, with his own eyes. He spoke of it once to some of his Offal

Court comrades; but they jeered him and scoffed him so unmercifully that

he was glad to keep his dream to himself after that.

He often read the priest's old books and got him to explain and enlarge

upon them. His dreamings and readings worked certain changes in him,

by-and-by. His dream-people were so fine that he grew to lament his shabby

clothing and his dirt, and to wish to be clean and better clad. He went

on playing in the mud just the same, and enjoying it, too; but, instead

of splashing around in the Thames solely for the fun of it, he began to

find an added value in it because of the washings and cleansings it

afforded.

Tom could always find something going on around the Maypole in Cheapside,

and at the fairs; and now and then he and the rest of London had a chance

to see a military parade when some famous unfortunate was carried

prisoner to the Tower, by land or boat. One summer's day he saw poor Anne

Askew and three men burned at the stake in Smithfield, and heard an

ex-Bishop preach a sermon to them which did not interest him. Yes, Tom's

life was varied and pleasant enough, on the whole.

By-and-by Tom's reading and dreaming about princely life wrought such a

strong effect upon him that he began to ACT the prince, unconsciously.

His speech and manners became curiously ceremonious and courtly, to the

vast admiration and amusement of his intimates. But Tom's influence

among these young people began to grow now, day by day; and in time he

came to be looked up to, by them, with a sort of wondering awe, as a

superior being. He seemed to know so much! and he could do and say such

marvellous things! and withal, he was so deep and wise! Tom's remarks,

and Tom's performances, were reported by the boys to their elders; and

these, also, presently began to discuss Tom Canty, and to regard him as a

most gifted and extraordinary creature. Full-grown people brought their

perplexities to Tom for solution, and were often astonished at the wit

and wisdom of his decisions. In fact he was become a hero to all who

knew him except his own family--these, only, saw nothing in him.

Privately, after a while, Tom organised a royal court! He was the

prince; his special comrades were guards, chamberlains, equerries, lords

and ladies in waiting, and the royal family. Daily the mock prince was

received with elaborate ceremonials borrowed by Tom from his romantic

readings; daily the great affairs of the mimic kingdom were discussed in

the royal council, and daily his mimic highness issued decrees to his

imaginary armies, navies, and viceroyalties.

After which, he would go forth in his rags and beg a few farthings, eat

his poor crust, take his customary cuffs and abuse, and then stretch

himself upon his handful of foul straw, and resume his empty grandeurs in

his dreams.

And still his desire to look just once upon a real prince, in the flesh,

grew upon him, day by day, and week by week, until at last it absorbed

all other desires, and became the one passion of his life.

One January day, on his usual begging tour, he tramped despondently up

and down the region round about Mincing Lane and Little East Cheap, hour

after hour, bare-footed and cold, looking in at cook-shop windows and

longing for the dreadful pork-pies and other deadly inventions displayed

there--for to him these were dainties fit for the angels; that is,

judging by the smell, they were--for it had never been his good luck to

own and eat one. There was a cold drizzle of rain; the atmosphere was

murky; it was a melancholy day. At night Tom reached home so wet and

tired and hungry that it was not possible for his father and grandmother

to observe his forlorn condition and not be moved--after their fashion;

wherefore they gave him a brisk cuffing at once and sent him to bed. For

a long time his pain and hunger, and the swearing and fighting going on

in the building, kept him awake; but at last his thoughts drifted away to

far, romantic lands, and he fell asleep in the company of jewelled and

gilded princelings who live in vast palaces, and had servants salaaming

before them or flying to execute their orders. And then, as usual, he

dreamed that HE was a princeling himself.

All night long the glories of his royal estate shone upon him; he moved

among great lords and ladies, in a blaze of light, breathing perfumes,

drinking in delicious music, and answering the reverent obeisances of the

glittering throng as it parted to make way for him, with here a smile,

and there a nod of his princely head.

And when he awoke in the morning and looked upon the wretchedness about

him, his dream had had its usual effect--it had intensified the

sordidness of his surroundings a thousandfold. Then came bitterness, and

heart-break, and tears.

Chapter III. Tom's meeting with the Prince.

Tom got up hungry, and sauntered hungry away, but with his thoughts busy

with the shadowy splendours of his night's dreams. He wandered here and

there in the city, hardly noticing where he was going, or what was

happening around him. People jostled him, and some gave him rough

speech; but it was all lost on the musing boy. By-and-by he found

himself at Temple Bar, the farthest from home he had ever travelled in

that direction. He stopped and considered a moment, then fell into his

imaginings again, and passed on outside the walls of London. The Strand

had ceased to be a country-road then, and regarded itself as a street,

but by a strained construction; for, though there was a tolerably compact

row of houses on one side of it, there were only some scattered great

buildings on the other, these being palaces of rich nobles, with ample

and beautiful grounds stretching to the river--grounds that are now

closely packed with grim acres of brick and stone.

Tom discovered Charing Village presently, and rested himself at the

beautiful cross built there by a bereaved king of earlier days; then

idled down a quiet, lovely road, past the great cardinal's stately

palace, toward a far more mighty and majestic palace beyond--Westminster.

Tom stared in glad wonder at the vast pile of masonry, the wide-spreading

wings, the frowning bastions and turrets, the huge stone gateway, with

its gilded bars and its magnificent array of colossal granite lions, and

other the signs and symbols of English royalty. Was the desire of his

soul to be satisfied at last? Here, indeed, was a king's palace. Might

he not hope to see a prince now--a prince of flesh and blood, if Heaven

were willing?

At each side of the gilded gate stood a living statue--that is to say, an

erect and stately and motionless man-at-arms, clad from head to heel in

shining steel armour. At a respectful distance were many country folk,

and people from the city, waiting for any chance glimpse of royalty that

might offer. Splendid carriages, with splendid people in them and

splendid servants outside, were arriving and departing by several other

noble gateways that pierced the royal enclosure.

Poor little Tom, in his rags, approached, and was moving slowly and

timidly past the sentinels, with a beating heart and a rising hope, when

all at once he caught sight through the golden bars of a spectacle that

almost made him shout for joy. Within was a comely boy, tanned and brown

with sturdy outdoor sports and exercises, whose clothing was all of

lovely silks and satins, shining with jewels; at his hip a little

jewelled sword and dagger; dainty buskins on his feet, with red heels;

and on his head a jaunty crimson cap, with drooping plumes fastened with

a great sparkling gem. Several gorgeous gentlemen stood near--his

servants, without a doubt. Oh! he was a prince--a prince, a living

prince, a real prince--without the shadow of a question; and the prayer

of the pauper-boy's heart was answered at last.

Tom's breath came quick and short with excitement, and his eyes grew big

with wonder and delight. Everything gave way in his mind instantly to

one desire: that was to get close to the prince, and have a good,

devouring look at him. Before he knew what he was about, he had his face

against the gate-bars. The next instant one of the soldiers snatched him

rudely away, and sent him spinning among the gaping crowd of country

gawks and London idlers. The soldier said,--

"Mind thy manners, thou young beggar!"

The crowd jeered and laughed; but the young prince sprang to the gate

with his face flushed, and his eyes flashing with indignation, and cried

out,--

"How dar'st thou use a poor lad like that? How dar'st thou use the King

my father's meanest subject so? Open the gates, and let him in!"

You should have seen that fickle crowd snatch off their hats then. You

should have heard them cheer, and shout, "Long live the Prince of Wales!"

The soldiers presented arms with their halberds, opened the gates, and

presented again as the little Prince of Poverty passed in, in his

fluttering rags, to join hands with the Prince of Limitless Plenty.

Edward Tudor said--

"Thou lookest tired and hungry: thou'st been treated ill. Come with

me."

Half a dozen attendants sprang forward to--I don't know what; interfere,

no doubt. But they were waved aside with a right royal gesture, and they

stopped stock still where they were, like so many statues. Edward took

Tom to a rich apartment in the palace, which he called his cabinet. By

his command a repast was brought such as Tom had never encountered before

except in books. The prince, with princely delicacy and breeding, sent

away the servants, so that his humble guest might not be embarrassed by

their critical presence; then he sat near by, and asked questions while

Tom ate.

"What is thy name, lad?"

"Tom Canty, an' it please thee, sir."

"'Tis an odd one. Where dost live?"

"In the city, please thee, sir. Offal Court, out of Pudding Lane."

"Offal Court! Truly 'tis another odd one. Hast parents?"

"Parents have I, sir, and a grand-dam likewise that is but indifferently

precious to me, God forgive me if it be offence to say it--also twin

sisters, Nan and Bet."

"Then is thy grand-dam not over kind to thee, I take it?"

"Neither to any other is she, so please your worship. She hath a wicked

heart, and worketh evil all her days."

"Doth she mistreat thee?"

"There be times that she stayeth her hand, being asleep or overcome with

drink; but when she hath her judgment clear again, she maketh it up to me

with goodly beatings."

A fierce look came into the little prince's eyes, and he cried out--

"What! Beatings?"

"Oh, indeed, yes, please you, sir."

"BEATINGS!--and thou so frail and little. Hark ye: before the night

come, she shall hie her to the Tower. The King my father"--

"In sooth, you forget, sir, her low degree. The Tower is for the great

alone."

"True, indeed. I had not thought of that. I will consider of her

punishment. Is thy father kind to thee?"

"Not more than Gammer Canty, sir."

"Fathers be alike, mayhap. Mine hath not a doll's temper. He smiteth

with a heavy hand, yet spareth me: he spareth me not always with his

tongue, though, sooth to say. How doth thy mother use thee?"

"She is good, sir, and giveth me neither sorrow nor pain of any sort.

And Nan and Bet are like to her in this."

"How old be these?"

"Fifteen, an' it please you, sir."

"The Lady Elizabeth, my sister, is fourteen, and the Lady Jane Grey, my

cousin, is of mine own age, and comely and gracious withal; but my sister

the Lady Mary, with her gloomy mien and--Look you: do thy sisters forbid

their servants to smile, lest the sin destroy their souls?"

"They? Oh, dost think, sir, that THEY have servants?"

The little prince contemplated the little pauper gravely a moment, then

said--

"And prithee, why not? Who helpeth them undress at night? Who attireth

them when they rise?"

"None, sir. Would'st have them take off their garment, and sleep

without--like the beasts?"

"Their garment! Have they but one?"

"Ah, good your worship, what would they do with more? Truly they have

not two bodies each."

"It is a quaint and marvellous thought! Thy pardon, I had not meant to

laugh. But thy good Nan and thy Bet shall have raiment and lackeys enow,

and that soon, too: my cofferer shall look to it. No, thank me not;

'tis nothing. Thou speakest well; thou hast an easy grace in it. Art

learned?"

"I know not if I am or not, sir. The good priest that is called Father

Andrew taught me, of his kindness, from his books."

"Know'st thou the Latin?"

"But scantly, sir, I doubt."

"Learn it, lad: 'tis hard only at first. The Greek is harder; but

neither these nor any tongues else, I think, are hard to the Lady

Elizabeth and my cousin. Thou should'st hear those damsels at it! But

tell me of thy Offal Court. Hast thou a pleasant life there?"

"In truth, yes, so please you, sir, save when one is hungry. There be

Punch-and-Judy shows, and monkeys--oh such antic creatures! and so

bravely dressed!--and there be plays wherein they that play do shout and

fight till all are slain, and 'tis so fine to see, and costeth but a

farthing--albeit 'tis main hard to get the farthing, please your

worship."

"Tell me more."

"We lads of Offal Court do strive against each other with the cudgel,

like to the fashion of the 'prentices, sometimes."

The prince's eyes flashed. Said he--

"Marry, that would not I mislike. Tell me more."

"We strive in races, sir, to see who of us shall be fleetest."

"That would I like also. Speak on."

"In summer, sir, we wade and swim in the canals and in the river, and

each doth duck his neighbour, and splatter him with water, and dive and

shout and tumble and--"

"'Twould be worth my father's kingdom but to enjoy it once! Prithee go

on."

"We dance and sing about the Maypole in Cheapside; we play in the sand,

each covering his neighbour up; and times we make mud pastry--oh the

lovely mud, it hath not its like for delightfulness in all the world!--we

do fairly wallow in the mud, sir, saving your worship's presence."

"Oh, prithee, say no more, 'tis glorious! If that I could but clothe me

in raiment like to thine, and strip my feet, and revel in the mud once,

just once, with none to rebuke me or forbid, meseemeth I could forego the

crown!"

"And if that I could clothe me once, sweet sir, as thou art clad--just

once--"

"Oho, would'st like it? Then so shall it be. Doff thy rags, and don

these splendours, lad! It is a brief happiness, but will be not less

keen for that. We will have it while we may, and change again before any

come to molest."

