"Marry, 'tis done--a goodly piece of work, too, and wrought with

expedition. Now will I wake him, apparel him, pour for him, feed him,

and then will we hie us to the mart by the Tabard Inn in Southwark and

--be pleased to rise, my liege!--he answereth not--what ho, my liege!--of a

truth must I profane his sacred person with a touch, sith his slumber is

deaf to speech. What!"

He threw back the covers--the boy was gone!

He stared about him in speechless astonishment for a moment; noticed for

the first time that his ward's ragged raiment was also missing; then he

began to rage and storm and shout for the innkeeper. At that moment a

servant entered with the breakfast.

"Explain, thou limb of Satan, or thy time is come!" roared the man of

war, and made so savage a spring toward the waiter that this latter could

not find his tongue, for the instant, for fright and surprise. "Where is

the boy?"

In disjointed and trembling syllables the man gave the information

desired.

"You were hardly gone from the place, your worship, when a youth came

running and said it was your worship's will that the boy come to you

straight, at the bridge-end on the Southwark side. I brought him hither;

and when he woke the lad and gave his message, the lad did grumble some

little for being disturbed 'so early,' as he called it, but straightway

trussed on his rags and went with the youth, only saying it had been

better manners that your worship came yourself, not sent a stranger--and

so--"

"And so thou'rt a fool!--a fool and easily cozened--hang all thy breed!

Yet mayhap no hurt is done. Possibly no harm is meant the boy. I will

go fetch him. Make the table ready. Stay! the coverings of the bed were

disposed as if one lay beneath them--happened that by accident?"

"I know not, good your worship. I saw the youth meddle with them--he

that came for the boy."

"Thousand deaths! 'Twas done to deceive me--'tis plain 'twas done to

gain time. Hark ye! Was that youth alone?"

"All alone, your worship."

"Art sure?"

"Sure, your worship."

"Collect thy scattered wits--bethink thee--take time, man."

After a moment's thought, the servant said--

"When he came, none came with him; but now I remember me that as the two

stepped into the throng of the Bridge, a ruffian-looking man plunged out

from some near place; and just as he was joining them--"

"What THEN?--out with it!" thundered the impatient Hendon, interrupting.

"Just then the crowd lapped them up and closed them in, and I saw no

more, being called by my master, who was in a rage because a joint that

the scrivener had ordered was forgot, though I take all the saints to

witness that to blame ME for that miscarriage were like holding the

unborn babe to judgment for sins com--"

"Out of my sight, idiot! Thy prating drives me mad! Hold! Whither art

flying? Canst not bide still an instant? Went they toward Southwark?"

"Even so, your worship--for, as I said before, as to that detestable

joint, the babe unborn is no whit more blameless than--"

"Art here YET! And prating still! Vanish, lest I throttle thee!" The

servitor vanished. Hendon followed after him, passed him, and plunged

down the stairs two steps at a stride, muttering, "'Tis that scurvy

villain that claimed he was his son. I have lost thee, my poor little

mad master--it is a bitter thought--and I had come to love thee so! No!

by book and bell, NOT lost! Not lost, for I will ransack the land till I

find thee again. Poor child, yonder is his breakfast--and mine, but I

have no hunger now; so, let the rats have it--speed, speed! that is the

word!" As he wormed his swift way through the noisy multitudes upon the

Bridge he several times said to himself--clinging to the thought as if it

were a particularly pleasing one--"He grumbled, but he WENT--he went,

yes, because he thought Miles Hendon asked it, sweet lad--he would ne'er

have done it for another, I know it well."

Chapter XIV. 'Le Roi est mort--vive le Roi.'

Toward daylight of the same morning, Tom Canty stirred out of a heavy

sleep and opened his eyes in the dark. He lay silent a few moments,

trying to analyse his confused thoughts and impressions, and get some

sort of meaning out of them; then suddenly he burst out in a rapturous

but guarded voice--

"I see it all, I see it all! Now God be thanked, I am indeed awake at

last! Come, joy! vanish, sorrow! Ho, Nan! Bet! kick off your straw and

hie ye hither to my side, till I do pour into your unbelieving ears the

wildest madcap dream that ever the spirits of night did conjure up to

astonish the soul of man withal! . . . Ho, Nan, I say! Bet!"

A dim form appeared at his side, and a voice said--

"Wilt deign to deliver thy commands?"

"Commands? . . . O, woe is me, I know thy voice! Speak thou--who am I?"

"Thou? In sooth, yesternight wert thou the Prince of Wales; to-day art

thou my most gracious liege, Edward, King of England."

Tom buried his head among his pillows, murmuring plaintively--

"Alack, it was no dream! Go to thy rest, sweet sir--leave me to my

sorrows."

Tom slept again, and after a time he had this pleasant dream. He thought

it was summer, and he was playing, all alone, in the fair meadow called

Goodman's Fields, when a dwarf only a foot high, with long red whiskers

and a humped back, appeared to him suddenly and said, "Dig by that

stump." He did so, and found twelve bright new pennies--wonderful

riches! Yet this was not the best of it; for the dwarf said--

"I know thee. Thou art a good lad, and a deserving; thy distresses shall

end, for the day of thy reward is come. Dig here every seventh day, and

thou shalt find always the same treasure, twelve bright new pennies.

Tell none--keep the secret."

Then the dwarf vanished, and Tom flew to Offal Court with his prize,

saying to himself, "Every night will I give my father a penny; he will

think I begged it, it will glad his heart, and I shall no more be beaten.

One penny every week the good priest that teacheth me shall have; mother,

Nan, and Bet the other four. We be done with hunger and rags, now, done

with fears and frets and savage usage."

In his dream he reached his sordid home all out of breath, but with eyes

dancing with grateful enthusiasm; cast four of his pennies into his

mother's lap and cried out--

"They are for thee!--all of them, every one!--for thee and Nan and Bet

--and honestly come by, not begged nor stolen!"

The happy and astonished mother strained him to her breast and exclaimed--

"It waxeth late--may it please your Majesty to rise?"

Ah! that was not the answer he was expecting. The dream had snapped

asunder--he was awake.

He opened his eyes--the richly clad First Lord of the Bedchamber was

kneeling by his couch. The gladness of the lying dream faded away--the

poor boy recognised that he was still a captive and a king. The room was

filled with courtiers clothed in purple mantles--the mourning colour--and

with noble servants of the monarch. Tom sat up in bed and gazed out from

the heavy silken curtains upon this fine company.

The weighty business of dressing began, and one courtier after another

knelt and paid his court and offered to the little King his condolences

upon his heavy loss, whilst the dressing proceeded. In the beginning, a

shirt was taken up by the Chief Equerry in Waiting, who passed it to the

First Lord of the Buckhounds, who passed it to the Second Gentleman of

the Bedchamber, who passed it to the Head Ranger of Windsor Forest, who

passed it to the Third Groom of the Stole, who passed it to the

Chancellor Royal of the Duchy of Lancaster, who passed it to the Master

of the Wardrobe, who passed it to Norroy King-at-Arms, who passed it to

the Constable of the Tower, who passed it to the Chief Steward of the

Household, who passed it to the Hereditary Grand Diaperer, who passed it

to the Lord High Admiral of England, who passed it to the Archbishop of

Canterbury, who passed it to the First Lord of the Bedchamber, who took

what was left of it and put it on Tom. Poor little wondering chap, it

reminded him of passing buckets at a fire.

Each garment in its turn had to go through this slow and solemn process;

consequently Tom grew very weary of the ceremony; so weary that he felt

an almost gushing gratefulness when he at last saw his long silken hose

begin the journey down the line and knew that the end of the matter was

drawing near. But he exulted too soon. The First Lord of the Bedchamber

received the hose and was about to encase Tom's legs in them, when a

sudden flush invaded his face and he hurriedly hustled the things back

into the hands of the Archbishop of Canterbury with an astounded look and

a whispered, "See, my lord!" pointing to a something connected with the

hose. The Archbishop paled, then flushed, and passed the hose to the

Lord High Admiral, whispering, "See, my lord!" The Admiral passed the

hose to the Hereditary Grand Diaperer, and had hardly breath enough in

his body to ejaculate, "See, my lord!" The hose drifted backward along

the line, to the Chief Steward of the Household, the Constable of the

Tower, Norroy King-at-Arms, the Master of the Wardrobe, the Chancellor

Royal of the Duchy of Lancaster, the Third Groom of the Stole, the Head

Ranger of Windsor Forest, the Second Gentleman of the Bedchamber, the

First Lord of the Buckhounds,--accompanied always with that amazed and

frightened "See! see!"--till they finally reached the hands of the Chief

Equerry in Waiting, who gazed a moment, with a pallid face, upon what had

caused all this dismay, then hoarsely whispered, "Body of my life, a tag

gone from a truss-point!--to the Tower with the Head Keeper of the King's

Hose!"--after which he leaned upon the shoulder of the First Lord of the

Buckhounds to regather his vanished strength whilst fresh hose, without

any damaged strings to them, were brought.

But all things must have an end, and so in time Tom Canty was in a

condition to get out of bed. The proper official poured water, the

proper official engineered the washing, the proper official stood by with

a towel, and by-and-by Tom got safely through the purifying stage and was

ready for the services of the Hairdresser-royal. When he at length

emerged from this master's hands, he was a gracious figure and as pretty

as a girl, in his mantle and trunks of purple satin, and purple-plumed

cap. He now moved in state toward his breakfast-room, through the midst

of the courtly assemblage; and as he passed, these fell back, leaving his

way free, and dropped upon their knees.

After breakfast he was conducted, with regal ceremony, attended by his

great officers and his guard of fifty Gentlemen Pensioners bearing gilt

battle-axes, to the throne-room, where he proceeded to transact business

of state. His 'uncle,' Lord Hertford, took his stand by the throne, to

assist the royal mind with wise counsel.

The body of illustrious men named by the late King as his executors

appeared, to ask Tom's approval of certain acts of theirs--rather a form,

and yet not wholly a form, since there was no Protector as yet. The

Archbishop of Canterbury made report of the decree of the Council of

Executors concerning the obsequies of his late most illustrious Majesty,

and finished by reading the signatures of the Executors, to wit: the

Archbishop of Canterbury; the Lord Chancellor of England; William Lord

St. John; John Lord Russell; Edward Earl of Hertford; John Viscount

Lisle; Cuthbert Bishop of Durham--

Tom was not listening--an earlier clause of the document was puzzling

him. At this point he turned and whispered to Lord Hertford--

"What day did he say the burial hath been appointed for?"

"The sixteenth of the coming month, my liege."

"'Tis a strange folly. Will he keep?"

Poor chap, he was still new to the customs of royalty; he was used to

seeing the forlorn dead of Offal Court hustled out of the way with a very

different sort of expedition. However, the Lord Hertford set his mind at

rest with a word or two.

A secretary of state presented an order of the Council appointing the

morrow at eleven for the reception of the foreign ambassadors, and

desired the King's assent.

Tom turned an inquiring look toward Hertford, who whispered--

"Your Majesty will signify consent. They come to testify their royal

masters' sense of the heavy calamity which hath visited your Grace and

the realm of England."

Tom did as he was bidden. Another secretary began to read a preamble

concerning the expenses of the late King's household, which had amounted

to 28,000 pounds during the preceding six months--a sum so vast that it

made Tom Canty gasp; he gasped again when the fact appeared that 20,000

pounds of this money was still owing and unpaid; {4} and once more when

it appeared that the King's coffers were about empty, and his twelve

hundred servants much embarrassed for lack of the wages due them. Tom

spoke out, with lively apprehension--

"We be going to the dogs, 'tis plain. 'Tis meet and necessary that we

take a smaller house and set the servants at large, sith they be of no

value but to make delay, and trouble one with offices that harass the

spirit and shame the soul, they misbecoming any but a doll, that hath nor

brains nor hands to help itself withal. I remember me of a small house

that standeth over against the fish-market, by Billingsgate--"

A sharp pressure upon Tom's arm stopped his foolish tongue and sent a

blush to his face; but no countenance there betrayed any sign that this

strange speech had been remarked or given concern.