A few minutes later the little Prince of Wales was garlanded with Tom's

fluttering odds and ends, and the little Prince of Pauperdom was tricked

out in the gaudy plumage of royalty. The two went and stood side by side

before a great mirror, and lo, a miracle: there did not seem to have been

any change made! They stared at each other, then at the glass, then at

each other again. At last the puzzled princeling said--

"What dost thou make of this?"

"Ah, good your worship, require me not to answer. It is not meet that

one of my degree should utter the thing."

"Then will _I_ utter it. Thou hast the same hair, the same eyes, the

same voice and manner, the same form and stature, the same face and

countenance that I bear. Fared we forth naked, there is none could say

which was you, and which the Prince of Wales. And, now that I am clothed

as thou wert clothed, it seemeth I should be able the more nearly to feel

as thou didst when the brute soldier--Hark ye, is not this a bruise upon

your hand?"

"Yes; but it is a slight thing, and your worship knoweth that the poor

man-at-arms--"

"Peace! It was a shameful thing and a cruel!" cried the little prince,

stamping his bare foot. "If the King--Stir not a step till I come again!

It is a command!"

In a moment he had snatched up and put away an article of national

importance that lay upon a table, and was out at the door and flying

through the palace grounds in his bannered rags, with a hot face and

glowing eyes. As soon as he reached the great gate, he seized the bars,

and tried to shake them, shouting--

"Open! Unbar the gates!"

The soldier that had maltreated Tom obeyed promptly; and as the prince

burst through the portal, half-smothered with royal wrath, the soldier

fetched him a sounding box on the ear that sent him whirling to the

roadway, and said--

"Take that, thou beggar's spawn, for what thou got'st me from his

Highness!"

The crowd roared with laughter. The prince picked himself out of the

mud, and made fiercely at the sentry, shouting--

"I am the Prince of Wales, my person is sacred; and thou shalt hang for

laying thy hand upon me!"

The soldier brought his halberd to a present-arms and said mockingly--

"I salute your gracious Highness." Then angrily--"Be off, thou crazy

rubbish!"

Here the jeering crowd closed round the poor little prince, and hustled

him far down the road, hooting him, and shouting--

"Way for his Royal Highness! Way for the Prince of Wales!"

Chapter IV. The Prince's troubles begin.

After hours of persistent pursuit and persecution, the little prince was

at last deserted by the rabble and left to himself. As long as he had

been able to rage against the mob, and threaten it royally, and royally

utter commands that were good stuff to laugh at, he was very

entertaining; but when weariness finally forced him to be silent, he was

no longer of use to his tormentors, and they sought amusement elsewhere.

He looked about him, now, but could not recognise the locality. He was

within the city of London--that was all he knew. He moved on, aimlessly,

and in a little while the houses thinned, and the passers-by were

infrequent. He bathed his bleeding feet in the brook which flowed then

where Farringdon Street now is; rested a few moments, then passed on, and

presently came upon a great space with only a few scattered houses in it,

and a prodigious church. He recognised this church. Scaffoldings were

about, everywhere, and swarms of workmen; for it was undergoing elaborate

repairs. The prince took heart at once--he felt that his troubles were

at an end, now. He said to himself, "It is the ancient Grey Friars'

Church, which the king my father hath taken from the monks and given for

a home for ever for poor and forsaken children, and new-named it Christ's

Church. Right gladly will they serve the son of him who hath done so

generously by them--and the more that that son is himself as poor and as

forlorn as any that be sheltered here this day, or ever shall be."

He was soon in the midst of a crowd of boys who were running, jumping,

playing at ball and leap-frog, and otherwise disporting themselves, and

right noisily, too. They were all dressed alike, and in the fashion

which in that day prevailed among serving-men and 'prentices{1}--that is

to say, each had on the crown of his head a flat black cap about the size

of a saucer, which was not useful as a covering, it being of such scanty

dimensions, neither was it ornamental; from beneath it the hair fell,

unparted, to the middle of the forehead, and was cropped straight around;

a clerical band at the neck; a blue gown that fitted closely and hung as

low as the knees or lower; full sleeves; a broad red belt; bright yellow

stockings, gartered above the knees; low shoes with large metal buckles.

It was a sufficiently ugly costume.

The boys stopped their play and flocked about the prince, who said with

native dignity--

"Good lads, say to your master that Edward Prince of Wales desireth

speech with him."

A great shout went up at this, and one rude fellow said--

"Marry, art thou his grace's messenger, beggar?"

The prince's face flushed with anger, and his ready hand flew to his hip,

but there was nothing there. There was a storm of laughter, and one boy

said--

"Didst mark that? He fancied he had a sword--belike he is the prince

himself."

This sally brought more laughter. Poor Edward drew himself up proudly

and said--

"I am the prince; and it ill beseemeth you that feed upon the king my

father's bounty to use me so."

This was vastly enjoyed, as the laughter testified. The youth who had

first spoken, shouted to his comrades--

"Ho, swine, slaves, pensioners of his grace's princely father, where be

your manners? Down on your marrow bones, all of ye, and do reverence to

his kingly port and royal rags!"

With boisterous mirth they dropped upon their knees in a body and did

mock homage to their prey. The prince spurned the nearest boy with his

foot, and said fiercely--

"Take thou that, till the morrow come and I build thee a gibbet!"

Ah, but this was not a joke--this was going beyond fun. The laughter

ceased on the instant, and fury took its place. A dozen shouted--

"Hale him forth! To the horse-pond, to the horse-pond! Where be the

dogs? Ho, there, Lion! ho, Fangs!"

Then followed such a thing as England had never seen before--the sacred

person of the heir to the throne rudely buffeted by plebeian hands, and

set upon and torn by dogs.

As night drew to a close that day, the prince found himself far down in

the close-built portion of the city. His body was bruised, his hands

were bleeding, and his rags were all besmirched with mud. He wandered on

and on, and grew more and more bewildered, and so tired and faint he

could hardly drag one foot after the other. He had ceased to ask

questions of anyone, since they brought him only insult instead of

information. He kept muttering to himself, "Offal Court--that is the

name; if I can but find it before my strength is wholly spent and I drop,

then am I saved--for his people will take me to the palace and prove that

I am none of theirs, but the true prince, and I shall have mine own

again." And now and then his mind reverted to his treatment by those

rude Christ's Hospital boys, and he said, "When I am king, they shall not

have bread and shelter only, but also teachings out of books; for a full

belly is little worth where the mind is starved, and the heart. I will

keep this diligently in my remembrance, that this day's lesson be not

lost upon me, and my people suffer thereby; for learning softeneth the

heart and breedeth gentleness and charity." {1}

The lights began to twinkle, it came on to rain, the wind rose, and a raw

and gusty night set in. The houseless prince, the homeless heir to the

throne of England, still moved on, drifting deeper into the maze of

squalid alleys where the swarming hives of poverty and misery were massed

together.

Suddenly a great drunken ruffian collared him and said--

"Out to this time of night again, and hast not brought a farthing home, I

warrant me! If it be so, an' I do not break all the bones in thy lean

body, then am I not John Canty, but some other."

The prince twisted himself loose, unconsciously brushed his profaned

shoulder, and eagerly said--

"Oh, art HIS father, truly? Sweet heaven grant it be so--then wilt thou

fetch him away and restore me!"

"HIS father? I know not what thou mean'st; I but know I am THY father,

as thou shalt soon have cause to--"

"Oh, jest not, palter not, delay not!--I am worn, I am wounded, I can

bear no more. Take me to the king my father, and he will make thee rich

beyond thy wildest dreams. Believe me, man, believe me!--I speak no lie,

but only the truth!--put forth thy hand and save me! I am indeed the

Prince of Wales!"

The man stared down, stupefied, upon the lad, then shook his head and

muttered--

"Gone stark mad as any Tom o' Bedlam!"--then collared him once more, and

said with a coarse laugh and an oath, "But mad or no mad, I and thy

Gammer Canty will soon find where the soft places in thy bones lie, or

I'm no true man!"

With this he dragged the frantic and struggling prince away, and

disappeared up a front court followed by a delighted and noisy swarm of

human vermin.

Chapter V. Tom as a patrician.

Tom Canty, left alone in the prince's cabinet, made good use of his

opportunity. He turned himself this way and that before the great

mirror, admiring his finery; then walked away, imitating the prince's

high-bred carriage, and still observing results in the glass. Next he

drew the beautiful sword, and bowed, kissing the blade, and laying it

across his breast, as he had seen a noble knight do, by way of salute to

the lieutenant of the Tower, five or six weeks before, when delivering

the great lords of Norfolk and Surrey into his hands for captivity. Tom

played with the jewelled dagger that hung upon his thigh; he examined the

costly and exquisite ornaments of the room; he tried each of the

sumptuous chairs, and thought how proud he would be if the Offal Court

herd could only peep in and see him in his grandeur. He wondered if they

would believe the marvellous tale he should tell when he got home, or if

they would shake their heads, and say his overtaxed imagination had at

last upset his reason.

At the end of half an hour it suddenly occurred to him that the prince

was gone a long time; then right away he began to feel lonely; very soon

he fell to listening and longing, and ceased to toy with the pretty

things about him; he grew uneasy, then restless, then distressed.

Suppose some one should come, and catch him in the prince's clothes, and

the prince not there to explain. Might they not hang him at once, and

inquire into his case afterward? He had heard that the great were prompt

about small matters. His fear rose higher and higher; and trembling he

softly opened the door to the antechamber, resolved to fly and seek the

prince, and, through him, protection and release. Six gorgeous

gentlemen-servants and two young pages of high degree, clothed like

butterflies, sprang to their feet and bowed low before him. He stepped

quickly back and shut the door. He said--

"Oh, they mock at me! They will go and tell. Oh! why came I here to

cast away my life?"

He walked up and down the floor, filled with nameless fears, listening,

starting at every trifling sound. Presently the door swung open, and a

silken page said--

"The Lady Jane Grey."

The door closed and a sweet young girl, richly clad, bounded toward him.

But she stopped suddenly, and said in a distressed voice--

"Oh, what aileth thee, my lord?"

Tom's breath was nearly failing him; but he made shift to stammer out--

"Ah, be merciful, thou! In sooth I am no lord, but only poor Tom Canty

of Offal Court in the city. Prithee let me see the prince, and he will

of his grace restore to me my rags, and let me hence unhurt. Oh, be thou

merciful, and save me!"

By this time the boy was on his knees, and supplicating with his eyes and

uplifted hands as well as with his tongue. The young girl seemed

horror-stricken. She cried out--

"O my lord, on thy knees?--and to ME!"

Then she fled away in fright; and Tom, smitten with despair, sank down,

murmuring--

"There is no help, there is no hope. Now will they come and take me."

Whilst he lay there benumbed with terror, dreadful tidings were speeding

through the palace. The whisper--for it was whispered always--flew from

menial to menial, from lord to lady, down all the long corridors, from

story to story, from saloon to saloon, "The prince hath gone mad, the

prince hath gone mad!" Soon every saloon, every marble hall, had its

groups of glittering lords and ladies, and other groups of dazzling

lesser folk, talking earnestly together in whispers, and every face had

in it dismay. Presently a splendid official came marching by these

groups, making solemn proclamation--

"IN THE NAME OF THE KING!

Let none list to this false and foolish matter, upon pain of death, nor

discuss the same, nor carry it abroad. In the name of the King!"

The whisperings ceased as suddenly as if the whisperers had been stricken

dumb.

Soon there was a general buzz along the corridors, of "The prince! See,

the prince comes!"

Poor Tom came slowly walking past the low-bowing groups, trying to bow in

return, and meekly gazing upon his strange surroundings with bewildered

and pathetic eyes. Great nobles walked upon each side of him, making him

lean upon them, and so steady his steps. Behind him followed the

court-physicians and some servants.

Presently Tom found himself in a noble apartment of the palace and heard

the door close behind him. Around him stood those who had come with him.

Before him, at a little distance, reclined a very large and very fat man,

with a wide, pulpy face, and a stern expression. His large head was very

grey; and his whiskers, which he wore only around his face, like a frame,

were grey also. His clothing was of rich stuff, but old, and slightly

frayed in places. One of his swollen legs had a pillow under it, and was

wrapped in bandages. There was silence now; and there was no head there

but was bent in reverence, except this man's. This stern-countenanced

invalid was the dread Henry VIII. He said--and his face grew gentle as

he began to speak--

"How now, my lord Edward, my prince? Hast been minded to cozen me, the

good King thy father, who loveth thee, and kindly useth thee, with a

sorry jest?"

Poor Tom was listening, as well as his dazed faculties would let him, to

the beginning of this speech; but when the words 'me, the good King' fell

upon his ear, his face blanched, and he dropped as instantly upon his

knees as if a shot had brought him there. Lifting up his hands, he

exclaimed--

"Thou the KING? Then am I undone indeed!"

This speech seemed to stun the King. His eyes wandered from face to face

aimlessly, then rested, bewildered, upon the boy before him. Then he

said in a tone of deep disappointment--

"Alack, I had believed the rumour disproportioned to the truth; but I

fear me 'tis not so." He breathed a heavy sigh, and said in a gentle

voice, "Come to thy father, child: thou art not well."

Tom was assisted to his feet, and approached the Majesty of England,

humble and trembling. The King took the frightened face between his

hands, and gazed earnestly and lovingly into it awhile, as if seeking

some grateful sign of returning reason there, then pressed the curly head

against his breast, and patted it tenderly. Presently he said--

"Dost not know thy father, child? Break not mine old heart; say thou

know'st me. Thou DOST know me, dost thou not?"

"Yea: thou art my dread lord the King, whom God preserve!"

"True, true--that is well--be comforted, tremble not so; there is none

here would hurt thee; there is none here but loves thee. Thou art better

now; thy ill dream passeth--is't not so? Thou wilt not miscall thyself

again, as they say thou didst a little while agone?"

"I pray thee of thy grace believe me, I did but speak the truth, most

dread lord; for I am the meanest among thy subjects, being a pauper born,

and 'tis by a sore mischance and accident I am here, albeit I was therein

nothing blameful. I am but young to die, and thou canst save me with one

little word. Oh speak it, sir!"

"Die? Talk not so, sweet prince--peace, peace, to thy troubled heart

--thou shalt not die!"

Tom dropped upon his knees with a glad cry--

"God requite thy mercy, O my King, and save thee long to bless thy land!"

Then springing up, he turned a joyful face toward the two lords in

waiting, and exclaimed, "Thou heard'st it! I am not to die: the King

hath said it!" There was no movement, save that all bowed with grave

respect; but no one spoke. He hesitated, a little confused, then turned

timidly toward the King, saying, "I may go now?"

"Go? Surely, if thou desirest. But why not tarry yet a little? Whither

would'st go?"

Tom dropped his eyes, and answered humbly--

"Peradventure I mistook; but I did think me free, and so was I moved to

seek again the kennel where I was born and bred to misery, yet which

harboureth my mother and my sisters, and so is home to me; whereas these

pomps and splendours whereunto I am not used--oh, please you, sir, to let

me go!"

The King was silent and thoughtful a while, and his face betrayed a

growing distress and uneasiness. Presently he said, with something of

hope in his voice--

"Perchance he is but mad upon this one strain, and hath his wits unmarred

as toucheth other matter. God send it may be so! We will make trial."

Then he asked Tom a question in Latin, and Tom answered him lamely in the

same tongue. The lords and doctors manifested their gratification also.

The King said--

"'Twas not according to his schooling and ability, but showeth that his

mind is but diseased, not stricken fatally. How say you, sir?"

The physician addressed bowed low, and replied--

"It jumpeth with my own conviction, sire, that thou hast divined aright."

The King looked pleased with this encouragement, coming as it did from so

excellent authority, and continued with good heart--

"Now mark ye all: we will try him further."

He put a question to Tom in French. Tom stood silent a moment,

embarrassed by having so many eyes centred upon him, then said

diffidently--

"I have no knowledge of this tongue, so please your majesty."

The King fell back upon his couch. The attendants flew to his

assistance; but he put them aside, and said--

"Trouble me not--it is nothing but a scurvy faintness. Raise me! There,

'tis sufficient. Come hither, child; there, rest thy poor troubled head

upon thy father's heart, and be at peace. Thou'lt soon be well: 'tis

but a passing fantasy. Fear thou not; thou'lt soon be well." Then he

turned toward the company: his gentle manner changed, and baleful

lightnings began to play from his eyes. He said--

"List ye all! This my son is mad; but it is not permanent. Over-study

hath done this, and somewhat too much of confinement. Away with his

books and teachers! see ye to it. Pleasure him with sports, beguile him

in wholesome ways, so that his health come again." He raised himself

higher still, and went on with energy, "He is mad; but he is my son, and

England's heir; and, mad or sane, still shall he reign! And hear ye

further, and proclaim it: whoso speaketh of this his distemper worketh

against the peace and order of these realms, and shall to the gallows!

. . . Give me to drink--I burn: this sorrow sappeth my strength. . . .

There, take away the cup. . . . Support me. There, that is well. Mad,

is he? Were he a thousand times mad, yet is he Prince of Wales, and I the

King will confirm it. This very morrow shall he be installed in his

princely dignity in due and ancient form. Take instant order for it, my

lord Hertford."

One of the nobles knelt at the royal couch, and said--

"The King's majesty knoweth that the Hereditary Great Marshal of England

lieth attainted in the Tower. It were not meet that one attainted--"

"Peace! Insult not mine ears with his hated name. Is this man to live

for ever? Am I to be baulked of my will? Is the prince to tarry

uninstalled, because, forsooth, the realm lacketh an Earl Marshal free of

treasonable taint to invest him with his honours? No, by the splendour of

God! Warn my Parliament to bring me Norfolk's doom before the sun rise

again, else shall they answer for it grievously!" {1}

Lord Hertford said--

"The King's will is law;" and, rising, returned to his former place.

Gradually the wrath faded out of the old King's face, and he said--

"Kiss me, my prince. There . . . what fearest thou? Am I not thy loving

father?"

"Thou art good to me that am unworthy, O mighty and gracious lord: that

in truth I know. But--but--it grieveth me to think of him that is to

die, and--"

"Ah, 'tis like thee, 'tis like thee! I know thy heart is still the same,

even though thy mind hath suffered hurt, for thou wert ever of a gentle

spirit. But this duke standeth between thee and thine honours: I will

have another in his stead that shall bring no taint to his great office.

Comfort thee, my prince: trouble not thy poor head with this matter."

"But is it not I that speed him hence, my liege? How long might he not

live, but for me?"

"Take no thought of him, my prince: he is not worthy. Kiss me once

again, and go to thy trifles and amusements; for my malady distresseth

me. I am aweary, and would rest. Go with thine uncle Hertford and thy

people, and come again when my body is refreshed."

Tom, heavy-hearted, was conducted from the presence, for this last

sentence was a death-blow to the hope he had cherished that now he would

be set free. Once more he heard the buzz of low voices exclaiming, "The

prince, the prince comes!"

His spirits sank lower and lower as he moved between the glittering files

of bowing courtiers; for he recognised that he was indeed a captive now,

and might remain for ever shut up in this gilded cage, a forlorn and

friendless prince, except God in his mercy take pity on him and set him

free.

And, turn where he would, he seemed to see floating in the air the

severed head and the remembered face of the great Duke of Norfolk, the

eyes fixed on him reproachfully.

His old dreams had been so pleasant; but this reality was so dreary!

Chapter VI. Tom receives instructions.

Tom was conducted to the principal apartment of a noble suite, and made

to sit down--a thing which he was loth to do, since there were elderly

men and men of high degree about him. He begged them to be seated also,

but they only bowed their thanks or murmured them, and remained standing.

He would have insisted, but his 'uncle' the Earl of Hertford whispered in

his ear--

"Prithee, insist not, my lord; it is not meet that they sit in thy

presence."

The Lord St. John was announced, and after making obeisance to Tom, he

said--

"I come upon the King's errand, concerning a matter which requireth

privacy. Will it please your royal highness to dismiss all that attend

you here, save my lord the Earl of Hertford?"

Observing that Tom did not seem to know how to proceed, Hertford

whispered him to make a sign with his hand, and not trouble himself to

speak unless he chose. When the waiting gentlemen had retired, Lord St.

John said--

"His majesty commandeth, that for due and weighty reasons of state, the

prince's grace shall hide his infirmity in all ways that be within his

power, till it be passed and he be as he was before. To wit, that he

shall deny to none that he is the true prince, and heir to England's

greatness; that he shall uphold his princely dignity, and shall receive,

without word or sign of protest, that reverence and observance which unto

it do appertain of right and ancient usage; that he shall cease to speak

to any of that lowly birth and life his malady hath conjured out of the

unwholesome imaginings of o'er-wrought fancy; that he shall strive with

diligence to bring unto his memory again those faces which he was wont to

know--and where he faileth he shall hold his peace, neither betraying by

semblance of surprise or other sign that he hath forgot; that upon

occasions of state, whensoever any matter shall perplex him as to the

thing he should do or the utterance he should make, he shall show nought

of unrest to the curious that look on, but take advice in that matter of

the Lord Hertford, or my humble self, which are commanded of the King to

be upon this service and close at call, till this commandment be

dissolved. Thus saith the King's majesty, who sendeth greeting to your

royal highness, and prayeth that God will of His mercy quickly heal you

and have you now and ever in His holy keeping."

The Lord St. John made reverence and stood aside. Tom replied

resignedly--

"The King hath said it. None may palter with the King's command, or fit

it to his ease, where it doth chafe, with deft evasions. The King shall

be obeyed."

Lord Hertford said--

"Touching the King's majesty's ordainment concerning books and such like

serious matters, it may peradventure please your highness to ease your

time with lightsome entertainment, lest you go wearied to the banquet and

suffer harm thereby."

Tom's face showed inquiring surprise; and a blush followed when he saw

Lord St. John's eyes bent sorrowfully upon him. His lordship said--

"Thy memory still wrongeth thee, and thou hast shown surprise--but suffer

it not to trouble thee, for 'tis a matter that will not bide, but depart

with thy mending malady. My Lord of Hertford speaketh of the city's

banquet which the King's majesty did promise, some two months flown, your

highness should attend. Thou recallest it now?"

"It grieves me to confess it had indeed escaped me," said Tom, in a

hesitating voice; and blushed again.

At this moment the Lady Elizabeth and the Lady Jane Grey were announced.

The two lords exchanged significant glances, and Hertford stepped quickly

toward the door. As the young girls passed him, he said in a low voice--

"I pray ye, ladies, seem not to observe his humours, nor show surprise

when his memory doth lapse--it will grieve you to note how it doth stick

at every trifle."

Meantime Lord St. John was saying in Tom's ear--

"Please you, sir, keep diligently in mind his majesty's desire. Remember

all thou canst--SEEM to remember all else. Let them not perceive that

thou art much changed from thy wont, for thou knowest how tenderly thy

old play-fellows bear thee in their hearts and how 'twould grieve them.

Art willing, sir, that I remain?--and thine uncle?"

Tom signified assent with a gesture and a murmured word, for he was

already learning, and in his simple heart was resolved to acquit himself

as best he might, according to the King's command.

In spite of every precaution, the conversation among the young people

became a little embarrassing at times. More than once, in truth, Tom was

near to breaking down and confessing himself unequal to his tremendous

part; but the tact of the Princess Elizabeth saved him, or a word from

one or the other of the vigilant lords, thrown in apparently by chance,

had the same happy effect. Once the little Lady Jane turned to Tom and

dismayed him with this question,--

"Hast paid thy duty to the Queen's majesty to-day, my lord?"

Tom hesitated, looked distressed, and was about to stammer out something

at hazard, when Lord St. John took the word and answered for him with the

easy grace of a courtier accustomed to encounter delicate difficulties

and to be ready for them--

"He hath indeed, madam, and she did greatly hearten him, as touching his

majesty's condition; is it not so, your highness?"

Tom mumbled something that stood for assent, but felt that he was getting

upon dangerous ground. Somewhat later it was mentioned that Tom was to

study no more at present, whereupon her little ladyship exclaimed--

"'Tis a pity, 'tis a pity! Thou wert proceeding bravely. But bide thy

time in patience: it will not be for long. Thou'lt yet be graced with

learning like thy father, and make thy tongue master of as many languages

as his, good my prince."

"My father!" cried Tom, off his guard for the moment. "I trow he cannot

speak his own so that any but the swine that kennel in the styes may tell

his meaning; and as for learning of any sort soever--"

He looked up and encountered a solemn warning in my Lord St. John's eyes.

He stopped, blushed, then continued low and sadly: "Ah, my malady

persecuteth me again, and my mind wandereth. I meant the King's grace no

irreverence."

"We know it, sir," said the Princess Elizabeth, taking her 'brother's'

hand between her two palms, respectfully but caressingly; "trouble not

thyself as to that. The fault is none of thine, but thy distemper's."

"Thou'rt a gentle comforter, sweet lady," said Tom, gratefully, "and my

heart moveth me to thank thee for't, an' I may be so bold."

Once the giddy little Lady Jane fired a simple Greek phrase at Tom. The

Princess Elizabeth's quick eye saw by the serene blankness of the

target's front that the shaft was overshot; so she tranquilly delivered a

return volley of sounding Greek on Tom's behalf, and then straightway

changed the talk to other matters.

Time wore on pleasantly, and likewise smoothly, on the whole. Snags and

sandbars grew less and less frequent, and Tom grew more and more at his

ease, seeing that all were so lovingly bent upon helping him and

overlooking his mistakes. When it came out that the little ladies were

to accompany him to the Lord Mayor's banquet in the evening, his heart

gave a bound of relief and delight, for he felt that he should not be

friendless, now, among that multitude of strangers; whereas, an hour

earlier, the idea of their going with him would have been an

insupportable terror to him.