A secretary made report that forasmuch as the late King had provided in

his will for conferring the ducal degree upon the Earl of Hertford and

raising his brother, Sir Thomas Seymour, to the peerage, and likewise

Hertford's son to an earldom, together with similar aggrandisements to

other great servants of the Crown, the Council had resolved to hold a

sitting on the 16th of February for the delivering and confirming of

these honours, and that meantime, the late King not having granted, in

writing, estates suitable to the support of these dignities, the Council,

knowing his private wishes in that regard, had thought proper to grant to

Seymour '500 pound lands,' and to Hertford's son '800 pound lands, and

300 pound of the next bishop's lands which should fall vacant,'--his

present Majesty being willing. {5}

Tom was about to blurt out something about the propriety of paying the

late King's debts first, before squandering all this money, but a timely

touch upon his arm, from the thoughtful Hertford, saved him this

indiscretion; wherefore he gave the royal assent, without spoken comment,

but with much inward discomfort. While he sat reflecting a moment over

the ease with which he was doing strange and glittering miracles, a happy

thought shot into his mind: why not make his mother Duchess of Offal

Court, and give her an estate? But a sorrowful thought swept it

instantly away: he was only a king in name, these grave veterans and

great nobles were his masters; to them his mother was only the creature

of a diseased mind; they would simply listen to his project with

unbelieving ears, then send for the doctor.

The dull work went tediously on. Petitions were read, and proclamations,

patents, and all manner of wordy, repetitious, and wearisome papers

relating to the public business; and at last Tom sighed pathetically and

murmured to himself, "In what have I offended, that the good God should

take me away from the fields and the free air and the sunshine, to shut

me up here and make me a king and afflict me so?" Then his poor muddled

head nodded a while and presently drooped to his shoulder; and the

business of the empire came to a standstill for want of that august

factor, the ratifying power. Silence ensued around the slumbering child,

and the sages of the realm ceased from their deliberations.

During the forenoon, Tom had an enjoyable hour, by permission of his

keepers, Hertford and St. John, with the Lady Elizabeth and the little

Lady Jane Grey; though the spirits of the princesses were rather subdued

by the mighty stroke that had fallen upon the royal house; and at the end

of the visit his 'elder sister'--afterwards the 'Bloody Mary' of history

--chilled him with a solemn interview which had but one merit in his eyes,

its brevity. He had a few moments to himself, and then a slim lad of

about twelve years of age was admitted to his presence, whose clothing,

except his snowy ruff and the laces about his wrists, was of black,

--doublet, hose, and all. He bore no badge of mourning but a knot of

purple ribbon on his shoulder. He advanced hesitatingly, with head bowed

and bare, and dropped upon one knee in front of Tom. Tom sat still and

contemplated him soberly a moment. Then he said--

"Rise, lad. Who art thou. What wouldst have?"

The boy rose, and stood at graceful ease, but with an aspect of concern

in his face. He said--

"Of a surety thou must remember me, my lord. I am thy whipping-boy."

"My WHIPPING-boy?"

"The same, your Grace. I am Humphrey--Humphrey Marlow."

Tom perceived that here was someone whom his keepers ought to have posted

him about. The situation was delicate. What should he do?--pretend he

knew this lad, and then betray by his every utterance that he had never

heard of him before? No, that would not do. An idea came to his relief:

accidents like this might be likely to happen with some frequency, now

that business urgencies would often call Hertford and St. John from his

side, they being members of the Council of Executors; therefore perhaps

it would be well to strike out a plan himself to meet the requirements of

such emergencies. Yes, that would be a wise course--he would practise on

this boy, and see what sort of success he might achieve. So he stroked

his brow perplexedly a moment or two, and presently said--

"Now I seem to remember thee somewhat--but my wit is clogged and dim with

suffering--"

"Alack, my poor master!" ejaculated the whipping-boy, with feeling;

adding, to himself, "In truth 'tis as they said--his mind is gone--alas,

poor soul! But misfortune catch me, how am I forgetting! They said one

must not seem to observe that aught is wrong with him."

"'Tis strange how my memory doth wanton with me these days," said Tom.

"But mind it not--I mend apace--a little clue doth often serve to bring

me back again the things and names which had escaped me. (And not they,

only, forsooth, but e'en such as I ne'er heard before--as this lad shall

see.) Give thy business speech."

"'Tis matter of small weight, my liege, yet will I touch upon it, an' it

please your Grace. Two days gone by, when your Majesty faulted thrice in

your Greek--in the morning lessons,--dost remember it?"

"Y-e-s--methinks I do. (It is not much of a lie--an' I had meddled with

the Greek at all, I had not faulted simply thrice, but forty times.)

Yes, I do recall it, now--go on."

"The master, being wroth with what he termed such slovenly and doltish

work, did promise that he would soundly whip me for it--and--"

"Whip THEE!" said Tom, astonished out of his presence of mind. "Why

should he whip THEE for faults of mine?"

"Ah, your Grace forgetteth again. He always scourgeth me when thou dost

fail in thy lessons."

"True, true--I had forgot. Thou teachest me in private--then if I fail,

he argueth that thy office was lamely done, and--"

"Oh, my liege, what words are these? I, the humblest of thy servants,

presume to teach THEE?"

"Then where is thy blame? What riddle is this? Am I in truth gone mad,

or is it thou? Explain--speak out."

"But, good your Majesty, there's nought that needeth simplifying.--None

may visit the sacred person of the Prince of Wales with blows; wherefore,

when he faulteth, 'tis I that take them; and meet it is and right, for

that it is mine office and my livelihood." {1}

Tom stared at the tranquil boy, observing to himself, "Lo, it is a

wonderful thing,--a most strange and curious trade; I marvel they have

not hired a boy to take my combings and my dressings for me--would heaven

they would!--an' they will do this thing, I will take my lashings in mine

own person, giving God thanks for the change." Then he said aloud--

"And hast thou been beaten, poor friend, according to the promise?"

"No, good your Majesty, my punishment was appointed for this day, and

peradventure it may be annulled, as unbefitting the season of mourning

that is come upon us; I know not, and so have made bold to come hither

and remind your Grace about your gracious promise to intercede in my

behalf--"

"With the master? To save thee thy whipping?"

"Ah, thou dost remember!"

"My memory mendeth, thou seest. Set thy mind at ease--thy back shall go

unscathed--I will see to it."

"Oh, thanks, my good lord!" cried the boy, dropping upon his knee again.

"Mayhap I have ventured far enow; and yet--"

Seeing Master Humphrey hesitate, Tom encouraged him to go on, saying he

was "in the granting mood."

"Then will I speak it out, for it lieth near my heart. Sith thou art no

more Prince of Wales but King, thou canst order matters as thou wilt,

with none to say thee nay; wherefore it is not in reason that thou wilt

longer vex thyself with dreary studies, but wilt burn thy books and turn

thy mind to things less irksome. Then am I ruined, and mine orphan

sisters with me!"

"Ruined? Prithee how?"

"My back is my bread, O my gracious liege! if it go idle, I starve. An'

thou cease from study mine office is gone thou'lt need no whipping-boy.

Do not turn me away!"

Tom was touched with this pathetic distress. He said, with a right royal

burst of generosity--

"Discomfort thyself no further, lad. Thine office shall be permanent in

thee and thy line for ever." Then he struck the boy a light blow on the

shoulder with the flat of his sword, exclaiming, "Rise, Humphrey Marlow,

Hereditary Grand Whipping-Boy to the Royal House of England! Banish

sorrow--I will betake me to my books again, and study so ill that they

must in justice treble thy wage, so mightily shall the business of thine

office be augmented."

The grateful Humphrey responded fervidly--

"Thanks, O most noble master, this princely lavishness doth far surpass

my most distempered dreams of fortune. Now shall I be happy all my days,

and all the house of Marlow after me."

Tom had wit enough to perceive that here was a lad who could be useful to

him. He encouraged Humphrey to talk, and he was nothing loath. He was

delighted to believe that he was helping in Tom's 'cure'; for always, as

soon as he had finished calling back to Tom's diseased mind the various

particulars of his experiences and adventures in the royal school-room

and elsewhere about the palace, he noticed that Tom was then able to

'recall' the circumstances quite clearly. At the end of an hour Tom

found himself well freighted with very valuable information concerning

personages and matters pertaining to the Court; so he resolved to draw

instruction from this source daily; and to this end he would give order

to admit Humphrey to the royal closet whenever he might come, provided

the Majesty of England was not engaged with other people. Humphrey had

hardly been dismissed when my Lord Hertford arrived with more trouble for

Tom.

He said that the Lords of the Council, fearing that some overwrought

report of the King's damaged health might have leaked out and got abroad,

they deemed it wise and best that his Majesty should begin to dine in

public after a day or two--his wholesome complexion and vigorous step,

assisted by a carefully guarded repose of manner and ease and grace of

demeanour, would more surely quiet the general pulse--in case any evil

rumours HAD gone about--than any other scheme that could be devised.

Then the Earl proceeded, very delicately, to instruct Tom as to the

observances proper to the stately occasion, under the rather thin

disguise of 'reminding' him concerning things already known to him; but

to his vast gratification it turned out that Tom needed very little help

in this line--he had been making use of Humphrey in that direction, for

Humphrey had mentioned that within a few days he was to begin to dine in

public; having gathered it from the swift-winged gossip of the Court.

Tom kept these facts to himself, however.

Seeing the royal memory so improved, the Earl ventured to apply a few

tests to it, in an apparently casual way, to find out how far its

amendment had progressed. The results were happy, here and there, in

spots--spots where Humphrey's tracks remained--and on the whole my lord

was greatly pleased and encouraged. So encouraged was he, indeed, that

he spoke up and said in a quite hopeful voice--

"Now am I persuaded that if your Majesty will but tax your memory yet a

little further, it will resolve the puzzle of the Great Seal--a loss

which was of moment yesterday, although of none to-day, since its term of

service ended with our late lord's life. May it please your Grace to make

the trial?"

Tom was at sea--a Great Seal was something which he was totally

unacquainted with. After a moment's hesitation he looked up innocently

and asked--

"What was it like, my lord?"

The Earl started, almost imperceptibly, muttering to himself, "Alack, his

wits are flown again!--it was ill wisdom to lead him on to strain them"

--then he deftly turned the talk to other matters, with the purpose of

sweeping the unlucky seal out of Tom's thoughts--a purpose which easily

succeeded.

Chapter XV. Tom as King.

The next day the foreign ambassadors came, with their gorgeous trains;

and Tom, throned in awful state, received them. The splendours of the

scene delighted his eye and fired his imagination at first, but the

audience was long and dreary, and so were most of the addresses

--wherefore, what began as a pleasure grew into weariness and home-sickness

by-and-by. Tom said the words which Hertford put into his mouth from

time to time, and tried hard to acquit himself satisfactorily, but he was

too new to such things, and too ill at ease to accomplish more than a

tolerable success. He looked sufficiently like a king, but he was ill

able to feel like one. He was cordially glad when the ceremony was

ended.

The larger part of his day was 'wasted'--as he termed it, in his own

mind--in labours pertaining to his royal office. Even the two hours

devoted to certain princely pastimes and recreations were rather a burden

to him than otherwise, they were so fettered by restrictions and

ceremonious observances. However, he had a private hour with his

whipping-boy which he counted clear gain, since he got both entertainment

and needful information out of it.

The third day of Tom Canty's kingship came and went much as the others

had done, but there was a lifting of his cloud in one way--he felt less

uncomfortable than at first; he was getting a little used to his

circumstances and surroundings; his chains still galled, but not all the

time; he found that the presence and homage of the great afflicted and

embarrassed him less and less sharply with every hour that drifted over

his head.

But for one single dread, he could have seen the fourth day approach

without serious distress--the dining in public; it was to begin that day.

There were greater matters in the programme--for on that day he would

have to preside at a council which would take his views and commands

concerning the policy to be pursued toward various foreign nations

scattered far and near over the great globe; on that day, too, Hertford

would be formally chosen to the grand office of Lord Protector; other

things of note were appointed for that fourth day, also; but to Tom they

were all insignificant compared with the ordeal of dining all by himself

with a multitude of curious eyes fastened upon him and a multitude of

mouths whispering comments upon his performance,--and upon his mistakes,

if he should be so unlucky as to make any.

Still, nothing could stop that fourth day, and so it came. It found poor

Tom low-spirited and absent-minded, and this mood continued; he could not

shake it off. The ordinary duties of the morning dragged upon his hands,

and wearied him. Once more he felt the sense of captivity heavy upon

him.

Late in the forenoon he was in a large audience-chamber, conversing with

the Earl of Hertford and dully awaiting the striking of the hour

appointed for a visit of ceremony from a considerable number of great

officials and courtiers.

After a little while, Tom, who had wandered to a window and become

interested in the life and movement of the great highway beyond the

palace gates--and not idly interested, but longing with all his heart to

take part in person in its stir and freedom--saw the van of a hooting and

shouting mob of disorderly men, women, and children of the lowest and

poorest degree approaching from up the road.

"I would I knew what 'tis about!" he exclaimed, with all a boy's

curiosity in such happenings.

"Thou art the King!" solemnly responded the Earl, with a reverence.

"Have I your Grace's leave to act?"

"O blithely, yes! O gladly, yes!" exclaimed Tom excitedly, adding to

himself with a lively sense of satisfaction, "In truth, being a king is

not all dreariness--it hath its compensations and conveniences."

The Earl called a page, and sent him to the captain of the guard with the

order--

"Let the mob be halted, and inquiry made concerning the occasion of its

movement. By the King's command!"

A few seconds later a long rank of the royal guards, cased in flashing

steel, filed out at the gates and formed across the highway in front of

the multitude. A messenger returned, to report that the crowd were

following a man, a woman, and a young girl to execution for crimes

committed against the peace and dignity of the realm.

Death--and a violent death--for these poor unfortunates! The thought

wrung Tom's heart-strings. The spirit of compassion took control of him,

to the exclusion of all other considerations; he never thought of the

offended laws, or of the grief or loss which these three criminals had

inflicted upon their victims; he could think of nothing but the scaffold

and the grisly fate hanging over the heads of the condemned. His concern

made him even forget, for the moment, that he was but the false shadow of

a king, not the substance; and before he knew it he had blurted out the

command--

"Bring them here!"

Then he blushed scarlet, and a sort of apology sprung to his lips; but

observing that his order had wrought no sort of surprise in the Earl or

the waiting page, he suppressed the words he was about to utter. The

page, in the most matter-of-course way, made a profound obeisance and

retired backwards out of the room to deliver the command. Tom

experienced a glow of pride and a renewed sense of the compensating

advantages of the kingly office. He said to himself, "Truly it is like

what I was used to feel when I read the old priest's tales, and did

imagine mine own self a prince, giving law and command to all, saying 'Do

this, do that,' whilst none durst offer let or hindrance to my will."

Now the doors swung open; one high-sounding title after another was

announced, the personages owning them followed, and the place was quickly

half-filled with noble folk and finery. But Tom was hardly conscious of

the presence of these people, so wrought up was he and so intensely

absorbed in that other and more interesting matter. He seated himself

absently in his chair of state, and turned his eyes upon the door with

manifestations of impatient expectancy; seeing which, the company forbore

to trouble him, and fell to chatting a mixture of public business and

court gossip one with another.

In a little while the measured tread of military men was heard

approaching, and the culprits entered the presence in charge of an

under-sheriff and escorted by a detail of the king's guard. The civil

officer knelt before Tom, then stood aside; the three doomed persons

knelt, also, and remained so; the guard took position behind Tom's chair.

Tom scanned the prisoners curiously. Something about the dress or

appearance of the man had stirred a vague memory in him. "Methinks I

have seen this man ere now . . . but the when or the where fail me"--such

was Tom's thought. Just then the man glanced quickly up and quickly

dropped his face again, not being able to endure the awful port of

sovereignty; but the one full glimpse of the face which Tom got was

sufficient. He said to himself: "Now is the matter clear; this is the

stranger that plucked Giles Witt out of the Thames, and saved his life,

that windy, bitter, first day of the New Year--a brave good deed--pity he

hath been doing baser ones and got himself in this sad case . . . I have

not forgot the day, neither the hour; by reason that an hour after, upon

the stroke of eleven, I did get a hiding by the hand of Gammer Canty

which was of so goodly and admired severity that all that went before or

followed after it were but fondlings and caresses by comparison."

Tom now ordered that the woman and the girl be removed from the presence

for a little time; then addressed himself to the under-sheriff, saying--

"Good sir, what is this man's offence?"

The officer knelt, and answered--

"So please your Majesty, he hath taken the life of a subject by poison."

Tom's compassion for the prisoner, and admiration of him as the daring

rescuer of a drowning boy, experienced a most damaging shock.

"The thing was proven upon him?" he asked.

"Most clearly, sire."

Tom sighed, and said--

"Take him away--he hath earned his death. 'Tis a pity, for he was a

brave heart--na--na, I mean he hath the LOOK of it!"

The prisoner clasped his hands together with sudden energy, and wrung

them despairingly, at the same time appealing imploringly to the 'King'

in broken and terrified phrases--

"O my lord the King, an' thou canst pity the lost, have pity upon me! I

am innocent--neither hath that wherewith I am charged been more than but

lamely proved--yet I speak not of that; the judgment is gone forth

against me and may not suffer alteration; yet in mine extremity I beg a

boon, for my doom is more than I can bear. A grace, a grace, my lord the

King! in thy royal compassion grant my prayer--give commandment that I be

hanged!"

Tom was amazed. This was not the outcome he had looked for.

"Odds my life, a strange BOON! Was it not the fate intended thee?"

"O good my liege, not so! It is ordered that I be BOILED ALIVE!"

The hideous surprise of these words almost made Tom spring from his

chair. As soon as he could recover his wits he cried out--

"Have thy wish, poor soul! an' thou had poisoned a hundred men thou

shouldst not suffer so miserable a death."

The prisoner bowed his face to the ground and burst into passionate

expressions of gratitude--ending with--

"If ever thou shouldst know misfortune--which God forefend!--may thy

goodness to me this day be remembered and requited!"

Tom turned to the Earl of Hertford, and said--

"My lord, is it believable that there was warrant for this man's

ferocious doom?"

"It is the law, your Grace--for poisoners. In Germany coiners be boiled

to death in OIL--not cast in of a sudden, but by a rope let down into the

oil by degrees, and slowly; first the feet, then the legs, then--"

"O prithee no more, my lord, I cannot bear it!" cried Tom, covering his

eyes with his hands to shut out the picture. "I beseech your good

lordship that order be taken to change this law--oh, let no more poor

creatures be visited with its tortures."

The Earl's face showed profound gratification, for he was a man of

merciful and generous impulses--a thing not very common with his class in

that fierce age. He said--

"These your Grace's noble words have sealed its doom. History will

remember it to the honour of your royal house."

The under-sheriff was about to remove his prisoner; Tom gave him a sign

to wait; then he said--

"Good sir, I would look into this matter further. The man has said his

deed was but lamely proved. Tell me what thou knowest."

"If the King's grace please, it did appear upon the trial that this man

entered into a house in the hamlet of Islington where one lay sick--three

witnesses say it was at ten of the clock in the morning, and two say it

was some minutes later--the sick man being alone at the time, and

sleeping--and presently the man came forth again and went his way. The

sick man died within the hour, being torn with spasms and retchings."

"Did any see the poison given? Was poison found?"

"Marry, no, my liege."

"Then how doth one know there was poison given at all?"

"Please your Majesty, the doctors testified that none die with such

symptoms but by poison."

Weighty evidence, this, in that simple age. Tom recognised its

formidable nature, and said--

"The doctor knoweth his trade--belike they were right. The matter hath

an ill-look for this poor man."

"Yet was not this all, your Majesty; there is more and worse. Many

testified that a witch, since gone from the village, none know whither,

did foretell, and speak it privately in their ears, that the sick man

WOULD DIE BY POISON--and more, that a stranger would give it--a stranger

with brown hair and clothed in a worn and common garb; and surely this

prisoner doth answer woundily to the bill. Please your Majesty to give

the circumstance that solemn weight which is its due, seeing it was

FORETOLD."

This was an argument of tremendous force in that superstitious day. Tom

felt that the thing was settled; if evidence was worth anything, this

poor fellow's guilt was proved. Still he offered the prisoner a chance,

saying--

"If thou canst say aught in thy behalf, speak."

"Nought that will avail, my King. I am innocent, yet cannot I make it

appear. I have no friends, else might I show that I was not in Islington

that day; so also might I show that at that hour they name I was above a

league away, seeing I was at Wapping Old Stairs; yea more, my King, for I

could show, that whilst they say I was TAKING life, I was SAVING it. A

drowning boy--"

"Peace! Sheriff, name the day the deed was done!"

"At ten in the morning, or some minutes later, the first day of the New

Year, most illustrious--"

"Let the prisoner go free--it is the King's will!"

Another blush followed this unregal outburst, and he covered his

indecorum as well as he could by adding--

"It enrageth me that a man should be hanged upon such idle, hare-brained

evidence!"

A low buzz of admiration swept through the assemblage. It was not

admiration of the decree that had been delivered by Tom, for the

propriety or expediency of pardoning a convicted poisoner was a thing

which few there would have felt justified in either admitting or

admiring--no, the admiration was for the intelligence and spirit which

Tom had displayed. Some of the low-voiced remarks were to this effect--

"This is no mad king--he hath his wits sound."

"How sanely he put his questions--how like his former natural self was

this abrupt imperious disposal of the matter!"

"God be thanked, his infirmity is spent! This is no weakling, but a

king. He hath borne himself like to his own father."

The air being filled with applause, Tom's ear necessarily caught a little

of it. The effect which this had upon him was to put him greatly at his

ease, and also to charge his system with very gratifying sensations.

However, his juvenile curiosity soon rose superior to these pleasant

thoughts and feelings; he was eager to know what sort of deadly mischief

the woman and the little girl could have been about; so, by his command,

the two terrified and sobbing creatures were brought before him.

"What is it that these have done?" he inquired of the sheriff.

"Please your Majesty, a black crime is charged upon them, and clearly

proven; wherefore the judges have decreed, according to the law, that

they be hanged. They sold themselves to the devil--such is their crime."

Tom shuddered. He had been taught to abhor people who did this wicked

thing. Still, he was not going to deny himself the pleasure of feeding

his curiosity for all that; so he asked--

"Where was this done?--and when?"

"On a midnight in December, in a ruined church, your Majesty."

Tom shuddered again.

"Who was there present?"

"Only these two, your grace--and THAT OTHER."

"Have these confessed?"

"Nay, not so, sire--they do deny it."

"Then prithee, how was it known?"

"Certain witness did see them wending thither, good your Majesty; this

bred the suspicion, and dire effects have since confirmed and justified

it. In particular, it is in evidence that through the wicked power so

obtained, they did invoke and bring about a storm that wasted all the

region round about. Above forty witnesses have proved the storm; and

sooth one might have had a thousand, for all had reason to remember it,

sith all had suffered by it."

"Certes this is a serious matter." Tom turned this dark piece of

scoundrelism over in his mind a while, then asked--

"Suffered the woman also by the storm?"

Several old heads among the assemblage nodded their recognition of the

wisdom of this question. The sheriff, however, saw nothing consequential

in the inquiry; he answered, with simple directness--

"Indeed did she, your Majesty, and most righteously, as all aver. Her

habitation was swept away, and herself and child left shelterless."

"Methinks the power to do herself so ill a turn was dearly bought. She

had been cheated, had she paid but a farthing for it; that she paid her

soul, and her child's, argueth that she is mad; if she is mad she knoweth

not what she doth, therefore sinneth not."

The elderly heads nodded recognition of Tom's wisdom once more, and one

individual murmured, "An' the King be mad himself, according to report,

then is it a madness of a sort that would improve the sanity of some I

wot of, if by the gentle providence of God they could but catch it."

"What age hath the child?" asked Tom.

"Nine years, please your Majesty."

"By the law of England may a child enter into covenant and sell itself,

my lord?" asked Tom, turning to a learned judge.

"The law doth not permit a child to make or meddle in any weighty matter,

good my liege, holding that its callow wit unfitteth it to cope with the

riper wit and evil schemings of them that are its elders. The DEVIL may

buy a child, if he so choose, and the child agree thereto, but not an

Englishman--in this latter case the contract would be null and void."

"It seemeth a rude unchristian thing, and ill contrived, that English law

denieth privileges to Englishmen to waste them on the devil!" cried Tom,

with honest heat.

This novel view of the matter excited many smiles, and was stored away in

many heads to be repeated about the Court as evidence of Tom's

originality as well as progress toward mental health.

The elder culprit had ceased from sobbing, and was hanging upon Tom's

words with an excited interest and a growing hope. Tom noticed this, and

it strongly inclined his sympathies toward her in her perilous and

unfriended situation. Presently he asked--

"How wrought they to bring the storm?"

"BY PULLING OFF THEIR STOCKINGS, sire."

This astonished Tom, and also fired his curiosity to fever heat. He said,

eagerly--

"It is wonderful! Hath it always this dread effect?"

"Always, my liege--at least if the woman desire it, and utter the needful

words, either in her mind or with her tongue."

Tom turned to the woman, and said with impetuous zeal--

"Exert thy power--I would see a storm!"

There was a sudden paling of cheeks in the superstitious assemblage, and

a general, though unexpressed, desire to get out of the place--all of

which was lost upon Tom, who was dead to everything but the proposed

cataclysm. Seeing a puzzled and astonished look in the woman's face, he

added, excitedly--

"Never fear--thou shalt be blameless. More--thou shalt go free--none

shall touch thee. Exert thy power."