Tom's guardian angels, the two lords, had had less comfort in the

interview than the other parties to it. They felt much as if they were

piloting a great ship through a dangerous channel; they were on the alert

constantly, and found their office no child's play. Wherefore, at last,

when the ladies' visit was drawing to a close and the Lord Guilford

Dudley was announced, they not only felt that their charge had been

sufficiently taxed for the present, but also that they themselves were

not in the best condition to take their ship back and make their anxious

voyage all over again. So they respectfully advised Tom to excuse

himself, which he was very glad to do, although a slight shade of

disappointment might have been observed upon my Lady Jane's face when she

heard the splendid stripling denied admittance.

There was a pause now, a sort of waiting silence which Tom could not

understand. He glanced at Lord Hertford, who gave him a sign--but he

failed to understand that also. The ready Elizabeth came to the rescue

with her usual easy grace. She made reverence and said--

"Have we leave of the prince's grace my brother to go?"

Tom said--

"Indeed your ladyships can have whatsoever of me they will, for the

asking; yet would I rather give them any other thing that in my poor

power lieth, than leave to take the light and blessing of their presence

hence. Give ye good den, and God be with ye!" Then he smiled inwardly at

the thought, "'Tis not for nought I have dwelt but among princes in my

reading, and taught my tongue some slight trick of their broidered and

gracious speech withal!"

When the illustrious maidens were gone, Tom turned wearily to his keepers

and said--

"May it please your lordships to grant me leave to go into some corner

and rest me?"

Lord Hertford said--

"So please your highness, it is for you to command, it is for us to obey.

That thou should'st rest is indeed a needful thing, since thou must

journey to the city presently."

He touched a bell, and a page appeared, who was ordered to desire the

presence of Sir William Herbert. This gentleman came straightway, and

conducted Tom to an inner apartment. Tom's first movement there was to

reach for a cup of water; but a silk-and-velvet servitor seized it,

dropped upon one knee, and offered it to him on a golden salver.

Next the tired captive sat down and was going to take off his buskins,

timidly asking leave with his eye, but another silk-and-velvet

discomforter went down upon his knees and took the office from him. He

made two or three further efforts to help himself, but being promptly

forestalled each time, he finally gave up, with a sigh of resignation and

a murmured "Beshrew me, but I marvel they do not require to breathe for

me also!" Slippered, and wrapped in a sumptuous robe, he laid himself

down at last to rest, but not to sleep, for his head was too full of

thoughts and the room too full of people. He could not dismiss the

former, so they stayed; he did not know enough to dismiss the latter, so

they stayed also, to his vast regret--and theirs.

Tom's departure had left his two noble guardians alone. They mused a

while, with much head-shaking and walking the floor, then Lord St. John

said--

"Plainly, what dost thou think?"

"Plainly, then, this. The King is near his end; my nephew is mad--mad

will mount the throne, and mad remain. God protect England, since she

will need it!"

"Verily it promiseth so, indeed. But . . . have you no misgivings as to

. . . as to . . ."

The speaker hesitated, and finally stopped. He evidently felt that he

was upon delicate ground. Lord Hertford stopped before him, looked into

his face with a clear, frank eye, and said--

"Speak on--there is none to hear but me. Misgivings as to what?"

"I am full loth to word the thing that is in my mind, and thou so near to

him in blood, my lord. But craving pardon if I do offend, seemeth it not

strange that madness could so change his port and manner?--not but that

his port and speech are princely still, but that they DIFFER, in one

unweighty trifle or another, from what his custom was aforetime. Seemeth

it not strange that madness should filch from his memory his father's

very lineaments; the customs and observances that are his due from such

as be about him; and, leaving him his Latin, strip him of his Greek and

French? My lord, be not offended, but ease my mind of its disquiet and

receive my grateful thanks. It haunteth me, his saying he was not the

prince, and so--"

"Peace, my lord, thou utterest treason! Hast forgot the King's command?

Remember I am party to thy crime if I but listen."

St. John paled, and hastened to say--

"I was in fault, I do confess it. Betray me not, grant me this grace out

of thy courtesy, and I will neither think nor speak of this thing more.

Deal not hardly with me, sir, else am I ruined."

"I am content, my lord. So thou offend not again, here or in the ears of

others, it shall be as though thou hadst not spoken. But thou need'st

not have misgivings. He is my sister's son; are not his voice, his face,

his form, familiar to me from his cradle? Madness can do all the odd

conflicting things thou seest in him, and more. Dost not recall how that

the old Baron Marley, being mad, forgot the favour of his own countenance

that he had known for sixty years, and held it was another's; nay, even

claimed he was the son of Mary Magdalene, and that his head was made of

Spanish glass; and, sooth to say, he suffered none to touch it, lest by

mischance some heedless hand might shiver it? Give thy misgivings

easement, good my lord. This is the very prince--I know him well--and

soon will be thy king; it may advantage thee to bear this in mind, and

more dwell upon it than the other."

After some further talk, in which the Lord St. John covered up his

mistake as well as he could by repeated protests that his faith was

thoroughly grounded now, and could not be assailed by doubts again, the

Lord Hertford relieved his fellow-keeper, and sat down to keep watch and

ward alone. He was soon deep in meditation, and evidently the longer he

thought, the more he was bothered. By-and-by he began to pace the floor

and mutter.

"Tush, he MUST be the prince! Will any he in all the land maintain there

can be two, not of one blood and birth, so marvellously twinned? And

even were it so, 'twere yet a stranger miracle that chance should cast

the one into the other's place. Nay, 'tis folly, folly, folly!"

Presently he said--

"Now were he impostor and called himself prince, look you THAT would be

natural; that would be reasonable. But lived ever an impostor yet, who,

being called prince by the king, prince by the court, prince by all,

DENIED his dignity and pleaded against his exaltation? NO! By the soul

of St. Swithin, no! This is the true prince, gone mad!"

Chapter VII. Tom's first royal dinner.

Somewhat after one in the afternoon, Tom resignedly underwent the ordeal

of being dressed for dinner. He found himself as finely clothed as

before, but everything different, everything changed, from his ruff to

his stockings. He was presently conducted with much state to a spacious

and ornate apartment, where a table was already set for one. Its

furniture was all of massy gold, and beautified with designs which

well-nigh made it priceless, since they were the work of Benvenuto. The

room was half-filled with noble servitors. A chaplain said grace, and

Tom was about to fall to, for hunger had long been constitutional with

him, but was interrupted by my lord the Earl of Berkeley, who fastened a

napkin about his neck; for the great post of Diaperers to the Prince of

Wales was hereditary in this nobleman's family. Tom's cupbearer was

present, and forestalled all his attempts to help himself to wine. The

Taster to his highness the Prince of Wales was there also, prepared to

taste any suspicious dish upon requirement, and run the risk of being

poisoned. He was only an ornamental appendage at this time, and was

seldom called upon to exercise his function; but there had been times,

not many generations past, when the office of taster had its perils, and

was not a grandeur to be desired. Why they did not use a dog or a

plumber seems strange; but all the ways of royalty are strange. My Lord

d'Arcy, First Groom of the Chamber, was there, to do goodness knows what;

but there he was--let that suffice. The Lord Chief Butler was there, and

stood behind Tom's chair, overseeing the solemnities, under command of

the Lord Great Steward and the Lord Head Cook, who stood near. Tom had

three hundred and eighty-four servants beside these; but they were not

all in that room, of course, nor the quarter of them; neither was Tom

aware yet that they existed.

All those that were present had been well drilled within the hour to

remember that the prince was temporarily out of his head, and to be

careful to show no surprise at his vagaries. These 'vagaries' were soon

on exhibition before them; but they only moved their compassion and their

sorrow, not their mirth. It was a heavy affliction to them to see the

beloved prince so stricken.

Poor Tom ate with his fingers mainly; but no one smiled at it, or even

seemed to observe it. He inspected his napkin curiously, and with deep

interest, for it was of a very dainty and beautiful fabric, then said

with simplicity--

"Prithee, take it away, lest in mine unheedfulness it be soiled."

The Hereditary Diaperer took it away with reverent manner, and without

word or protest of any sort.

Tom examined the turnips and the lettuce with interest, and asked what

they were, and if they were to be eaten; for it was only recently that

men had begun to raise these things in England in place of importing them

as luxuries from Holland. {1} His question was answered with grave

respect, and no surprise manifested. When he had finished his dessert,

he filled his pockets with nuts; but nobody appeared to be aware of it,

or disturbed by it. But the next moment he was himself disturbed by it,

and showed discomposure; for this was the only service he had been

permitted to do with his own hands during the meal, and he did not doubt

that he had done a most improper and unprincely thing. At that moment

the muscles of his nose began to twitch, and the end of that organ to

lift and wrinkle. This continued, and Tom began to evince a growing

distress. He looked appealingly, first at one and then another of the

lords about him, and tears came into his eyes. They sprang forward with

dismay in their faces, and begged to know his trouble. Tom said with

genuine anguish--

"I crave your indulgence: my nose itcheth cruelly. What is the custom

and usage in this emergence? Prithee, speed, for 'tis but a little time

that I can bear it."

None smiled; but all were sore perplexed, and looked one to the other in

deep tribulation for counsel. But behold, here was a dead wall, and

nothing in English history to tell how to get over it. The Master of

Ceremonies was not present: there was no one who felt safe to venture

upon this uncharted sea, or risk the attempt to solve this solemn

problem. Alas! there was no Hereditary Scratcher. Meantime the tears

had overflowed their banks, and begun to trickle down Tom's cheeks. His

twitching nose was pleading more urgently than ever for relief. At last

nature broke down the barriers of etiquette: Tom lifted up an inward

prayer for pardon if he was doing wrong, and brought relief to the

burdened hearts of his court by scratching his nose himself.

His meal being ended, a lord came and held before him a broad, shallow,

golden dish with fragrant rosewater in it, to cleanse his mouth and

fingers with; and my lord the Hereditary Diaperer stood by with a napkin

for his use. Tom gazed at the dish a puzzled moment or two, then raised

it to his lips, and gravely took a draught. Then he returned it to the

waiting lord, and said--

"Nay, it likes me not, my lord: it hath a pretty flavour, but it wanteth

strength."

This new eccentricity of the prince's ruined mind made all the hearts

about him ache; but the sad sight moved none to merriment.

Tom's next unconscious blunder was to get up and leave the table just

when the chaplain had taken his stand behind his chair, and with uplifted

hands, and closed, uplifted eyes, was in the act of beginning the

blessing. Still nobody seemed to perceive that the prince had done a

thing unusual.

By his own request our small friend was now conducted to his private

cabinet, and left there alone to his own devices. Hanging upon hooks in

the oaken wainscoting were the several pieces of a suit of shining steel

armour, covered all over with beautiful designs exquisitely inlaid in

gold. This martial panoply belonged to the true prince--a recent present

from Madam Parr the Queen. Tom put on the greaves, the gauntlets, the

plumed helmet, and such other pieces as he could don without assistance,

and for a while was minded to call for help and complete the matter, but

bethought him of the nuts he had brought away from dinner, and the joy it

would be to eat them with no crowd to eye him, and no Grand Hereditaries

to pester him with undesired services; so he restored the pretty things

to their several places, and soon was cracking nuts, and feeling almost

naturally happy for the first time since God for his sins had made him a

prince. When the nuts were all gone, he stumbled upon some inviting

books in a closet, among them one about the etiquette of the English

court. This was a prize. He lay down upon a sumptuous divan, and

proceeded to instruct himself with honest zeal. Let us leave him there

for the present.

Chapter VIII. The question of the Seal.

About five o'clock Henry VIII. awoke out of an unrefreshing nap, and

muttered to himself, "Troublous dreams, troublous dreams! Mine end is now

at hand: so say these warnings, and my failing pulses do confirm it."

Presently a wicked light flamed up in his eye, and he muttered, "Yet will

not I die till HE go before."

His attendants perceiving that he was awake, one of them asked his

pleasure concerning the Lord Chancellor, who was waiting without.

"Admit him, admit him!" exclaimed the King eagerly.

The Lord Chancellor entered, and knelt by the King's couch, saying--

"I have given order, and, according to the King's command, the peers of

the realm, in their robes, do now stand at the bar of the House, where,

having confirmed the Duke of Norfolk's doom, they humbly wait his

majesty's further pleasure in the matter."