"Oh, my lord the King, I have it not--I have been falsely accused."

"Thy fears stay thee. Be of good heart, thou shalt suffer no harm. Make

a storm--it mattereth not how small a one--I require nought great or

harmful, but indeed prefer the opposite--do this and thy life is spared

--thou shalt go out free, with thy child, bearing the King's pardon, and

safe from hurt or malice from any in the realm."

The woman prostrated herself, and protested, with tears, that she had no

power to do the miracle, else she would gladly win her child's life

alone, and be content to lose her own, if by obedience to the King's

command so precious a grace might be acquired.

Tom urged--the woman still adhered to her declarations. Finally he said--

"I think the woman hath said true. An' MY mother were in her place and

gifted with the devil's functions, she had not stayed a moment to call

her storms and lay the whole land in ruins, if the saving of my forfeit

life were the price she got! It is argument that other mothers are made

in like mould. Thou art free, goodwife--thou and thy child--for I do

think thee innocent. NOW thou'st nought to fear, being pardoned--pull

off thy stockings!--an' thou canst make me a storm, thou shalt be rich!"

The redeemed creature was loud in her gratitude, and proceeded to obey,

whilst Tom looked on with eager expectancy, a little marred by

apprehension; the courtiers at the same time manifesting decided

discomfort and uneasiness. The woman stripped her own feet and her

little girl's also, and plainly did her best to reward the King's

generosity with an earthquake, but it was all a failure and a

disappointment. Tom sighed, and said--

"There, good soul, trouble thyself no further, thy power is departed out

of thee. Go thy way in peace; and if it return to thee at any time,

forget me not, but fetch me a storm." {13}

Chapter XVI. The State Dinner.

The dinner hour drew near--yet strangely enough, the thought brought but

slight discomfort to Tom, and hardly any terror. The morning's

experiences had wonderfully built up his confidence; the poor little

ash-cat was already more wonted to his strange garret, after four days'

habit, than a mature person could have become in a full month. A child's

facility in accommodating itself to circumstances was never more

strikingly illustrated.

Let us privileged ones hurry to the great banqueting-room and have a

glance at matters there whilst Tom is being made ready for the imposing

occasion. It is a spacious apartment, with gilded pillars and pilasters,

and pictured walls and ceilings. At the door stand tall guards, as rigid

as statues, dressed in rich and picturesque costumes, and bearing

halberds. In a high gallery which runs all around the place is a band of

musicians and a packed company of citizens of both sexes, in brilliant

attire. In the centre of the room, upon a raised platform, is Tom's

table. Now let the ancient chronicler speak:

"A gentleman enters the room bearing a rod, and along with him another

bearing a tablecloth, which, after they have both kneeled three times

with the utmost veneration, he spreads upon the table, and after kneeling

again they both retire; then come two others, one with the rod again, the

other with a salt-cellar, a plate, and bread; when they have kneeled as

the others had done, and placed what was brought upon the table, they too

retire with the same ceremonies performed by the first; at last come two

nobles, richly clothed, one bearing a tasting-knife, who, after

prostrating themselves three times in the most graceful manner, approach

and rub the table with bread and salt, with as much awe as if the King

had been present." {6}

So end the solemn preliminaries. Now, far down the echoing corridors we

hear a bugle-blast, and the indistinct cry, "Place for the King! Way for

the King's most excellent majesty!" These sounds are momently repeated

--they grow nearer and nearer--and presently, almost in our faces, the

martial note peals and the cry rings out, "Way for the King!" At this

instant the shining pageant appears, and files in at the door, with a

measured march. Let the chronicler speak again:--

"First come Gentlemen, Barons, Earls, Knights of the Garter, all richly

dressed and bareheaded; next comes the Chancellor, between two, one of

which carries the royal sceptre, the other the Sword of State in a red

scabbard, studded with golden fleurs-de-lis, the point upwards; next

comes the King himself--whom, upon his appearing, twelve trumpets and

many drums salute with a great burst of welcome, whilst all in the

galleries rise in their places, crying 'God save the King!' After him

come nobles attached to his person, and on his right and left march his

guard of honour, his fifty Gentlemen Pensioners, with gilt battle-axes."

This was all fine and pleasant. Tom's pulse beat high, and a glad light

was in his eye. He bore himself right gracefully, and all the more so

because he was not thinking of how he was doing it, his mind being

charmed and occupied with the blithe sights and sounds about him--and

besides, nobody can be very ungraceful in nicely-fitting beautiful

clothes after he has grown a little used to them--especially if he is for

the moment unconscious of them. Tom remembered his instructions, and

acknowledged his greeting with a slight inclination of his plumed head,

and a courteous "I thank ye, my good people."

He seated himself at table, without removing his cap; and did it without

the least embarrassment; for to eat with one's cap on was the one

solitary royal custom upon which the kings and the Cantys met upon common

ground, neither party having any advantage over the other in the matter

of old familiarity with it. The pageant broke up and grouped itself

picturesquely, and remained bareheaded.

Now to the sound of gay music the Yeomen of the Guard entered,--"the

tallest and mightiest men in England, they being carefully selected in

this regard"--but we will let the chronicler tell about it:--

"The Yeomen of the Guard entered, bareheaded, clothed in scarlet, with

golden roses upon their backs; and these went and came, bringing in each

turn a course of dishes, served in plate. These dishes were received by

a gentleman in the same order they were brought, and placed upon the

table, while the taster gave to each guard a mouthful to eat of the

particular dish he had brought, for fear of any poison."

Tom made a good dinner, notwithstanding he was conscious that hundreds of

eyes followed each morsel to his mouth and watched him eat it with an

interest which could not have been more intense if it had been a deadly

explosive and was expected to blow him up and scatter him all about the

place. He was careful not to hurry, and equally careful not to do

anything whatever for himself, but wait till the proper official knelt

down and did it for him. He got through without a mistake--flawless and

precious triumph.

When the meal was over at last and he marched away in the midst of his

bright pageant, with the happy noises in his ears of blaring bugles,

rolling drums, and thundering acclamations, he felt that if he had seen

the worst of dining in public it was an ordeal which he would be glad to

endure several times a day if by that means he could but buy himself free

from some of the more formidable requirements of his royal office.

Chapter XVII. Foo-foo the First.

Miles Hendon hurried along toward the Southwark end of the bridge,

keeping a sharp look-out for the persons he sought, and hoping and

expecting to overtake them presently. He was disappointed in this,

however. By asking questions, he was enabled to track them part of the

way through Southwark; then all traces ceased, and he was perplexed as to

how to proceed. Still, he continued his efforts as best he could during

the rest of the day. Nightfall found him leg-weary, half-famished, and

his desire as far from accomplishment as ever; so he supped at the Tabard

Inn and went to bed, resolved to make an early start in the morning, and

give the town an exhaustive search. As he lay thinking and planning, he

presently began to reason thus: The boy would escape from the ruffian,

his reputed father, if possible; would he go back to London and seek his

former haunts? No, he would not do that, he would avoid recapture.

What, then, would he do? Never having had a friend in the world, or a

protector, until he met Miles Hendon, he would naturally try to find that

friend again, provided the effort did not require him to go toward London

and danger. He would strike for Hendon Hall, that is what he would do,

for he knew Hendon was homeward bound and there he might expect to find

him. Yes, the case was plain to Hendon--he must lose no more time in

Southwark, but move at once through Kent, toward Monk's Holm, searching

the wood and inquiring as he went. Let us return to the vanished little

King now.

The ruffian whom the waiter at the inn on the bridge saw 'about to join'

the youth and the King did not exactly join them, but fell in close

behind them and followed their steps. He said nothing. His left arm was

in a sling, and he wore a large green patch over his left eye; he limped

slightly, and used an oaken staff as a support. The youth led the King a

crooked course through Southwark, and by-and-by struck into the high road

beyond. The King was irritated, now, and said he would stop here--it was

Hendon's place to come to him, not his to go to Hendon. He would not

endure such insolence; he would stop where he was. The youth said--

"Thou'lt tarry here, and thy friend lying wounded in the wood yonder? So

be it, then."

The King's manner changed at once. He cried out--

"Wounded? And who hath dared to do it? But that is apart; lead on, lead

on! Faster, sirrah! Art shod with lead? Wounded, is he? Now though

the doer of it be a duke's son he shall rue it!"

It was some distance to the wood, but the space was speedily traversed.

The youth looked about him, discovered a bough sticking in the ground,

with a small bit of rag tied to it, then led the way into the forest,

watching for similar boughs and finding them at intervals; they were

evidently guides to the point he was aiming at. By-and-by an open place

was reached, where were the charred remains of a farm-house, and near

them a barn which was falling to ruin and decay. There was no sign of

life anywhere, and utter silence prevailed. The youth entered the barn,

the King following eagerly upon his heels. No one there! The King shot a

surprised and suspicious glance at the youth, and asked--

"Where is he?"

A mocking laugh was his answer. The King was in a rage in a moment; he

seized a billet of wood and was in the act of charging upon the youth

when another mocking laugh fell upon his ear. It was from the lame

ruffian who had been following at a distance. The King turned and said

angrily--

"Who art thou? What is thy business here?"

"Leave thy foolery," said the man, "and quiet thyself. My disguise is

none so good that thou canst pretend thou knowest not thy father through

it."

"Thou art not my father. I know thee not. I am the King. If thou hast

hid my servant, find him for me, or thou shalt sup sorrow for what thou

hast done."

John Canty replied, in a stern and measured voice--

"It is plain thou art mad, and I am loath to punish thee; but if thou

provoke me, I must. Thy prating doth no harm here, where there are no

ears that need to mind thy follies; yet it is well to practise thy tongue

to wary speech, that it may do no hurt when our quarters change. I have

done a murder, and may not tarry at home--neither shalt thou, seeing I

need thy service. My name is changed, for wise reasons; it is Hobbs

--John Hobbs; thine is Jack--charge thy memory accordingly. Now, then,

speak. Where is thy mother? Where are thy sisters? They came not to

the place appointed--knowest thou whither they went?"

The King answered sullenly--

"Trouble me not with these riddles. My mother is dead; my sisters are in

the palace."

The youth near by burst into a derisive laugh, and the King would have

assaulted him, but Canty--or Hobbs, as he now called himself--prevented

him, and said--

"Peace, Hugo, vex him not; his mind is astray, and thy ways fret him.

Sit thee down, Jack, and quiet thyself; thou shalt have a morsel to eat,

anon."

Hobbs and Hugo fell to talking together, in low voices, and the King

removed himself as far as he could from their disagreeable company. He

withdrew into the twilight of the farther end of the barn, where he found

the earthen floor bedded a foot deep with straw. He lay down here, drew

straw over himself in lieu of blankets, and was soon absorbed in

thinking. He had many griefs, but the minor ones were swept almost into

forgetfulness by the supreme one, the loss of his father. To the rest of

the world the name of Henry VIII. brought a shiver, and suggested an ogre

whose nostrils breathed destruction and whose hand dealt scourgings and

death; but to this boy the name brought only sensations of pleasure; the

figure it invoked wore a countenance that was all gentleness and

affection. He called to mind a long succession of loving passages

between his father and himself, and dwelt fondly upon them, his unstinted

tears attesting how deep and real was the grief that possessed his heart.

As the afternoon wasted away, the lad, wearied with his troubles, sank

gradually into a tranquil and healing slumber.

After a considerable time--he could not tell how long--his senses

struggled to a half-consciousness, and as he lay with closed eyes vaguely

wondering where he was and what had been happening, he noted a murmurous

sound, the sullen beating of rain upon the roof. A snug sense of comfort

stole over him, which was rudely broken, the next moment, by a chorus of

piping cackles and coarse laughter. It startled him disagreeably, and he

unmuffled his head to see whence this interruption proceeded. A grim and

unsightly picture met his eye. A bright fire was burning in the middle

of the floor, at the other end of the barn; and around it, and lit

weirdly up by the red glare, lolled and sprawled the motliest company of

tattered gutter-scum and ruffians, of both sexes, he had ever read or

dreamed of. There were huge stalwart men, brown with exposure,

long-haired, and clothed in fantastic rags; there were middle-sized

youths, of truculent countenance, and similarly clad; there were blind

mendicants, with patched or bandaged eyes; crippled ones, with wooden

legs and crutches; diseased ones, with running sores peeping from

ineffectual wrappings; there was a villain-looking pedlar with his pack;

a knife-grinder, a tinker, and a barber-surgeon, with the implements of

their trades; some of the females were hardly-grown girls, some were at

prime, some were old and wrinkled hags, and all were loud, brazen,

foul-mouthed; and all soiled and slatternly; there were three sore-faced

babies; there were a couple of starveling curs, with strings about their

necks, whose office was to lead the blind.

The night was come, the gang had just finished feasting, an orgy was

beginning; the can of liquor was passing from mouth to mouth. A general

cry broke forth--

"A song! a song from the Bat and Dick and Dot-and-go-One!"

One of the blind men got up, and made ready by casting aside the patches

that sheltered his excellent eyes, and the pathetic placard which recited

the cause of his calamity. Dot-and-go-One disencumbered himself of his

timber leg and took his place, upon sound and healthy limbs, beside his

fellow-rascal; then they roared out a rollicking ditty, and were

reinforced by the whole crew, at the end of each stanza, in a rousing

chorus. By the time the last stanza was reached, the half-drunken

enthusiasm had risen to such a pitch, that everybody joined in and sang

it clear through from the beginning, producing a volume of villainous

sound that made the rafters quake. These were the inspiring words:--

'Bien Darkman's then, Bouse Mort and Ken, The bien Coves bings awast, On

Chates to trine by Rome Coves dine For his long lib at last. Bing'd out

bien Morts and toure, and toure, Bing out of the Rome vile bine, And

toure the Cove that cloy'd your duds, Upon the Chates to trine.' (From

'The English Rogue.' London, 1665.)

Conversation followed; not in the thieves' dialect of the song, for that

was only used in talk when unfriendly ears might be listening. In the

course of it, it appeared that 'John Hobbs' was not altogether a new

recruit, but had trained in the gang at some former time. His later

history was called for, and when he said he had 'accidentally' killed a

man, considerable satisfaction was expressed; when he added that the man

was a priest, he was roundly applauded, and had to take a drink with

everybody. Old acquaintances welcomed him joyously, and new ones were

proud to shake him by the hand. He was asked why he had 'tarried away so

many months.' He answered--

"London is better than the country, and safer, these late years, the laws

be so bitter and so diligently enforced. An' I had not had that

accident, I had stayed there. I had resolved to stay, and never more

venture country-wards--but the accident has ended that."

He inquired how many persons the gang numbered now. The 'ruffler,' or

chief, answered--

"Five and twenty sturdy budges, bulks, files, clapperdogeons and

maunders, counting the dells and doxies and other morts. {7} Most are

here, the rest are wandering eastward, along the winter lay. We follow at

dawn."

"I do not see the Wen among the honest folk about me. Where may he be?"

"Poor lad, his diet is brimstone, now, and over hot for a delicate taste.

He was killed in a brawl, somewhere about midsummer."

"I sorrow to hear that; the Wen was a capable man, and brave."

"That was he, truly. Black Bess, his dell, is of us yet, but absent on

the eastward tramp; a fine lass, of nice ways and orderly conduct, none

ever seeing her drunk above four days in the seven."

"She was ever strict--I remember it well--a goodly wench and worthy all

commendation. Her mother was more free and less particular; a

troublesome and ugly-tempered beldame, but furnished with a wit above the

common."

"We lost her through it. Her gift of palmistry and other sorts of

fortune-telling begot for her at last a witch's name and fame. The law

roasted her to death at a slow fire. It did touch me to a sort of

tenderness to see the gallant way she met her lot--cursing and reviling

all the crowd that gaped and gazed around her, whilst the flames licked

upward toward her face and catched her thin locks and crackled about her

old gray head--cursing them! why an' thou should'st live a thousand years

thoud'st never hear so masterful a cursing. Alack, her art died with

her. There be base and weakling imitations left, but no true blasphemy."

The Ruffler sighed; the listeners sighed in sympathy; a general

depression fell upon the company for a moment, for even hardened outcasts

like these are not wholly dead to sentiment, but are able to feel a

fleeting sense of loss and affliction at wide intervals and under

peculiarly favouring circumstances--as in cases like to this, for

instance, when genius and culture depart and leave no heir. However, a

deep drink all round soon restored the spirits of the mourners.

"Have any others of our friends fared hardly?" asked Hobbs.

"Some--yes. Particularly new comers--such as small husbandmen turned

shiftless and hungry upon the world because their farms were taken from

them to be changed to sheep ranges. They begged, and were whipped at the

cart's tail, naked from the girdle up, till the blood ran; then set in

the stocks to be pelted; they begged again, were whipped again, and

deprived of an ear; they begged a third time--poor devils, what else

could they do?--and were branded on the cheek with a red-hot iron, then

sold for slaves; they ran away, were hunted down, and hanged. 'Tis a

brief tale, and quickly told. Others of us have fared less hardly. Stand

forth, Yokel, Burns, and Hodge--show your adornments!"

These stood up and stripped away some of their rags, exposing their

backs, criss-crossed with ropy old welts left by the lash; one turned up

his hair and showed the place where a left ear had once been; another

showed a brand upon his shoulder--the letter V--and a mutilated ear; the

third said--

"I am Yokel, once a farmer and prosperous, with loving wife and kids--now

am I somewhat different in estate and calling; and the wife and kids are

gone; mayhap they are in heaven, mayhap in--in the other place--but the

kindly God be thanked, they bide no more in ENGLAND! My good old

blameless mother strove to earn bread by nursing the sick; one of these

died, the doctors knew not how, so my mother was burnt for a witch,

whilst my babes looked on and wailed. English law!--up, all, with your

cups!--now all together and with a cheer!--drink to the merciful English

law that delivered HER from the English hell! Thank you, mates, one and

all. I begged, from house to house--I and the wife--bearing with us the

hungry kids--but it was crime to be hungry in England--so they stripped

us and lashed us through three towns. Drink ye all again to the merciful

English law!--for its lash drank deep of my Mary's blood and its blessed

deliverance came quick. She lies there, in the potter's field, safe from

all harms. And the kids--well, whilst the law lashed me from town to

town, they starved. Drink, lads--only a drop--a drop to the poor kids,

that never did any creature harm. I begged again--begged, for a crust,

and got the stocks and lost an ear--see, here bides the stump; I begged

again, and here is the stump of the other to keep me minded of it. And

still I begged again, and was sold for a slave--here on my cheek under

this stain, if I washed it off, ye might see the red S the branding-iron

left there! A SLAVE! Do you understand that word? An English SLAVE!

--that is he that stands before ye. I have run from my master, and when I

am found--the heavy curse of heaven fall on the law of the land that hath

commanded it!--I shall hang!" {1}

A ringing voice came through the murky air--

"Thou shalt NOT!--and this day the end of that law is come!"

All turned, and saw the fantastic figure of the little King approaching

hurriedly; as it emerged into the light and was clearly revealed, a

general explosion of inquiries broke out--

"Who is it? WHAT is it? Who art thou, manikin?"

The boy stood unconfused in the midst of all those surprised and

questioning eyes, and answered with princely dignity--

"I am Edward, King of England."

A wild burst of laughter followed, partly of derision and partly of

delight in the excellence of the joke. The King was stung. He said

sharply--

"Ye mannerless vagrants, is this your recognition of the royal boon I

have promised?"

He said more, with angry voice and excited gesture, but it was lost in a

whirlwind of laughter and mocking exclamations. 'John Hobbs' made

several attempts to make himself heard above the din, and at last

succeeded--saying--

"Mates, he is my son, a dreamer, a fool, and stark mad--mind him not--he

thinketh he IS the King."

"I AM the King," said Edward, turning toward him, "as thou shalt know to

thy cost, in good time. Thou hast confessed a murder--thou shalt swing

for it."

"THOU'LT betray me?--THOU? An' I get my hands upon thee--"

"Tut-tut!" said the burley Ruffler, interposing in time to save the King,

and emphasising this service by knocking Hobbs down with his fist, "hast

respect for neither Kings NOR Rufflers? An' thou insult my presence so

again, I'll hang thee up myself." Then he said to his Majesty, "Thou

must make no threats against thy mates, lad; and thou must guard thy

tongue from saying evil of them elsewhere. BE King, if it please thy mad

humour, but be not harmful in it. Sink the title thou hast uttered--'tis

treason; we be bad men in some few trifling ways, but none among us is so

base as to be traitor to his King; we be loving and loyal hearts, in that

regard. Note if I speak truth. Now--all together: 'Long live Edward,

King of England!'"

"LONG LIVE EDWARD, KING OF ENGLAND!"

The response came with such a thundergust from the motley crew that the

crazy building vibrated to the sound. The little King's face lighted

with pleasure for an instant, and he slightly inclined his head, and said

with grave simplicity--

"I thank you, my good people."

This unexpected result threw the company into convulsions of merriment.

When something like quiet was presently come again, the Ruffler said,

firmly, but with an accent of good nature--

"Drop it, boy, 'tis not wise, nor well. Humour thy fancy, if thou must,

but choose some other title."

A tinker shrieked out a suggestion--

"Foo-foo the First, King of the Mooncalves!"

The title 'took,' at once, every throat responded, and a roaring shout

went up, of--

"Long live Foo-foo the First, King of the Mooncalves!" followed by

hootings, cat-calls, and peals of laughter.

"Hale him forth, and crown him!"

"Robe him!"

"Sceptre him!"

"Throne him!"

These and twenty other cries broke out at once! and almost before the

poor little victim could draw a breath he was crowned with a tin basin,

robed in a tattered blanket, throned upon a barrel, and sceptred with the

tinker's soldering-iron. Then all flung themselves upon their knees

about him and sent up a chorus of ironical wailings, and mocking

supplications, whilst they swabbed their eyes with their soiled and

ragged sleeves and aprons--

"Be gracious to us, O sweet King!"

"Trample not upon thy beseeching worms, O noble Majesty!"

"Pity thy slaves, and comfort them with a royal kick!"

"Cheer us and warm us with thy gracious rays, O flaming sun of

sovereignty!"

"Sanctify the ground with the touch of thy foot, that we may eat the dirt

and be ennobled!"

"Deign to spit upon us, O Sire, that our children's children may tell of

thy princely condescension, and be proud and happy for ever!"

But the humorous tinker made the 'hit' of the evening and carried off the

honours. Kneeling, he pretended to kiss the King's foot, and was

indignantly spurned; whereupon he went about begging for a rag to paste

over the place upon his face which had been touched by the foot, saying

it must be preserved from contact with the vulgar air, and that he should

make his fortune by going on the highway and exposing it to view at the

rate of a hundred shillings a sight. He made himself so killingly funny

that he was the envy and admiration of the whole mangy rabble.

Tears of shame and indignation stood in the little monarch's eyes; and

the thought in his heart was, "Had I offered them a deep wrong they could

not be more cruel--yet have I proffered nought but to do them a kindness

--and it is thus they use me for it!"

Chapter XVIII. The Prince with the tramps.

The troop of vagabonds turned out at early dawn, and set forward on their

march. There was a lowering sky overhead, sloppy ground under foot, and

a winter chill in the air. All gaiety was gone from the company; some

were sullen and silent, some were irritable and petulant, none were

gentle-humoured, all were thirsty.

The Ruffler put 'Jack' in Hugo's charge, with some brief instructions,

and commanded John Canty to keep away from him and let him alone; he also

warned Hugo not to be too rough with the lad.

After a while the weather grew milder, and the clouds lifted somewhat.

The troop ceased to shiver, and their spirits began to improve. They

grew more and more cheerful, and finally began to chaff each other and

insult passengers along the highway. This showed that they were awaking

to an appreciation of life and its joys once more. The dread in which

their sort was held was apparent in the fact that everybody gave them the

road, and took their ribald insolences meekly, without venturing to talk

back. They snatched linen from the hedges, occasionally in full view of

the owners, who made no protest, but only seemed grateful that they did

not take the hedges, too.

By-and-by they invaded a small farmhouse and made themselves at home

while the trembling farmer and his people swept the larder clean to

furnish a breakfast for them. They chucked the housewife and her

daughters under the chin whilst receiving the food from their hands, and

made coarse jests about them, accompanied with insulting epithets and

bursts of horse-laughter. They threw bones and vegetables at the farmer

and his sons, kept them dodging all the time, and applauded uproariously

when a good hit was made. They ended by buttering the head of one of the

daughters who resented some of their familiarities. When they took their

leave they threatened to come back and burn the house over the heads of

the family if any report of their doings got to the ears of the

authorities.

About noon, after a long and weary tramp, the gang came to a halt behind

a hedge on the outskirts of a considerable village. An hour was allowed

for rest, then the crew scattered themselves abroad to enter the village

at different points to ply their various trades--'Jack' was sent with

Hugo. They wandered hither and thither for some time, Hugo watching for

opportunities to do a stroke of business, but finding none--so he finally

said--

"I see nought to steal; it is a paltry place. Wherefore we will beg."