The King's face lit up with a fierce joy. Said he--

"Lift me up! In mine own person will I go before my Parliament, and with

mine own hand will I seal the warrant that rids me of--"

His voice failed; an ashen pallor swept the flush from his cheeks; and

the attendants eased him back upon his pillows, and hurriedly assisted

him with restoratives. Presently he said sorrowfully--

"Alack, how have I longed for this sweet hour! and lo, too late it

cometh, and I am robbed of this so coveted chance. But speed ye, speed

ye! let others do this happy office sith 'tis denied to me. I put my

Great Seal in commission: choose thou the lords that shall compose it,

and get ye to your work. Speed ye, man! Before the sun shall rise and

set again, bring me his head that I may see it."

"According to the King's command, so shall it be. Will't please your

majesty to order that the Seal be now restored to me, so that I may forth

upon the business?"

"The Seal? Who keepeth the Seal but thou?"

"Please your majesty, you did take it from me two days since, saying it

should no more do its office till your own royal hand should use it upon

the Duke of Norfolk's warrant."

"Why, so in sooth I did: I do remember . . . What did I with it?. . . I

am very feeble . . . So oft these days doth my memory play the traitor

with me . . . 'Tis strange, strange--"

The King dropped into inarticulate mumblings, shaking his grey head

weakly from time to time, and gropingly trying to recollect what he had

done with the Seal. At last my Lord Hertford ventured to kneel and offer

information--

"Sire, if that I may be so bold, here be several that do remember with me

how that you gave the Great Seal into the hands of his highness the

Prince of Wales to keep against the day that--"

"True, most true!" interrupted the King. "Fetch it! Go: time flieth!"

Lord Hertford flew to Tom, but returned to the King before very long,

troubled and empty-handed. He delivered himself to this effect--

"It grieveth me, my lord the King, to bear so heavy and unwelcome

tidings; but it is the will of God that the prince's affliction abideth

still, and he cannot recall to mind that he received the Seal. So came I

quickly to report, thinking it were waste of precious time, and little

worth withal, that any should attempt to search the long array of

chambers and saloons that belong unto his royal high--"

A groan from the King interrupted the lord at this point. After a little

while his majesty said, with a deep sadness in his tone--

"Trouble him no more, poor child. The hand of God lieth heavy upon him,

and my heart goeth out in loving compassion for him, and sorrow that I

may not bear his burden on mine old trouble-weighted shoulders, and so

bring him peace."

He closed his eyes, fell to mumbling, and presently was silent. After a

time he opened his eyes again, and gazed vacantly around until his glance

rested upon the kneeling Lord Chancellor. Instantly his face flushed with

wrath--

"What, thou here yet! By the glory of God, an' thou gettest not about

that traitor's business, thy mitre shall have holiday the morrow for lack

of a head to grace withal!"

The trembling Chancellor answered--

"Good your Majesty, I cry you mercy! I but waited for the Seal."

"Man, hast lost thy wits? The small Seal which aforetime I was wont to

take with me abroad lieth in my treasury. And, since the Great Seal hath

flown away, shall not it suffice? Hast lost thy wits? Begone! And hark

ye--come no more till thou do bring his head."

The poor Chancellor was not long in removing himself from this dangerous

vicinity; nor did the commission waste time in giving the royal assent to

the work of the slavish Parliament, and appointing the morrow for the

beheading of the premier peer of England, the luckless Duke of Norfolk.

{1}

Chapter IX. The river pageant.

At nine in the evening the whole vast river-front of the palace was

blazing with light. The river itself, as far as the eye could reach

citywards, was so thickly covered with watermen's boats and with

pleasure-barges, all fringed with coloured lanterns, and gently agitated

by the waves, that it resembled a glowing and limitless garden of flowers

stirred to soft motion by summer winds. The grand terrace of stone steps

leading down to the water, spacious enough to mass the army of a German

principality upon, was a picture to see, with its ranks of royal

halberdiers in polished armour, and its troops of brilliantly costumed

servitors flitting up and down, and to and fro, in the hurry of

preparation.

Presently a command was given, and immediately all living creatures

vanished from the steps. Now the air was heavy with the hush of suspense

and expectancy. As far as one's vision could carry, he might see the

myriads of people in the boats rise up, and shade their eyes from the

glare of lanterns and torches, and gaze toward the palace.

A file of forty or fifty state barges drew up to the steps. They were

richly gilt, and their lofty prows and sterns were elaborately carved.

Some of them were decorated with banners and streamers; some with

cloth-of-gold and arras embroidered with coats-of-arms; others with

silken flags that had numberless little silver bells fastened to them,

which shook out tiny showers of joyous music whenever the breezes

fluttered them; others of yet higher pretensions, since they belonged to

nobles in the prince's immediate service, had their sides picturesquely

fenced with shields gorgeously emblazoned with armorial bearings. Each

state barge was towed by a tender. Besides the rowers, these tenders

carried each a number of men-at-arms in glossy helmet and breastplate,

and a company of musicians.

The advance-guard of the expected procession now appeared in the great

gateway, a troop of halberdiers. 'They were dressed in striped hose of

black and tawny, velvet caps graced at the sides with silver roses, and

doublets of murrey and blue cloth, embroidered on the front and back with

the three feathers, the prince's blazon, woven in gold. Their halberd

staves were covered with crimson velvet, fastened with gilt nails, and

ornamented with gold tassels. Filing off on the right and left, they

formed two long lines, extending from the gateway of the palace to the

water's edge. A thick rayed cloth or carpet was then unfolded, and laid

down between them by attendants in the gold-and-crimson liveries of the

prince. This done, a flourish of trumpets resounded from within. A

lively prelude arose from the musicians on the water; and two ushers with

white wands marched with a slow and stately pace from the portal. They

were followed by an officer bearing the civic mace, after whom came

another carrying the city's sword; then several sergeants of the city

guard, in their full accoutrements, and with badges on their sleeves;

then the Garter King-at-arms, in his tabard; then several Knights of the

Bath, each with a white lace on his sleeve; then their esquires; then the

judges, in their robes of scarlet and coifs; then the Lord High

Chancellor of England, in a robe of scarlet, open before, and purfled

with minever; then a deputation of aldermen, in their scarlet cloaks; and

then the heads of the different civic companies, in their robes of state.

Now came twelve French gentlemen, in splendid habiliments, consisting

of pourpoints of white damask barred with gold, short mantles of

crimson velvet lined with violet taffeta, and carnation coloured

hauts-de-chausses, and took their way down the steps. They were of the

suite of the French ambassador, and were followed by twelve cavaliers of

the suite of the Spanish ambassador, clothed in black velvet, unrelieved

by any ornament. Following these came several great English nobles with

their attendants.'

There was a flourish of trumpets within; and the Prince's uncle, the

future great Duke of Somerset, emerged from the gateway, arrayed in a

'doublet of black cloth-of-gold, and a cloak of crimson satin flowered

with gold, and ribanded with nets of silver.' He turned, doffed his

plumed cap, bent his body in a low reverence, and began to step backward,

bowing at each step. A prolonged trumpet-blast followed, and a

proclamation, "Way for the high and mighty the Lord Edward, Prince of

Wales!" High aloft on the palace walls a long line of red tongues of

flame leapt forth with a thunder-crash; the massed world on the river

burst into a mighty roar of welcome; and Tom Canty, the cause and hero of

it all, stepped into view and slightly bowed his princely head.

He was 'magnificently habited in a doublet of white satin, with a

front-piece of purple cloth-of-tissue, powdered with diamonds, and edged

with ermine. Over this he wore a mantle of white cloth-of-gold, pounced

with the triple-feathered crest, lined with blue satin, set with pearls

and precious stones, and fastened with a clasp of brilliants. About his

neck hung the order of the Garter, and several princely foreign orders;'

and wherever light fell upon him jewels responded with a blinding flash.

O Tom Canty, born in a hovel, bred in the gutters of London, familiar

with rags and dirt and misery, what a spectacle is this!

Chapter X. The Prince in the toils.

We left John Canty dragging the rightful prince into Offal Court, with a

noisy and delighted mob at his heels. There was but one person in it who

offered a pleading word for the captive, and he was not heeded; he was

hardly even heard, so great was the turmoil. The Prince continued to

struggle for freedom, and to rage against the treatment he was suffering,

until John Canty lost what little patience was left in him, and raised

his oaken cudgel in a sudden fury over the Prince's head. The single

pleader for the lad sprang to stop the man's arm, and the blow descended

upon his own wrist. Canty roared out--

"Thou'lt meddle, wilt thou? Then have thy reward."

His cudgel crashed down upon the meddler's head: there was a groan, a

dim form sank to the ground among the feet of the crowd, and the next

moment it lay there in the dark alone. The mob pressed on, their

enjoyment nothing disturbed by this episode.

Presently the Prince found himself in John Canty's abode, with the door

closed against the outsiders. By the vague light of a tallow candle

which was thrust into a bottle, he made out the main features of the

loathsome den, and also the occupants of it. Two frowsy girls and a

middle-aged woman cowered against the wall in one corner, with the aspect

of animals habituated to harsh usage, and expecting and dreading it now.

From another corner stole a withered hag with streaming grey hair and

malignant eyes. John Canty said to this one--

"Tarry! There's fine mummeries here. Mar them not till thou'st enjoyed

them: then let thy hand be heavy as thou wilt. Stand forth, lad. Now

say thy foolery again, an thou'st not forgot it. Name thy name. Who art

thou?"

The insulted blood mounted to the little prince's cheek once more, and he

lifted a steady and indignant gaze to the man's face and said--

"'Tis but ill-breeding in such as thou to command me to speak. I tell

thee now, as I told thee before, I am Edward, Prince of Wales, and none

other."

The stunning surprise of this reply nailed the hag's feet to the floor

where she stood, and almost took her breath. She stared at the Prince in

stupid amazement, which so amused her ruffianly son, that he burst into a

roar of laughter. But the effect upon Tom Canty's mother and sisters was

different. Their dread of bodily injury gave way at once to distress of

a different sort. They ran forward with woe and dismay in their faces,

exclaiming--

"Oh, poor Tom, poor lad!"

The mother fell on her knees before the Prince, put her hands upon his

shoulders, and gazed yearningly into his face through her rising tears.

Then she said--

"Oh, my poor boy! Thy foolish reading hath wrought its woeful work at

last, and ta'en thy wit away. Ah! why did'st thou cleave to it when I so

warned thee 'gainst it? Thou'st broke thy mother's heart."

The Prince looked into her face, and said gently--

"Thy son is well, and hath not lost his wits, good dame. Comfort thee:

let me to the palace where he is, and straightway will the King my father

restore him to thee."

"The King thy father! Oh, my child! unsay these words that be freighted

with death for thee, and ruin for all that be near to thee. Shake of

this gruesome dream. Call back thy poor wandering memory. Look upon me.

Am not I thy mother that bore thee, and loveth thee?"

The Prince shook his head and reluctantly said--

"God knoweth I am loth to grieve thy heart; but truly have I never looked

upon thy face before."

The woman sank back to a sitting posture on the floor, and, covering her

eyes with her hands, gave way to heart-broken sobs and wailings.

"Let the show go on!" shouted Canty. "What, Nan!--what, Bet! mannerless

wenches! will ye stand in the Prince's presence? Upon your knees, ye

pauper scum, and do him reverence!"

He followed this with another horse-laugh. The girls began to plead

timidly for their brother; and Nan said--

"An thou wilt but let him to bed, father, rest and sleep will heal his

madness: prithee, do."

"Do, father," said Bet; "he is more worn than is his wont. To-morrow

will he be himself again, and will beg with diligence, and come not empty

home again."

This remark sobered the father's joviality, and brought his mind to

business. He turned angrily upon the Prince, and said--

"The morrow must we pay two pennies to him that owns this hole; two

pennies, mark ye--all this money for a half-year's rent, else out of this

we go. Show what thou'st gathered with thy lazy begging."

The Prince said--

"Offend me not with thy sordid matters. I tell thee again I am the

King's son."

A sounding blow upon the Prince's shoulder from Canty's broad palm sent

him staggering into goodwife Canty's arms, who clasped him to her breast,

and sheltered him from a pelting rain of cuffs and slaps by interposing

her own person. The frightened girls retreated to their corner; but the

grandmother stepped eagerly forward to assist her son. The Prince sprang

away from Mrs. Canty, exclaiming--

"Thou shalt not suffer for me, madam. Let these swine do their will upon

me alone."

This speech infuriated the swine to such a degree that they set about

their work without waste of time. Between them they belaboured the boy

right soundly, and then gave the girls and their mother a beating for

showing sympathy for the victim.

"Now," said Canty, "to bed, all of ye. The entertainment has tired me."

The light was put out, and the family retired. As soon as the snorings

of the head of the house and his mother showed that they were asleep, the

young girls crept to where the Prince lay, and covered him tenderly from

the cold with straw and rags; and their mother crept to him also, and

stroked his hair, and cried over him, whispering broken words of comfort

and compassion in his ear the while. She had saved a morsel for him to

eat, also; but the boy's pains had swept away all appetite--at least for

black and tasteless crusts. He was touched by her brave and costly

defence of him, and by her commiseration; and he thanked her in very

noble and princely words, and begged her to go to her sleep and try to

forget her sorrows. And he added that the King his father would not let

her loyal kindness and devotion go unrewarded. This return to his

'madness' broke her heart anew, and she strained him to her breast again

and again, and then went back, drowned in tears, to her bed.