"WE, forsooth! Follow thy trade--it befits thee. But _I_ will not beg."

"Thou'lt not beg!" exclaimed Hugo, eyeing the King with surprise.

"Prithee, since when hast thou reformed?"

"What dost thou mean?"

"Mean? Hast thou not begged the streets of London all thy life?"

"I? Thou idiot!"

"Spare thy compliments--thy stock will last the longer. Thy father says

thou hast begged all thy days. Mayhap he lied. Peradventure you will

even make so bold as to SAY he lied," scoffed Hugo.

"Him YOU call my father? Yes, he lied."

"Come, play not thy merry game of madman so far, mate; use it for thy

amusement, not thy hurt. An' I tell him this, he will scorch thee finely

for it."

"Save thyself the trouble. I will tell him."

"I like thy spirit, I do in truth; but I do not admire thy judgment.

Bone-rackings and bastings be plenty enow in this life, without going out

of one's way to invite them. But a truce to these matters; _I_ believe

your father. I doubt not he can lie; I doubt not he DOTH lie, upon

occasion, for the best of us do that; but there is no occasion here. A

wise man does not waste so good a commodity as lying for nought. But

come; sith it is thy humour to give over begging, wherewithal shall we

busy ourselves? With robbing kitchens?"

The King said, impatiently--

"Have done with this folly--you weary me!"

Hugo replied, with temper--

"Now harkee, mate; you will not beg, you will not rob; so be it. But I

will tell you what you WILL do. You will play decoy whilst _I_ beg.

Refuse, an' you think you may venture!"

The King was about to reply contemptuously, when Hugo said, interrupting--

"Peace! Here comes one with a kindly face. Now will I fall down in a

fit. When the stranger runs to me, set you up a wail, and fall upon your

knees, seeming to weep; then cry out as all the devils of misery were in

your belly, and say, 'Oh, sir, it is my poor afflicted brother, and we be

friendless; o' God's name cast through your merciful eyes one pitiful

look upon a sick, forsaken, and most miserable wretch; bestow one little

penny out of thy riches upon one smitten of God and ready to perish!'

--and mind you, keep you ON wailing, and abate not till we bilk him of his

penny, else shall you rue it."

Then immediately Hugo began to moan, and groan, and roll his eyes, and

reel and totter about; and when the stranger was close at hand, down he

sprawled before him, with a shriek, and began to writhe and wallow in the

dirt, in seeming agony.

"O, dear, O dear!" cried the benevolent stranger, "O poor soul, poor

soul, how he doth suffer! There--let me help thee up."

"O noble sir, forbear, and God love you for a princely gentleman--but it

giveth me cruel pain to touch me when I am taken so. My brother there

will tell your worship how I am racked with anguish when these fits be

upon me. A penny, dear sir, a penny, to buy a little food; then leave me

to my sorrows."

"A penny! thou shalt have three, thou hapless creature"--and he fumbled

in his pocket with nervous haste and got them out. "There, poor lad, take

them and most welcome. Now come hither, my boy, and help me carry thy

stricken brother to yon house, where--"

"I am not his brother," said the King, interrupting.

"What! not his brother?"

"Oh, hear him!" groaned Hugo, then privately ground his teeth. "He denies

his own brother--and he with one foot in the grave!"

"Boy, thou art indeed hard of heart, if this is thy brother. For shame!

--and he scarce able to move hand or foot. If he is not thy brother, who

is he, then?"

"A beggar and a thief! He has got your money and has picked your pocket

likewise. An' thou would'st do a healing miracle, lay thy staff over his

shoulders and trust Providence for the rest."

But Hugo did not tarry for the miracle. In a moment he was up and off

like the wind, the gentleman following after and raising the hue and cry

lustily as he went. The King, breathing deep gratitude to Heaven for his

own release, fled in the opposite direction, and did not slacken his pace

until he was out of harm's reach. He took the first road that offered,

and soon put the village behind him. He hurried along, as briskly as he

could, during several hours, keeping a nervous watch over his shoulder

for pursuit; but his fears left him at last, and a grateful sense of

security took their place. He recognised, now, that he was hungry, and

also very tired. So he halted at a farmhouse; but when he was about to

speak, he was cut short and driven rudely away. His clothes were against

him.

He wandered on, wounded and indignant, and was resolved to put himself in

the way of like treatment no more. But hunger is pride's master; so, as

the evening drew near, he made an attempt at another farmhouse; but here

he fared worse than before; for he was called hard names and was promised

arrest as a vagrant except he moved on promptly.

The night came on, chilly and overcast; and still the footsore monarch

laboured slowly on. He was obliged to keep moving, for every time he sat

down to rest he was soon penetrated to the bone with the cold. All his

sensations and experiences, as he moved through the solemn gloom and the

empty vastness of the night, were new and strange to him. At intervals

he heard voices approach, pass by, and fade into silence; and as he saw

nothing more of the bodies they belonged to than a sort of formless

drifting blur, there was something spectral and uncanny about it all that

made him shudder. Occasionally he caught the twinkle of a light--always

far away, apparently--almost in another world; if he heard the tinkle of

a sheep's bell, it was vague, distant, indistinct; the muffled lowing of

the herds floated to him on the night wind in vanishing cadences, a

mournful sound; now and then came the complaining howl of a dog over

viewless expanses of field and forest; all sounds were remote; they made

the little King feel that all life and activity were far removed from

him, and that he stood solitary, companionless, in the centre of a

measureless solitude.

He stumbled along, through the gruesome fascinations of this new

experience, startled occasionally by the soft rustling of the dry leaves

overhead, so like human whispers they seemed to sound; and by-and-by he

came suddenly upon the freckled light of a tin lantern near at hand. He

stepped back into the shadows and waited. The lantern stood by the open

door of a barn. The King waited some time--there was no sound, and

nobody stirring. He got so cold, standing still, and the hospitable barn

looked so enticing, that at last he resolved to risk everything and

enter. He started swiftly and stealthily, and just as he was crossing the

threshold he heard voices behind him. He darted behind a cask, within

the barn, and stooped down. Two farm-labourers came in, bringing the

lantern with them, and fell to work, talking meanwhile. Whilst they

moved about with the light, the King made good use of his eyes and took

the bearings of what seemed to be a good-sized stall at the further end

of the place, purposing to grope his way to it when he should be left to

himself. He also noted the position of a pile of horse blankets, midway

of the route, with the intent to levy upon them for the service of the

crown of England for one night.

By-and-by the men finished and went away, fastening the door behind them

and taking the lantern with them. The shivering King made for the

blankets, with as good speed as the darkness would allow; gathered them

up, and then groped his way safely to the stall. Of two of the blankets

he made a bed, then covered himself with the remaining two. He was a

glad monarch, now, though the blankets were old and thin, and not quite

warm enough; and besides gave out a pungent horsey odour that was almost

suffocatingly powerful.

Although the King was hungry and chilly, he was also so tired and

so drowsy that these latter influences soon began to get the

advantage of the former, and he presently dozed off into a state of

semi-consciousness. Then, just as he was on the point of losing himself

wholly, he distinctly felt something touch him! He was broad awake in a

moment, and gasping for breath. The cold horror of that mysterious touch

in the dark almost made his heart stand still. He lay motionless, and

listened, scarcely breathing. But nothing stirred, and there was no

sound. He continued to listen, and wait, during what seemed a long time,

but still nothing stirred, and there was no sound. So he began to drop

into a drowse once more, at last; and all at once he felt that mysterious

touch again! It was a grisly thing, this light touch from this noiseless

and invisible presence; it made the boy sick with ghostly fears. What

should he do? That was the question; but he did not know how to answer

it. Should he leave these reasonably comfortable quarters and fly from

this inscrutable horror? But fly whither? He could not get out of the

barn; and the idea of scurrying blindly hither and thither in the dark,

within the captivity of the four walls, with this phantom gliding after

him, and visiting him with that soft hideous touch upon cheek or shoulder

at every turn, was intolerable. But to stay where he was, and endure

this living death all night--was that better? No. What, then, was there

left to do? Ah, there was but one course; he knew it well--he must put

out his hand and find that thing!

It was easy to think this; but it was hard to brace himself up to try it.

Three times he stretched his hand a little way out into the dark,

gingerly; and snatched it suddenly back, with a gasp--not because it had

encountered anything, but because he had felt so sure it was just GOING

to. But the fourth time, he groped a little further, and his hand

lightly swept against something soft and warm. This petrified him,

nearly, with fright; his mind was in such a state that he could imagine

the thing to be nothing else than a corpse, newly dead and still warm.

He thought he would rather die than touch it again. But he thought this

false thought because he did not know the immortal strength of human

curiosity. In no long time his hand was tremblingly groping again

--against his judgment, and without his consent--but groping persistently

on, just the same. It encountered a bunch of long hair; he shuddered,

but followed up the hair and found what seemed to be a warm rope;

followed up the rope and found an innocent calf!--for the rope was not a

rope at all, but the calf's tail.

The King was cordially ashamed of himself for having gotten all that

fright and misery out of so paltry a matter as a slumbering calf; but he

need not have felt so about it, for it was not the calf that frightened

him, but a dreadful non-existent something which the calf stood for; and

any other boy, in those old superstitious times, would have acted and

suffered just as he had done.

The King was not only delighted to find that the creature was only a

calf, but delighted to have the calf's company; for he had been feeling

so lonesome and friendless that the company and comradeship of even this

humble animal were welcome. And he had been so buffeted, so rudely

entreated by his own kind, that it was a real comfort to him to feel that

he was at last in the society of a fellow-creature that had at least a

soft heart and a gentle spirit, whatever loftier attributes might be

lacking. So he resolved to waive rank and make friends with the calf.

While stroking its sleek warm back--for it lay near him and within easy

reach--it occurred to him that this calf might be utilised in more ways

than one. Whereupon he re-arranged his bed, spreading it down close to

the calf; then he cuddled himself up to the calf's back, drew the covers

up over himself and his friend, and in a minute or two was as warm and

comfortable as he had ever been in the downy couches of the regal palace

of Westminster.

Pleasant thoughts came at once; life took on a cheerfuller seeming. He

was free of the bonds of servitude and crime, free of the companionship

of base and brutal outlaws; he was warm; he was sheltered; in a word, he

was happy. The night wind was rising; it swept by in fitful gusts that

made the old barn quake and rattle, then its forces died down at

intervals, and went moaning and wailing around corners and projections

--but it was all music to the King, now that he was snug and comfortable:

let it blow and rage, let it batter and bang, let it moan and wail, he

minded it not, he only enjoyed it. He merely snuggled the closer to his

friend, in a luxury of warm contentment, and drifted blissfully out of

consciousness into a deep and dreamless sleep that was full of serenity

and peace. The distant dogs howled, the melancholy kine complained, and

the winds went on raging, whilst furious sheets of rain drove along the

roof; but the Majesty of England slept on, undisturbed, and the calf did

the same, it being a simple creature, and not easily troubled by storms

or embarrassed by sleeping with a king.

Chapter XIX. The Prince with the peasants.

When the King awoke in the early morning, he found that a wet but

thoughtful rat had crept into the place during the night and made a cosy

bed for itself in his bosom. Being disturbed now, it scampered away.

The boy smiled, and said, "Poor fool, why so fearful? I am as forlorn as

thou. 'Twould be a sham in me to hurt the helpless, who am myself so

helpless. Moreover, I owe you thanks for a good omen; for when a king

has fallen so low that the very rats do make a bed of him, it surely

meaneth that his fortunes be upon the turn, since it is plain he can no

lower go."

He got up and stepped out of the stall, and just then he heard the sound

of children's voices. The barn door opened and a couple of little girls

came in. As soon as they saw him their talking and laughing ceased, and

they stopped and stood still, gazing at him with strong curiosity; they

presently began to whisper together, then they approached nearer, and

stopped again to gaze and whisper. By-and-by they gathered courage and

began to discuss him aloud. One said--

"He hath a comely face."

The other added--

"And pretty hair."

"But is ill clothed enow."

"And how starved he looketh."

They came still nearer, sidling shyly around and about him, examining him

minutely from all points, as if he were some strange new kind of animal,

but warily and watchfully the while, as if they half feared he might be a

sort of animal that would bite, upon occasion. Finally they halted

before him, holding each other's hands for protection, and took a good

satisfying stare with their innocent eyes; then one of them plucked up

all her courage and inquired with honest directness--

"Who art thou, boy?"

"I am the King," was the grave answer.

The children gave a little start, and their eyes spread themselves wide

open and remained so during a speechless half minute. Then curiosity

broke the silence--

"The KING? What King?"

"The King of England."