As she lay thinking and mourning, the suggestion began to creep into her

mind that there was an undefinable something about this boy that was

lacking in Tom Canty, mad or sane. She could not describe it, she could

not tell just what it was, and yet her sharp mother-instinct seemed to

detect it and perceive it. What if the boy were really not her son,

after all? Oh, absurd! She almost smiled at the idea, spite of her

griefs and troubles. No matter, she found that it was an idea that would

not 'down,' but persisted in haunting her. It pursued her, it harassed

her, it clung to her, and refused to be put away or ignored. At last she

perceived that there was not going to be any peace for her until she

should devise a test that should prove, clearly and without question,

whether this lad was her son or not, and so banish these wearing and

worrying doubts. Ah, yes, this was plainly the right way out of the

difficulty; therefore she set her wits to work at once to contrive that

test. But it was an easier thing to propose than to accomplish. She

turned over in her mind one promising test after another, but was obliged

to relinquish them all--none of them were absolutely sure, absolutely

perfect; and an imperfect one could not satisfy her. Evidently she was

racking her head in vain--it seemed manifest that she must give the

matter up. While this depressing thought was passing through her mind,

her ear caught the regular breathing of the boy, and she knew he had

fallen asleep. And while she listened, the measured breathing was broken

by a soft, startled cry, such as one utters in a troubled dream. This

chance occurrence furnished her instantly with a plan worth all her

laboured tests combined. She at once set herself feverishly, but

noiselessly, to work to relight her candle, muttering to herself, "Had I

but seen him THEN, I should have known! Since that day, when he was

little, that the powder burst in his face, he hath never been startled of

a sudden out of his dreams or out of his thinkings, but he hath cast his

hand before his eyes, even as he did that day; and not as others would do

it, with the palm inward, but always with the palm turned outward--I have

seen it a hundred times, and it hath never varied nor ever failed. Yes,

I shall soon know, now!"

By this time she had crept to the slumbering boy's side, with the candle,

shaded, in her hand. She bent heedfully and warily over him, scarcely

breathing in her suppressed excitement, and suddenly flashed the light in

his face and struck the floor by his ear with her knuckles. The

sleeper's eyes sprang wide open, and he cast a startled stare about him

--but he made no special movement with his hands.

The poor woman was smitten almost helpless with surprise and grief; but

she contrived to hide her emotions, and to soothe the boy to sleep again;

then she crept apart and communed miserably with herself upon the

disastrous result of her experiment. She tried to believe that her Tom's

madness had banished this habitual gesture of his; but she could not do

it. "No," she said, "his HANDS are not mad; they could not unlearn so

old a habit in so brief a time. Oh, this is a heavy day for me!"

Still, hope was as stubborn now as doubt had been before; she could not

bring herself to accept the verdict of the test; she must try the thing

again--the failure must have been only an accident; so she startled the

boy out of his sleep a second and a third time, at intervals--with the

same result which had marked the first test; then she dragged herself to

bed, and fell sorrowfully asleep, saying, "But I cannot give him up--oh

no, I cannot, I cannot--he MUST be my boy!"

The poor mother's interruptions having ceased, and the Prince's pains

having gradually lost their power to disturb him, utter weariness at last

sealed his eyes in a profound and restful sleep. Hour after hour slipped

away, and still he slept like the dead. Thus four or five hours passed.

Then his stupor began to lighten. Presently, while half asleep and half

awake, he murmured--

"Sir William!"

After a moment--

"Ho, Sir William Herbert! Hie thee hither, and list to the strangest

dream that ever . . . Sir William! dost hear? Man, I did think me

changed to a pauper, and . . . Ho there! Guards! Sir William! What! is

there no groom of the chamber in waiting? Alack! it shall go hard with--"

"What aileth thee?" asked a whisper near him. "Who art thou calling?"

"Sir William Herbert. Who art thou?"

"I? Who should I be, but thy sister Nan? Oh, Tom, I had forgot! Thou'rt

mad yet--poor lad, thou'rt mad yet: would I had never woke to know it

again! But prithee master thy tongue, lest we be all beaten till we

die!"

The startled Prince sprang partly up, but a sharp reminder from his

stiffened bruises brought him to himself, and he sank back among his foul

straw with a moan and the ejaculation--

"Alas! it was no dream, then!"

In a moment all the heavy sorrow and misery which sleep had banished were

upon him again, and he realised that he was no longer a petted prince in

a palace, with the adoring eyes of a nation upon him, but a pauper, an

outcast, clothed in rags, prisoner in a den fit only for beasts, and

consorting with beggars and thieves.

In the midst of his grief he began to be conscious of hilarious noises

and shoutings, apparently but a block or two away. The next moment there

were several sharp raps at the door; John Canty ceased from snoring and

said--

"Who knocketh? What wilt thou?"

A voice answered--

"Know'st thou who it was thou laid thy cudgel on?"

"No. Neither know I, nor care."

"Belike thou'lt change thy note eftsoons. An thou would save thy neck,

nothing but flight may stead thee. The man is this moment delivering up

the ghost. 'Tis the priest, Father Andrew!"

"God-a-mercy!" exclaimed Canty. He roused his family, and hoarsely

commanded, "Up with ye all and fly--or bide where ye are and perish!"

Scarcely five minutes later the Canty household were in the street and

flying for their lives. John Canty held the Prince by the wrist, and

hurried him along the dark way, giving him this caution in a low voice--

"Mind thy tongue, thou mad fool, and speak not our name. I will choose

me a new name, speedily, to throw the law's dogs off the scent. Mind thy

tongue, I tell thee!"

He growled these words to the rest of the family--

"If it so chance that we be separated, let each make for London Bridge;

whoso findeth himself as far as the last linen-draper's shop on the

bridge, let him tarry there till the others be come, then will we flee

into Southwark together."

At this moment the party burst suddenly out of darkness into light; and

not only into light, but into the midst of a multitude of singing,

dancing, and shouting people, massed together on the river frontage.

There was a line of bonfires stretching as far as one could see, up and

down the Thames; London Bridge was illuminated; Southwark Bridge

likewise; the entire river was aglow with the flash and sheen of coloured

lights; and constant explosions of fireworks filled the skies with an

intricate commingling of shooting splendours and a thick rain of dazzling

sparks that almost turned night into day; everywhere were crowds of

revellers; all London seemed to be at large.

John Canty delivered himself of a furious curse and commanded a retreat;

but it was too late. He and his tribe were swallowed up in that swarming

hive of humanity, and hopelessly separated from each other in an instant.

We are not considering that the Prince was one of his tribe; Canty still

kept his grip upon him. The Prince's heart was beating high with hopes

of escape, now. A burly waterman, considerably exalted with liquor,

found himself rudely shoved by Canty in his efforts to plough through the

crowd; he laid his great hand on Canty's shoulder and said--

"Nay, whither so fast, friend? Dost canker thy soul with sordid business

when all that be leal men and true make holiday?"

"Mine affairs are mine own, they concern thee not," answered Canty,

roughly; "take away thy hand and let me pass."

"Sith that is thy humour, thou'lt NOT pass, till thou'st drunk to the

Prince of Wales, I tell thee that," said the waterman, barring the way

resolutely.

"Give me the cup, then, and make speed, make speed!"

Other revellers were interested by this time. They cried out--

"The loving-cup, the loving-cup! make the sour knave drink the

loving-cup, else will we feed him to the fishes."

So a huge loving-cup was brought; the waterman, grasping it by one of its

handles, and with the other hand bearing up the end of an imaginary

napkin, presented it in due and ancient form to Canty, who had to grasp

the opposite handle with one of his hands and take off the lid with the

other, according to ancient custom. {1} This left the Prince hand-free

for a second, of course. He wasted no time, but dived among the forest

of legs about him and disappeared. In another moment he could not have

been harder to find, under that tossing sea of life, if its billows had

been the Atlantic's and he a lost sixpence.

He very soon realised this fact, and straightway busied himself about his

own affairs without further thought of John Canty. He quickly realised

another thing, too. To wit, that a spurious Prince of Wales was being

feasted by the city in his stead. He easily concluded that the pauper

lad, Tom Canty, had deliberately taken advantage of his stupendous

opportunity and become a usurper.

Therefore there was but one course to pursue--find his way to the

Guildhall, make himself known, and denounce the impostor. He also made

up his mind that Tom should be allowed a reasonable time for spiritual

preparation, and then be hanged, drawn and quartered, according to the

law and usage of the day in cases of high treason.

Chapter XI. At Guildhall.

The royal barge, attended by its gorgeous fleet, took its stately way

down the Thames through the wilderness of illuminated boats. The air was

laden with music; the river banks were beruffled with joy-flames; the

distant city lay in a soft luminous glow from its countless invisible

bonfires; above it rose many a slender spire into the sky, incrusted with

sparkling lights, wherefore in their remoteness they seemed like jewelled

lances thrust aloft; as the fleet swept along, it was greeted from the

banks with a continuous hoarse roar of cheers and the ceaseless flash and

boom of artillery.

To Tom Canty, half buried in his silken cushions, these sounds and this

spectacle were a wonder unspeakably sublime and astonishing. To his

little friends at his side, the Princess Elizabeth and the Lady Jane

Grey, they were nothing.

Arrived at the Dowgate, the fleet was towed up the limpid Walbrook (whose

channel has now been for two centuries buried out of sight under acres of

buildings) to Bucklersbury, past houses and under bridges populous with

merry-makers and brilliantly lighted, and at last came to a halt in a

basin where now is Barge Yard, in the centre of the ancient city of

London. Tom disembarked, and he and his gallant procession crossed

Cheapside and made a short march through the Old Jewry and Basinghall

Street to the Guildhall.

Tom and his little ladies were received with due ceremony by the Lord

Mayor and the Fathers of the City, in their gold chains and scarlet robes

of state, and conducted to a rich canopy of state at the head of the

great hall, preceded by heralds making proclamation, and by the Mace and

the City Sword. The lords and ladies who were to attend upon Tom and his

two small friends took their places behind their chairs.

At a lower table the Court grandees and other guests of noble degree were

seated, with the magnates of the city; the commoners took places at a

multitude of tables on the main floor of the hall. From their lofty

vantage-ground the giants Gog and Magog, the ancient guardians of the

city, contemplated the spectacle below them with eyes grown familiar to

it in forgotten generations. There was a bugle-blast and a proclamation,

and a fat butler appeared in a high perch in the leftward wall, followed

by his servitors bearing with impressive solemnity a royal baron of beef,

smoking hot and ready for the knife.

After grace, Tom (being instructed) rose--and the whole house with him

--and drank from a portly golden loving-cup with the Princess Elizabeth;

from her it passed to the Lady Jane, and then traversed the general

assemblage. So the banquet began.

By midnight the revelry was at its height. Now came one of those

picturesque spectacles so admired in that old day. A description of it

is still extant in the quaint wording of a chronicler who witnessed it:

'Space being made, presently entered a baron and an earl appareled after

the Turkish fashion in long robes of bawdkin powdered with gold; hats on

their heads of crimson velvet, with great rolls of gold, girded with two

swords, called scimitars, hanging by great bawdricks of gold. Next came

yet another baron and another earl, in two long gowns of yellow satin,

traversed with white satin, and in every bend of white was a bend of

crimson satin, after the fashion of Russia, with furred hats of gray on

their heads; either of them having an hatchet in their hands, and boots

with pykes' (points a foot long), 'turned up. And after them came a

knight, then the Lord High Admiral, and with him five nobles, in doublets

of crimson velvet, voyded low on the back and before to the cannell-bone,

laced on the breasts with chains of silver; and over that, short cloaks

of crimson satin, and on their heads hats after the dancers' fashion,

with pheasants' feathers in them. These were appareled after the fashion

of Prussia. The torchbearers, which were about an hundred, were

appareled in crimson satin and green, like Moors, their faces black.

Next came in a mommarye. Then the minstrels, which were disguised,

danced; and the lords and ladies did wildly dance also, that it was a

pleasure to behold.'

And while Tom, in his high seat, was gazing upon this 'wild' dancing,

lost in admiration of the dazzling commingling of kaleidoscopic colours

which the whirling turmoil of gaudy figures below him presented, the

ragged but real little Prince of Wales was proclaiming his rights and his

wrongs, denouncing the impostor, and clamouring for admission at the

gates of Guildhall! The crowd enjoyed this episode prodigiously, and

pressed forward and craned their necks to see the small rioter.