The children looked at each other--then at him--then at each other again

--wonderingly, perplexedly; then one said--

"Didst hear him, Margery?--he said he is the King. Can that be true?"

"How can it be else but true, Prissy? Would he say a lie? For look you,

Prissy, an' it were not true, it WOULD be a lie. It surely would be.

Now think on't. For all things that be not true, be lies--thou canst

make nought else out of it."

It was a good tight argument, without a leak in it anywhere; and it left

Prissy's half-doubts not a leg to stand on. She considered a moment,

then put the King upon his honour with the simple remark--

"If thou art truly the King, then I believe thee."

"I am truly the King."

This settled the matter. His Majesty's royalty was accepted without

further question or discussion, and the two little girls began at once to

inquire into how he came to be where he was, and how he came to be so

unroyally clad, and whither he was bound, and all about his affairs. It

was a mighty relief to him to pour out his troubles where they would not

be scoffed at or doubted; so he told his tale with feeling, forgetting

even his hunger for the time; and it was received with the deepest and

tenderest sympathy by the gentle little maids. But when he got down to

his latest experiences and they learned how long he had been without

food, they cut him short and hurried him away to the farmhouse to find a

breakfast for him.

The King was cheerful and happy now, and said to himself, "When I am come

to mine own again, I will always honour little children, remembering how

that these trusted me and believed in me in my time of trouble; whilst

they that were older, and thought themselves wiser, mocked at me and held

me for a liar."

The children's mother received the King kindly, and was full of pity; for

his forlorn condition and apparently crazed intellect touched her womanly

heart. She was a widow, and rather poor; consequently she had seen

trouble enough to enable her to feel for the unfortunate. She imagined

that the demented boy had wandered away from his friends or keepers; so

she tried to find out whence he had come, in order that she might take

measures to return him; but all her references to neighbouring towns and

villages, and all her inquiries in the same line went for nothing--the

boy's face, and his answers, too, showed that the things she was talking

of were not familiar to him. He spoke earnestly and simply about court

matters, and broke down, more than once, when speaking of the late King

'his father'; but whenever the conversation changed to baser topics, he

lost interest and became silent.

The woman was mightily puzzled; but she did not give up. As she

proceeded with her cooking, she set herself to contriving devices to

surprise the boy into betraying his real secret. She talked about

cattle--he showed no concern; then about sheep--the same result: so her

guess that he had been a shepherd boy was an error; she talked about

mills; and about weavers, tinkers, smiths, trades and tradesmen of all

sorts; and about Bedlam, and jails, and charitable retreats: but no

matter, she was baffled at all points. Not altogether, either; for she

argued that she had narrowed the thing down to domestic service. Yes,

she was sure she was on the right track, now; he must have been a house

servant. So she led up to that. But the result was discouraging. The

subject of sweeping appeared to weary him; fire-building failed to stir

him; scrubbing and scouring awoke no enthusiasm. The goodwife touched,

with a perishing hope, and rather as a matter of form, upon the subject

of cooking. To her surprise, and her vast delight, the King's face

lighted at once! Ah, she had hunted him down at last, she thought; and

she was right proud, too, of the devious shrewdness and tact which had

accomplished it.

Her tired tongue got a chance to rest, now; for the King's, inspired by

gnawing hunger and the fragrant smells that came from the sputtering pots

and pans, turned itself loose and delivered itself up to such an eloquent

dissertation upon certain toothsome dishes, that within three minutes the

woman said to herself, "Of a truth I was right--he hath holpen in a

kitchen!" Then he broadened his bill of fare, and discussed it with such

appreciation and animation, that the goodwife said to herself, "Good

lack! how can he know so many dishes, and so fine ones withal? For these

belong only upon the tables of the rich and great. Ah, now I see! ragged

outcast as he is, he must have served in the palace before his reason

went astray; yes, he must have helped in the very kitchen of the King

himself! I will test him."

Full of eagerness to prove her sagacity, she told the King to mind the

cooking a moment--hinting that he might manufacture and add a dish or

two, if he chose; then she went out of the room and gave her children a

sign to follow after. The King muttered--

"Another English king had a commission like to this, in a bygone time--it

is nothing against my dignity to undertake an office which the great

Alfred stooped to assume. But I will try to better serve my trust than

he; for he let the cakes burn."

The intent was good, but the performance was not answerable to it, for

this King, like the other one, soon fell into deep thinkings concerning

his vast affairs, and the same calamity resulted--the cookery got burned.

The woman returned in time to save the breakfast from entire destruction;

and she promptly brought the King out of his dreams with a brisk and

cordial tongue-lashing. Then, seeing how troubled he was over his

violated trust, she softened at once, and was all goodness and gentleness

toward him.

The boy made a hearty and satisfying meal, and was greatly refreshed and

gladdened by it. It was a meal which was distinguished by this curious

feature, that rank was waived on both sides; yet neither recipient of the

favour was aware that it had been extended. The goodwife had intended to

feed this young tramp with broken victuals in a corner, like any other

tramp or like a dog; but she was so remorseful for the scolding she had

given him, that she did what she could to atone for it by allowing him to

sit at the family table and eat with his betters, on ostensible terms of

equality with them; and the King, on his side, was so remorseful for

having broken his trust, after the family had been so kind to him, that

he forced himself to atone for it by humbling himself to the family

level, instead of requiring the woman and her children to stand and wait

upon him, while he occupied their table in the solitary state due to his

birth and dignity. It does us all good to unbend sometimes. This good

woman was made happy all the day long by the applauses which she got out

of herself for her magnanimous condescension to a tramp; and the King was

just as self-complacent over his gracious humility toward a humble

peasant woman.

When breakfast was over, the housewife told the King to wash up the

dishes. This command was a staggerer, for a moment, and the King came

near rebelling; but then he said to himself, "Alfred the Great watched

the cakes; doubtless he would have washed the dishes too--therefore will

I essay it."

He made a sufficiently poor job of it; and to his surprise too, for the

cleaning of wooden spoons and trenchers had seemed an easy thing to do.

It was a tedious and troublesome piece of work, but he finished it at

last. He was becoming impatient to get away on his journey now; however,

he was not to lose this thrifty dame's society so easily. She furnished

him some little odds and ends of employment, which he got through with

after a fair fashion and with some credit. Then she set him and the

little girls to paring some winter apples; but he was so awkward at this

service that she retired him from it and gave him a butcher knife to

grind. Afterwards she kept him carding wool until he began to think he

had laid the good King Alfred about far enough in the shade for the

present in the matter of showy menial heroisms that would read

picturesquely in story-books and histories, and so he was half-minded to

resign. And when, just after the noonday dinner, the goodwife gave him a

basket of kittens to drown, he did resign. At least he was just going to

resign--for he felt that he must draw the line somewhere, and it seemed

to him that to draw it at kitten-drowning was about the right thing--when

there was an interruption. The interruption was John Canty--with a

peddler's pack on his back--and Hugo.

The King discovered these rascals approaching the front gate before they

had had a chance to see him; so he said nothing about drawing the line,

but took up his basket of kittens and stepped quietly out the back way,

without a word. He left the creatures in an out-house, and hurried on,

into a narrow lane at the rear.

Chapter XX. The Prince and the hermit.

The high hedge hid him from the house, now; and so, under the impulse of

a deadly fright, he let out all his forces and sped toward a wood in the

distance. He never looked back until he had almost gained the shelter of

the forest; then he turned and descried two figures in the distance.

That was sufficient; he did not wait to scan them critically, but hurried

on, and never abated his pace till he was far within the twilight depths

of the wood. Then he stopped; being persuaded that he was now tolerably

safe. He listened intently, but the stillness was profound and solemn

--awful, even, and depressing to the spirits. At wide intervals his

straining ear did detect sounds, but they were so remote, and hollow, and

mysterious, that they seemed not to be real sounds, but only the moaning

and complaining ghosts of departed ones. So the sounds were yet more

dreary than the silence which they interrupted.

It was his purpose, in the beginning, to stay where he was the rest of

the day; but a chill soon invaded his perspiring body, and he was at last

obliged to resume movement in order to get warm. He struck straight

through the forest, hoping to pierce to a road presently, but he was

disappointed in this. He travelled on and on; but the farther he went,

the denser the wood became, apparently. The gloom began to thicken,

by-and-by, and the King realised that the night was coming on. It made

him shudder to think of spending it in such an uncanny place; so he tried

to hurry faster, but he only made the less speed, for he could not now

see well enough to choose his steps judiciously; consequently he kept

tripping over roots and tangling himself in vines and briers.

And how glad he was when at last he caught the glimmer of a light! He

approached it warily, stopping often to look about him and listen. It

came from an unglazed window-opening in a shabby little hut. He heard a

voice, now, and felt a disposition to run and hide; but he changed his

mind at once, for this voice was praying, evidently. He glided to the

one window of the hut, raised himself on tiptoe, and stole a glance

within. The room was small; its floor was the natural earth, beaten hard

by use; in a corner was a bed of rushes and a ragged blanket or two; near

it was a pail, a cup, a basin, and two or three pots and pans; there was

a short bench and a three-legged stool; on the hearth the remains of a

faggot fire were smouldering; before a shrine, which was lighted by a

single candle, knelt an aged man, and on an old wooden box at his side

lay an open book and a human skull. The man was of large, bony frame;

his hair and whiskers were very long and snowy white; he was clothed in a

robe of sheepskins which reached from his neck to his heels.

"A holy hermit!" said the King to himself; "now am I indeed fortunate."

The hermit rose from his knees; the King knocked. A deep voice

responded--

"Enter!--but leave sin behind, for the ground whereon thou shalt stand is

holy!"

The King entered, and paused. The hermit turned a pair of gleaming,

unrestful eyes upon him, and said--

"Who art thou?"

"I am the King," came the answer, with placid simplicity.

"Welcome, King!" cried the hermit, with enthusiasm. Then, bustling about

with feverish activity, and constantly saying, "Welcome, welcome," he

arranged his bench, seated the King on it, by the hearth, threw some

faggots on the fire, and finally fell to pacing the floor with a nervous

stride.

"Welcome! Many have sought sanctuary here, but they were not worthy, and

were turned away. But a King who casts his crown away, and despises the

vain splendours of his office, and clothes his body in rags, to devote

his life to holiness and the mortification of the flesh--he is worthy, he

is welcome!--here shall he abide all his days till death come." The King

hastened to interrupt and explain, but the hermit paid no attention to

him--did not even hear him, apparently, but went right on with his talk,

with a raised voice and a growing energy. "And thou shalt be at peace

here. None shall find out thy refuge to disquiet thee with supplications

to return to that empty and foolish life which God hath moved thee to

abandon. Thou shalt pray here; thou shalt study the Book; thou shalt

meditate upon the follies and delusions of this world, and upon the

sublimities of the world to come; thou shalt feed upon crusts and herbs,

and scourge thy body with whips, daily, to the purifying of thy soul.

Thou shalt wear a hair shirt next thy skin; thou shalt drink water only;

and thou shalt be at peace; yes, wholly at peace; for whoso comes to seek

thee shall go his way again, baffled; he shall not find thee, he shall

not molest thee."

The old man, still pacing back and forth, ceased to speak aloud, and

began to mutter. The King seized this opportunity to state his case; and

he did it with an eloquence inspired by uneasiness and apprehension. But

the hermit went on muttering, and gave no heed. And still muttering, he

approached the King and said impressively--

"'Sh! I will tell you a secret!" He bent down to impart it, but checked

himself, and assumed a listening attitude. After a moment or two he went

on tiptoe to the window-opening, put his head out, and peered around in

the gloaming, then came tiptoeing back again, put his face close down to

the King's, and whispered--

"I am an archangel!"

The King started violently, and said to himself, "Would God I were with

the outlaws again; for lo, now am I the prisoner of a madman!" His

apprehensions were heightened, and they showed plainly in his face. In a

low excited voice the hermit continued--

"I see you feel my atmosphere! There's awe in your face! None may be in

this atmosphere and not be thus affected; for it is the very atmosphere

of heaven. I go thither and return, in the twinkling of an eye. I was

made an archangel on this very spot, it is five years ago, by angels sent

from heaven to confer that awful dignity. Their presence filled this

place with an intolerable brightness. And they knelt to me, King! yes,

they knelt to me! for I was greater than they. I have walked in the

courts of heaven, and held speech with the patriarchs. Touch my hand--be

not afraid--touch it. There--now thou hast touched a hand which has been

clasped by Abraham and Isaac and Jacob! For I have walked in the golden

courts; I have seen the Deity face to face!" He paused, to give this

speech effect; then his face suddenly changed, and he started to his feet

again saying, with angry energy, "Yes, I am an archangel; A MERE

ARCHANGEL!--I that might have been pope! It is verily true. I was told

it from heaven in a dream, twenty years ago; ah, yes, I was to be pope!