Presently they began to taunt him and mock at him, purposely to goad him

into a higher and still more entertaining fury. Tears of mortification

sprang to his eyes, but he stood his ground and defied the mob right

royally. Other taunts followed, added mockings stung him, and he

exclaimed--

"I tell ye again, you pack of unmannerly curs, I am the Prince of Wales!

And all forlorn and friendless as I be, with none to give me word of

grace or help me in my need, yet will not I be driven from my ground, but

will maintain it!"

"Though thou be prince or no prince, 'tis all one, thou be'st a gallant

lad, and not friendless neither! Here stand I by thy side to prove it;

and mind I tell thee thou might'st have a worser friend than Miles Hendon

and yet not tire thy legs with seeking. Rest thy small jaw, my child; I

talk the language of these base kennel-rats like to a very native."

The speaker was a sort of Don Caesar de Bazan in dress, aspect, and

bearing. He was tall, trim-built, muscular. His doublet and trunks were

of rich material, but faded and threadbare, and their gold-lace

adornments were sadly tarnished; his ruff was rumpled and damaged; the

plume in his slouched hat was broken and had a bedraggled and

disreputable look; at his side he wore a long rapier in a rusty iron

sheath; his swaggering carriage marked him at once as a ruffler of the

camp. The speech of this fantastic figure was received with an explosion

of jeers and laughter. Some cried, "'Tis another prince in disguise!"

"'Ware thy tongue, friend: belike he is dangerous!" "Marry, he looketh

it--mark his eye!" "Pluck the lad from him--to the horse-pond wi' the

cub!"

Instantly a hand was laid upon the Prince, under the impulse of this

happy thought; as instantly the stranger's long sword was out and the

meddler went to the earth under a sounding thump with the flat of it.

The next moment a score of voices shouted, "Kill the dog! Kill him!

Kill him!" and the mob closed in on the warrior, who backed himself

against a wall and began to lay about him with his long weapon like a

madman. His victims sprawled this way and that, but the mob-tide poured

over their prostrate forms and dashed itself against the champion with

undiminished fury. His moments seemed numbered, his destruction certain,

when suddenly a trumpet-blast sounded, a voice shouted, "Way for the

King's messenger!" and a troop of horsemen came charging down upon the

mob, who fled out of harm's reach as fast as their legs could carry them.

The bold stranger caught up the Prince in his arms, and was soon far away

from danger and the multitude.

Return we within the Guildhall. Suddenly, high above the jubilant roar

and thunder of the revel, broke the clear peal of a bugle-note. There

was instant silence--a deep hush; then a single voice rose--that of the

messenger from the palace--and began to pipe forth a proclamation, the

whole multitude standing listening.

The closing words, solemnly pronounced, were--

"The King is dead!"

The great assemblage bent their heads upon their breasts with one accord;

remained so, in profound silence, a few moments; then all sank upon their

knees in a body, stretched out their hands toward Tom, and a mighty shout

burst forth that seemed to shake the building--

"Long live the King!"

Poor Tom's dazed eyes wandered abroad over this stupefying spectacle, and

finally rested dreamily upon the kneeling princesses beside him, a

moment, then upon the Earl of Hertford. A sudden purpose dawned in his

face. He said, in a low tone, at Lord Hertford's ear--

"Answer me truly, on thy faith and honour! Uttered I here a command, the

which none but a king might hold privilege and prerogative to utter,

would such commandment be obeyed, and none rise up to say me nay?"

"None, my liege, in all these realms. In thy person bides the majesty of

England. Thou art the king--thy word is law."

Tom responded, in a strong, earnest voice, and with great animation--

"Then shall the king's law be law of mercy, from this day, and never more

be law of blood! Up from thy knees and away! To the Tower, and say the

King decrees the Duke of Norfolk shall not die!" {1}

The words were caught up and carried eagerly from lip to lip far and wide

over the hall, and as Hertford hurried from the presence, another

prodigious shout burst forth--

"The reign of blood is ended! Long live Edward, King of England!"

Chapter XII. The Prince and his deliverer.

As soon as Miles Hendon and the little prince were clear of the mob, they

struck down through back lanes and alleys toward the river. Their way

was unobstructed until they approached London Bridge; then they ploughed

into the multitude again, Hendon keeping a fast grip upon the Prince's

--no, the King's--wrist. The tremendous news was already abroad, and the

boy learned it from a thousand voices at once--"The King is dead!" The

tidings struck a chill to the heart of the poor little waif, and sent a

shudder through his frame. He realised the greatness of his loss, and

was filled with a bitter grief; for the grim tyrant who had been such a

terror to others had always been gentle with him. The tears sprang to

his eyes and blurred all objects. For an instant he felt himself the

most forlorn, outcast, and forsaken of God's creatures--then another cry

shook the night with its far-reaching thunders: "Long live King Edward

the Sixth!" and this made his eyes kindle, and thrilled him with pride to

his fingers' ends. "Ah," he thought, "how grand and strange it seems--I

AM KING!"

Our friends threaded their way slowly through the throngs upon the

bridge. This structure, which had stood for six hundred years, and had

been a noisy and populous thoroughfare all that time, was a curious

affair, for a closely packed rank of stores and shops, with family

quarters overhead, stretched along both sides of it, from one bank of the

river to the other. The Bridge was a sort of town to itself; it had its

inn, its beer-houses, its bakeries, its haberdasheries, its food markets,

its manufacturing industries, and even its church. It looked upon the

two neighbours which it linked together--London and Southwark--as being

well enough as suburbs, but not otherwise particularly important. It was

a close corporation, so to speak; it was a narrow town, of a single

street a fifth of a mile long, its population was but a village

population and everybody in it knew all his fellow-townsmen intimately,

and had known their fathers and mothers before them--and all their little

family affairs into the bargain. It had its aristocracy, of course--its

fine old families of butchers, and bakers, and what-not, who had occupied

the same old premises for five or six hundred years, and knew the great

history of the Bridge from beginning to end, and all its strange legends;

and who always talked bridgy talk, and thought bridgy thoughts, and lied

in a long, level, direct, substantial bridgy way. It was just the sort

of population to be narrow and ignorant and self-conceited. Children were

born on the Bridge, were reared there, grew to old age, and finally died

without ever having set a foot upon any part of the world but London

Bridge alone. Such people would naturally imagine that the mighty and

interminable procession which moved through its street night and day,

with its confused roar of shouts and cries, its neighings and bellowing

and bleatings and its muffled thunder-tramp, was the one great thing in

this world, and themselves somehow the proprietors of it. And so they

were, in effect--at least they could exhibit it from their windows, and

did--for a consideration--whenever a returning king or hero gave it a

fleeting splendour, for there was no place like it for affording a long,

straight, uninterrupted view of marching columns.

Men born and reared upon the Bridge found life unendurably dull and inane

elsewhere. History tells of one of these who left the Bridge at the age

of seventy-one and retired to the country. But he could only fret and

toss in his bed; he could not go to sleep, the deep stillness was so

painful, so awful, so oppressive. When he was worn out with it, at last,

he fled back to his old home, a lean and haggard spectre, and fell

peacefully to rest and pleasant dreams under the lulling music of the

lashing waters and the boom and crash and thunder of London Bridge.

In the times of which we are writing, the Bridge furnished 'object

lessons' in English history for its children--namely, the livid and

decaying heads of renowned men impaled upon iron spikes atop of its

gateways. But we digress.

Hendon's lodgings were in the little inn on the Bridge. As he neared the

door with his small friend, a rough voice said--

"So, thou'rt come at last! Thou'lt not escape again, I warrant thee; and

if pounding thy bones to a pudding can teach thee somewhat, thou'lt not

keep us waiting another time, mayhap"--and John Canty put out his hand to

seize the boy.

Miles Hendon stepped in the way and said--

"Not too fast, friend. Thou art needlessly rough, methinks. What is the

lad to thee?"

"If it be any business of thine to make and meddle in others' affairs, he

is my son."

"'Tis a lie!" cried the little King, hotly.

"Boldly said, and I believe thee, whether thy small headpiece be sound or

cracked, my boy. But whether this scurvy ruffian be thy father or no,

'tis all one, he shall not have thee to beat thee and abuse, according to

his threat, so thou prefer to bide with me."

"I do, I do--I know him not, I loathe him, and will die before I will go

with him."

"Then 'tis settled, and there is nought more to say."

"We will see, as to that!" exclaimed John Canty, striding past Hendon to

get at the boy; "by force shall he--"

"If thou do but touch him, thou animated offal, I will spit thee like a

goose!" said Hendon, barring the way and laying his hand upon his sword

hilt. Canty drew back. "Now mark ye," continued Hendon, "I took this

lad under my protection when a mob of such as thou would have mishandled

him, mayhap killed him; dost imagine I will desert him now to a worser

fate?--for whether thou art his father or no--and sooth to say, I think

it is a lie--a decent swift death were better for such a lad than life in

such brute hands as thine. So go thy ways, and set quick about it, for I

like not much bandying of words, being not over-patient in my nature."

John Canty moved off, muttering threats and curses, and was swallowed

from sight in the crowd. Hendon ascended three flights of stairs to his

room, with his charge, after ordering a meal to be sent thither. It was

a poor apartment, with a shabby bed and some odds and ends of old

furniture in it, and was vaguely lighted by a couple of sickly candles.

The little King dragged himself to the bed and lay down upon it, almost

exhausted with hunger and fatigue. He had been on his feet a good part

of a day and a night (for it was now two or three o'clock in the

morning), and had eaten nothing meantime. He murmured drowsily--

"Prithee call me when the table is spread," and sank into a deep sleep

immediately.

A smile twinkled in Hendon's eye, and he said to himself--

"By the mass, the little beggar takes to one's quarters and usurps one's

bed with as natural and easy a grace as if he owned them--with never a

by-your-leave or so-please-it-you, or anything of the sort. In his

diseased ravings he called himself the Prince of Wales, and bravely doth

he keep up the character. Poor little friendless rat, doubtless his mind

has been disordered with ill-usage. Well, I will be his friend; I have

saved him, and it draweth me strongly to him; already I love the

bold-tongued little rascal. How soldier-like he faced the smutty rabble

and flung back his high defiance! And what a comely, sweet and gentle

face he hath, now that sleep hath conjured away its troubles and its

griefs. I will teach him; I will cure his malady; yea, I will be his

elder brother, and care for him and watch over him; and whoso would shame

him or do him hurt may order his shroud, for though I be burnt for it he

shall need it!"

He bent over the boy and contemplated him with kind and pitying interest,

tapping the young cheek tenderly and smoothing back the tangled curls

with his great brown hand. A slight shiver passed over the boy's form.

Hendon muttered--

"See, now, how like a man it was to let him lie here uncovered and fill

his body with deadly rheums. Now what shall I do? 'twill wake him to

take him up and put him within the bed, and he sorely needeth sleep."

He looked about for extra covering, but finding none, doffed his doublet

and wrapped the lad in it, saying, "I am used to nipping air and scant

apparel, 'tis little I shall mind the cold!"--then walked up and down the

room, to keep his blood in motion, soliloquising as before.

"His injured mind persuades him he is Prince of Wales; 'twill be odd to

have a Prince of Wales still with us, now that he that WAS the prince is

prince no more, but king--for this poor mind is set upon the one fantasy,

and will not reason out that now it should cast by the prince and call

itself the king. . . If my father liveth still, after these seven years

that I have heard nought from home in my foreign dungeon, he will welcome

the poor lad and give him generous shelter for my sake; so will my good

elder brother, Arthur; my other brother, Hugh--but I will crack his crown

an HE interfere, the fox-hearted, ill-conditioned animal! Yes, thither

will we fare--and straightway, too."

A servant entered with a smoking meal, disposed it upon a small deal

table, placed the chairs, and took his departure, leaving such cheap

lodgers as these to wait upon themselves. The door slammed after him,

and the noise woke the boy, who sprang to a sitting posture, and shot a

glad glance about him; then a grieved look came into his face and he

murmured to himself, with a deep sigh, "Alack, it was but a dream, woe is

me!" Next he noticed Miles Hendon's doublet--glanced from that to

Hendon, comprehended the sacrifice that had been made for him, and said,

gently--

"Thou art good to me, yes, thou art very good to me. Take it and put it

on--I shall not need it more."

Then he got up and walked to the washstand in the corner and stood there,

waiting. Hendon said in a cheery voice--

"We'll have a right hearty sup and bite, now, for everything is savoury

and smoking hot, and that and thy nap together will make thee a little

man again, never fear!"

The boy made no answer, but bent a steady look, that was filled with

grave surprise, and also somewhat touched with impatience, upon the tall

knight of the sword. Hendon was puzzled, and said--

"What's amiss?"

"Good sir, I would wash me."

"Oh, is that all? Ask no permission of Miles Hendon for aught thou

cravest. Make thyself perfectly free here, and welcome, with all that

are his belongings."

Still the boy stood, and moved not; more, he tapped the floor once or

twice with his small impatient foot. Hendon was wholly perplexed. Said

he--

"Bless us, what is it?"

"Prithee pour the water, and make not so many words!"

Hendon, suppressing a horse-laugh, and saying to himself, "By all the

saints, but this is admirable!" stepped briskly forward and did the small

insolent's bidding; then stood by, in a sort of stupefaction, until the

command, "Come--the towel!" woke him sharply up. He took up a towel,

from under the boy's nose, and handed it to him without comment. He now

proceeded to comfort his own face with a wash, and while he was at it his

adopted child seated himself at the table and prepared to fall to.

Hendon despatched his ablutions with alacrity, then drew back the other

chair and was about to place himself at table, when the boy said,

indignantly--

"Forbear! Wouldst sit in the presence of the King?"

This blow staggered Hendon to his foundations. He muttered to himself,

"Lo, the poor thing's madness is up with the time! It hath changed with

the great change that is come to the realm, and now in fancy is he KING!

Good lack, I must humour the conceit, too--there is no other way--faith,

he would order me to the Tower, else!"

And pleased with this jest, he removed the chair from the table, took his

stand behind the King, and proceeded to wait upon him in the courtliest

way he was capable of.

While the King ate, the rigour of his royal dignity relaxed a little, and

with his growing contentment came a desire to talk. He said--"I think

thou callest thyself Miles Hendon, if I heard thee aright?"

"Yes, Sire," Miles replied; then observed to himself, "If I MUST humour

the poor lad's madness, I must 'Sire' him, I must 'Majesty' him, I must

not go by halves, I must stick at nothing that belongeth to the part I

play, else shall I play it ill and work evil to this charitable and

kindly cause."

The King warmed his heart with a second glass of wine, and said--"I would

know thee--tell me thy story. Thou hast a gallant way with thee, and a

noble--art nobly born?"

"We are of the tail of the nobility, good your Majesty. My father is a

baronet--one of the smaller lords by knight service {2}--Sir Richard

Hendon of Hendon Hall, by Monk's Holm in Kent."

"The name has escaped my memory. Go on--tell me thy story."

"'Tis not much, your Majesty, yet perchance it may beguile a short

half-hour for want of a better. My father, Sir Richard, is very rich,

and of a most generous nature. My mother died whilst I was yet a boy. I

have two brothers: Arthur, my elder, with a soul like to his father's;

and Hugh, younger than I, a mean spirit, covetous, treacherous, vicious,

underhanded--a reptile. Such was he from the cradle; such was he ten

years past, when I last saw him--a ripe rascal at nineteen, I being

twenty then, and Arthur twenty-two. There is none other of us but the

Lady Edith, my cousin--she was sixteen then--beautiful, gentle, good, the

daughter of an earl, the last of her race, heiress of a great fortune and

a lapsed title. My father was her guardian. I loved her and she loved

me; but she was betrothed to Arthur from the cradle, and Sir Richard

would not suffer the contract to be broken. Arthur loved another maid,

and bade us be of good cheer and hold fast to the hope that delay and

luck together would some day give success to our several causes. Hugh

loved the Lady Edith's fortune, though in truth he said it was herself he

loved--but then 'twas his way, alway, to say the one thing and mean the

other. But he lost his arts upon the girl; he could deceive my father,

but none else. My father loved him best of us all, and trusted and

believed him; for he was the youngest child, and others hated him--these

qualities being in all ages sufficient to win a parent's dearest love;

and he had a smooth persuasive tongue, with an admirable gift of lying

--and these be qualities which do mightily assist a blind affection to

cozen itself. I was wild--in troth I might go yet farther and say VERY

wild, though 'twas a wildness of an innocent sort, since it hurt none but

me, brought shame to none, nor loss, nor had in it any taint of crime or

baseness, or what might not beseem mine honourable degree.

"Yet did my brother Hugh turn these faults to good account--he seeing

that our brother Arthur's health was but indifferent, and hoping the

worst might work him profit were I swept out of the path--so--but 'twere

a long tale, good my liege, and little worth the telling. Briefly, then,

this brother did deftly magnify my faults and make them crimes; ending

his base work with finding a silken ladder in mine apartments--conveyed

thither by his own means--and did convince my father by this, and

suborned evidence of servants and other lying knaves, that I was minded

to carry off my Edith and marry with her in rank defiance of his will.

"Three years of banishment from home and England might make a soldier and

a man of me, my father said, and teach me some degree of wisdom. I

fought out my long probation in the continental wars, tasting sumptuously

of hard knocks, privation, and adventure; but in my last battle I was

taken captive, and during the seven years that have waxed and waned since

then, a foreign dungeon hath harboured me. Through wit and courage I won

to the free air at last, and fled hither straight; and am but just

arrived, right poor in purse and raiment, and poorer still in knowledge

of what these dull seven years have wrought at Hendon Hall, its people

and belongings. So please you, sir, my meagre tale is told."

"Thou hast been shamefully abused!" said the little King, with a flashing

eye. "But I will right thee--by the cross will I! The King hath said

it."

Then, fired by the story of Miles's wrongs, he loosed his tongue and

poured the history of his own recent misfortunes into the ears of his

astonished listener. When he had finished, Miles said to himself--

"Lo, what an imagination he hath! Verily, this is no common mind; else,

crazed or sane, it could not weave so straight and gaudy a tale as this

out of the airy nothings wherewith it hath wrought this curious romaunt.

Poor ruined little head, it shall not lack friend or shelter whilst I

bide with the living. He shall never leave my side; he shall be my pet,

my little comrade. And he shall be cured!--ay, made whole and sound

--then will he make himself a name--and proud shall I be to say, 'Yes, he

is mine--I took him, a homeless little ragamuffin, but I saw what was in

him, and I said his name would be heard some day--behold him, observe

him--was I right?'"

The King spoke--in a thoughtful, measured voice--

"Thou didst save me injury and shame, perchance my life, and so my crown.

Such service demandeth rich reward. Name thy desire, and so it be within

the compass of my royal power, it is thine."

This fantastic suggestion startled Hendon out of his reverie. He was

about to thank the King and put the matter aside with saying he had only

done his duty and desired no reward, but a wiser thought came into his

head, and he asked leave to be silent a few moments and consider the

gracious offer--an idea which the King gravely approved, remarking that

it was best to be not too hasty with a thing of such great import.

Miles reflected during some moments, then said to himself, "Yes, that is

the thing to do--by any other means it were impossible to get at it--and

certes, this hour's experience has taught me 'twould be most wearing and

inconvenient to continue it as it is. Yes, I will propose it; 'twas a

happy accident that I did not throw the chance away." Then he dropped

upon one knee and said--

"My poor service went not beyond the limit of a subject's simple duty,

and therefore hath no merit; but since your Majesty is pleased to hold it

worthy some reward, I take heart of grace to make petition to this

effect. Near four hundred years ago, as your grace knoweth, there being

ill blood betwixt John, King of England, and the King of France, it was

decreed that two champions should fight together in the lists, and so

settle the dispute by what is called the arbitrament of God. These two

kings, and the Spanish king, being assembled to witness and judge the

conflict, the French champion appeared; but so redoubtable was he, that

our English knights refused to measure weapons with him. So the matter,

which was a weighty one, was like to go against the English monarch by

default. Now in the Tower lay the Lord de Courcy, the mightiest arm in

England, stripped of his honours and possessions, and wasting with long

captivity. Appeal was made to him; he gave assent, and came forth

arrayed for battle; but no sooner did the Frenchman glimpse his huge

frame and hear his famous name but he fled away, and the French king's

cause was lost. King John restored De Courcy's titles and possessions,

and said, 'Name thy wish and thou shalt have it, though it cost me half

my kingdom;' whereat De Courcy, kneeling, as I do now, made answer,

'This, then, I ask, my liege; that I and my successors may have and hold

the privilege of remaining covered in the presence of the kings of

England, henceforth while the throne shall last.' The boon was granted,

as your Majesty knoweth; and there hath been no time, these four hundred

years, that that line has failed of an heir; and so, even unto this day,

the head of that ancient house still weareth his hat or helm before the

King's Majesty, without let or hindrance, and this none other may do. {3}

Invoking this precedent in aid of my prayer, I beseech the King to grant

to me but this one grace and privilege--to my more than sufficient

reward--and none other, to wit: that I and my heirs, for ever, may SIT

in the presence of the Majesty of England!"

"Rise, Sir Miles Hendon, Knight," said the King, gravely--giving the

accolade with Hendon's sword--"rise, and seat thyself. Thy petition is

granted. Whilst England remains, and the crown continues, the privilege

shall not lapse."

His Majesty walked apart, musing, and Hendon dropped into a chair at

table, observing to himself, "'Twas a brave thought, and hath wrought me

a mighty deliverance; my legs are grievously wearied. An I had not

thought of that, I must have had to stand for weeks, till my poor lad's

wits are cured." After a little, he went on, "And so I am become a

knight of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows! A most odd and strange

position, truly, for one so matter-of-fact as I. I will not laugh--no,

God forbid, for this thing which is so substanceless to me is REAL to

him. And to me, also, in one way, it is not a falsity, for it reflects

with truth the sweet and generous spirit that is in him." After a pause:

"Ah, what if he should call me by my fine title before folk!--there'd be

a merry contrast betwixt my glory and my raiment! But no matter, let him

call me what he will, so it please him; I shall be content."

Chapter XIII. The disappearance of the Prince.

A heavy drowsiness presently fell upon the two comrades. The King said--

"Remove these rags"--meaning his clothing.

Hendon disapparelled the boy without dissent or remark, tucked him up in

bed, then glanced about the room, saying to himself, ruefully, "He hath

taken my bed again, as before--marry, what shall _I_ do?" The little

King observed his perplexity, and dissipated it with a word. He said,

sleepily--

"Thou wilt sleep athwart the door, and guard it." In a moment more he

was out of his troubles, in a deep slumber.

"Dear heart, he should have been born a king!" muttered Hendon,

admiringly; "he playeth the part to a marvel."

Then he stretched himself across the door, on the floor, saying

contentedly--

"I have lodged worse for seven years; 'twould be but ill gratitude to Him

above to find fault with this."

He dropped asleep as the dawn appeared. Toward noon he rose, uncovered

his unconscious ward--a section at a time--and took his measure with a

string. The King awoke, just as he had completed his work, complained of

the cold, and asked what he was doing.

"'Tis done, now, my liege," said Hendon; "I have a bit of business

outside, but will presently return; sleep thou again--thou needest it.

There--let me cover thy head also--thou'lt be warm the sooner."

The King was back in dreamland before this speech was ended. Miles

slipped softly out, and slipped as softly in again, in the course of

thirty or forty minutes, with a complete second-hand suit of boy's

clothing, of cheap material, and showing signs of wear; but tidy, and

suited to the season of the year. He seated himself, and began to

overhaul his purchase, mumbling to himself--

"A longer purse would have got a better sort, but when one has not the

long purse one must be content with what a short one may do--

"'There was a woman in our town, In our town did dwell--'

"He stirred, methinks--I must sing in a less thunderous key; 'tis not

good to mar his sleep, with this journey before him, and he so wearied

out, poor chap . . . This garment--'tis well enough--a stitch here and

another one there will set it aright. This other is better, albeit a

stitch or two will not come amiss in it, likewise . . . THESE be very

good and sound, and will keep his small feet warm and dry--an odd new

thing to him, belike, since he has doubtless been used to foot it bare,

winters and summers the same . . . Would thread were bread, seeing one

getteth a year's sufficiency for a farthing, and such a brave big needle

without cost, for mere love. Now shall I have the demon's own time to

thread it!"

And so he had. He did as men have always done, and probably always will

do, to the end of time--held the needle still, and tried to thrust the

thread through the eye, which is the opposite of a woman's way. Time and

time again the thread missed the mark, going sometimes on one side of the

needle, sometimes on the other, sometimes doubling up against the shaft;

but he was patient, having been through these experiences before, when he

was soldiering. He succeeded at last, and took up the garment that had

lain waiting, meantime, across his lap, and began his work.

"The inn is paid--the breakfast that is to come, included--and there is

wherewithal left to buy a couple of donkeys and meet our little costs for

the two or three days betwixt this and the plenty that awaits us at

Hendon Hall--

"'She loved her hus--'

"Body o' me! I have driven the needle under my nail! . . . It matters

little--'tis not a novelty--yet 'tis not a convenience, neither . . .We

shall be merry there, little one, never doubt it! Thy troubles will

vanish there, and likewise thy sad distemper--

"'She loved her husband dearilee, But another man--'

"These be noble large stitches!"--holding the garment up and viewing it

admiringly--"they have a grandeur and a majesty that do cause these small

stingy ones of the tailor-man to look mightily paltry and plebeian--

"'She loved her husband dearilee, But another man he loved she,--'