--and I SHOULD have been pope, for Heaven had said it--but the King

dissolved my religious house, and I, poor obscure unfriended monk, was

cast homeless upon the world, robbed of my mighty destiny!" Here he began

to mumble again, and beat his forehead in futile rage, with his fist; now

and then articulating a venomous curse, and now and then a pathetic

"Wherefore I am nought but an archangel--I that should have been pope!"

So he went on, for an hour, whilst the poor little King sat and suffered.

Then all at once the old man's frenzy departed, and he became all

gentleness. His voice softened, he came down out of his clouds, and fell

to prattling along so simply and so humanly, that he soon won the King's

heart completely. The old devotee moved the boy nearer to the fire and

made him comfortable; doctored his small bruises and abrasions with a

deft and tender hand; and then set about preparing and cooking a supper

--chatting pleasantly all the time, and occasionally stroking the lad's

cheek or patting his head, in such a gently caressing way that in a

little while all the fear and repulsion inspired by the archangel were

changed to reverence and affection for the man.

This happy state of things continued while the two ate the supper; then,

after a prayer before the shrine, the hermit put the boy to bed, in a

small adjoining room, tucking him in as snugly and lovingly as a mother

might; and so, with a parting caress, left him and sat down by the fire,

and began to poke the brands about in an absent and aimless way.

Presently he paused; then tapped his forehead several times with his

fingers, as if trying to recall some thought which had escaped from his

mind. Apparently he was unsuccessful. Now he started quickly up, and

entered his guest's room, and said--

"Thou art King?"

"Yes," was the response, drowsily uttered.

"What King?"

"Of England."

"Of England? Then Henry is gone!"

"Alack, it is so. I am his son."

A black frown settled down upon the hermit's face, and he clenched his

bony hands with a vindictive energy. He stood a few moments, breathing

fast and swallowing repeatedly, then said in a husky voice--

"Dost know it was he that turned us out into the world houseless and

homeless?"

There was no response. The old man bent down and scanned the boy's

reposeful face and listened to his placid breathing. "He sleeps--sleeps

soundly;" and the frown vanished away and gave place to an expression of

evil satisfaction. A smile flitted across the dreaming boy's features.

The hermit muttered, "So--his heart is happy;" and he turned away. He

went stealthily about the place, seeking here and there for something;

now and then halting to listen, now and then jerking his head around and

casting a quick glance toward the bed; and always muttering, always

mumbling to himself. At last he found what he seemed to want--a rusty

old butcher knife and a whetstone. Then he crept to his place by the

fire, sat himself down, and began to whet the knife softly on the stone,

still muttering, mumbling, ejaculating. The winds sighed around the

lonely place, the mysterious voices of the night floated by out of the

distances. The shining eyes of venturesome mice and rats peered out at

the old man from cracks and coverts, but he went on with his work, rapt,

absorbed, and noted none of these things.

At long intervals he drew his thumb along the edge of his knife, and

nodded his head with satisfaction. "It grows sharper," he said; "yes, it

grows sharper."

He took no note of the flight of time, but worked tranquilly on,

entertaining himself with his thoughts, which broke out occasionally in

articulate speech--

"His father wrought us evil, he destroyed us--and is gone down into the

eternal fires! Yes, down into the eternal fires! He escaped us--but it

was God's will, yes it was God's will, we must not repine. But he hath

not escaped the fires! No, he hath not escaped the fires, the consuming,

unpitying, remorseless fires--and THEY are everlasting!"

And so he wrought, and still wrought--mumbling, chuckling a low rasping

chuckle at times--and at times breaking again into words--

"It was his father that did it all. I am but an archangel; but for him I

should be pope!"

The King stirred. The hermit sprang noiselessly to the bedside, and went

down upon his knees, bending over the prostrate form with his knife

uplifted. The boy stirred again; his eyes came open for an instant, but

there was no speculation in them, they saw nothing; the next moment his

tranquil breathing showed that his sleep was sound once more.

The hermit watched and listened, for a time, keeping his position and

scarcely breathing; then he slowly lowered his arms, and presently crept

away, saying,--

"It is long past midnight; it is not best that he should cry out, lest by

accident someone be passing."

He glided about his hovel, gathering a rag here, a thong there, and

another one yonder; then he returned, and by careful and gentle handling

he managed to tie the King's ankles together without waking him. Next he

essayed to tie the wrists; he made several attempts to cross them, but

the boy always drew one hand or the other away, just as the cord was

ready to be applied; but at last, when the archangel was almost ready to

despair, the boy crossed his hands himself, and the next moment they were

bound. Now a bandage was passed under the sleeper's chin and brought up

over his head and tied fast--and so softly, so gradually, and so deftly

were the knots drawn together and compacted, that the boy slept

peacefully through it all without stirring.

Chapter XXI. Hendon to the rescue.

The old man glided away, stooping, stealthy, cat-like, and brought the

low bench. He seated himself upon it, half his body in the dim and

flickering light, and the other half in shadow; and so, with his craving

eyes bent upon the slumbering boy, he kept his patient vigil there,

heedless of the drift of time, and softly whetted his knife, and mumbled

and chuckled; and in aspect and attitude he resembled nothing so much as

a grizzly, monstrous spider, gloating over some hapless insect that lay

bound and helpless in his web.

After a long while, the old man, who was still gazing,--yet not seeing,

his mind having settled into a dreamy abstraction,--observed, on a

sudden, that the boy's eyes were open! wide open and staring!--staring up

in frozen horror at the knife. The smile of a gratified devil crept over

the old man's face, and he said, without changing his attitude or his

occupation--

"Son of Henry the Eighth, hast thou prayed?"

The boy struggled helplessly in his bonds, and at the same time forced a

smothered sound through his closed jaws, which the hermit chose to

interpret as an affirmative answer to his question.

"Then pray again. Pray the prayer for the dying!"

A shudder shook the boy's frame, and his face blenched. Then he

struggled again to free himself--turning and twisting himself this way

and that; tugging frantically, fiercely, desperately--but uselessly--to

burst his fetters; and all the while the old ogre smiled down upon him,

and nodded his head, and placidly whetted his knife; mumbling, from time

to time, "The moments are precious, they are few and precious--pray the

prayer for the dying!"

The boy uttered a despairing groan, and ceased from his struggles,

panting. The tears came, then, and trickled, one after the other, down

his face; but this piteous sight wrought no softening effect upon the

savage old man.

The dawn was coming now; the hermit observed it, and spoke up sharply,

with a touch of nervous apprehension in his voice--

"I may not indulge this ecstasy longer! The night is already gone. It

seems but a moment--only a moment; would it had endured a year! Seed of

the Church's spoiler, close thy perishing eyes, an' thou fearest to look

upon--"

The rest was lost in inarticulate mutterings. The old man sank upon his

knees, his knife in his hand, and bent himself over the moaning boy.

Hark! There was a sound of voices near the cabin--the knife dropped from

the hermit's hand; he cast a sheepskin over the boy and started up,

trembling. The sounds increased, and presently the voices became rough

and angry; then came blows, and cries for help; then a clatter of swift

footsteps, retreating. Immediately came a succession of thundering

knocks upon the cabin door, followed by--

"Hullo-o-o! Open! And despatch, in the name of all the devils!"

Oh, this was the blessedest sound that had ever made music in the King's

ears; for it was Miles Hendon's voice!

The hermit, grinding his teeth in impotent rage, moved swiftly out of the

bedchamber, closing the door behind him; and straightway the King heard a

talk, to this effect, proceeding from the 'chapel':--

"Homage and greeting, reverend sir! Where is the boy--MY boy?"

"What boy, friend?"

"What boy! Lie me no lies, sir priest, play me no deceptions!--I am not

in the humour for it. Near to this place I caught the scoundrels who I

judged did steal him from me, and I made them confess; they said he was

at large again, and they had tracked him to your door. They showed me

his very footprints. Now palter no more; for look you, holy sir, an'

thou produce him not--Where is the boy?"

"O good sir, peradventure you mean the ragged regal vagrant that tarried

here the night. If such as you take an interest in such as he, know,

then, that I have sent him of an errand. He will be back anon."

"How soon? How soon? Come, waste not the time--cannot I overtake him?

How soon will he be back?"

"Thou need'st not stir; he will return quickly."

"So be it, then. I will try to wait. But stop!--YOU sent him of an

errand?--you! Verily this is a lie--he would not go. He would pull thy

old beard, an' thou didst offer him such an insolence. Thou hast lied,

friend; thou hast surely lied! He would not go for thee, nor for any

man."

"For any MAN--no; haply not. But I am not a man."

"WHAT! Now o' God's name what art thou, then?"

"It is a secret--mark thou reveal it not. I am an archangel!"

There was a tremendous ejaculation from Miles Hendon--not altogether

unprofane--followed by--

"This doth well and truly account for his complaisance! Right well I

knew he would budge nor hand nor foot in the menial service of any

mortal; but, lord, even a king must obey when an archangel gives the word

o' command! Let me--'sh! What noise was that?"

All this while the little King had been yonder, alternately quaking with

terror and trembling with hope; and all the while, too, he had thrown all

the strength he could into his anguished moanings, constantly expecting

them to reach Hendon's ear, but always realising, with bitterness, that

they failed, or at least made no impression. So this last remark of his

servant came as comes a reviving breath from fresh fields to the dying;

and he exerted himself once more, and with all his energy, just as the

hermit was saying--

"Noise? I heard only the wind."

"Mayhap it was. Yes, doubtless that was it. I have been hearing it

faintly all the--there it is again! It is not the wind! What an odd

sound! Come, we will hunt it out!"

Now the King's joy was nearly insupportable. His tired lungs did their

utmost--and hopefully, too--but the sealed jaws and the muffling

sheepskin sadly crippled the effort. Then the poor fellow's heart sank,

to hear the hermit say--

"Ah, it came from without--I think from the copse yonder. Come, I will

lead the way."

The King heard the two pass out, talking; heard their footsteps die

quickly away--then he was alone with a boding, brooding, awful silence.

It seemed an age till he heard the steps and voices approaching again

--and this time he heard an added sound,--the trampling of hoofs,

apparently. Then he heard Hendon say--

"I will not wait longer. I CANNOT wait longer. He has lost his way in

this thick wood. Which direction took he? Quick--point it out to me."

"He--but wait; I will go with thee."

"Good--good! Why, truly thou art better than thy looks. Marry I do not

think there's not another archangel with so right a heart as thine. Wilt

ride? Wilt take the wee donkey that's for my boy, or wilt thou fork thy

holy legs over this ill-conditioned slave of a mule that I have provided

for myself?--and had been cheated in too, had he cost but the indifferent

sum of a month's usury on a brass farthing let to a tinker out of work."

"No--ride thy mule, and lead thine ass; I am surer on mine own feet, and

will walk."

"Then prithee mind the little beast for me while I take my life in my

hands and make what success I may toward mounting the big one."

Then followed a confusion of kicks, cuffs, tramplings and plungings,

accompanied by a thunderous intermingling of volleyed curses, and finally

a bitter apostrophe to the mule, which must have broken its spirit, for

hostilities seemed to cease from that moment.

With unutterable misery the fettered little King heard the voices and

footsteps fade away and die out. All hope forsook him, now, for the

moment, and a dull despair settled down upon his heart. "My only friend

is deceived and got rid of," he said; "the hermit will return and--" He

finished with a gasp; and at once fell to struggling so frantically with

his bonds again, that he shook off the smothering sheepskin.

And now he heard the door open! The sound chilled him to the marrow

--already he seemed to feel the knife at his throat. Horror made him close

his eyes; horror made him open them again--and before him stood John

Canty and Hugo!

He would have said "Thank God!" if his jaws had been free.

A moment or two later his limbs were at liberty, and his captors, each

gripping him by an arm, were hurrying him with all speed through the

forest.

Chapter XXII. A victim of treachery.

Once more 'King Foo-foo the First' was roving with the tramps and

outlaws, a butt for their coarse jests and dull-witted railleries, and

sometimes the victim of small spitefulness at the hands of Canty and Hugo

when the Ruffler's back was turned. None but Canty and Hugo really

disliked him. Some of the others liked him, and all admired his pluck

and spirit. During two or three days, Hugo, in whose ward and charge the

King was, did what he covertly could to make the boy uncomfortable; and

at night, during the customary orgies, he amused the company by putting

small indignities upon him--always as if by accident. Twice he stepped

upon the King's toes--accidentally--and the King, as became his royalty,

was contemptuously unconscious of it and indifferent to it; but the third

time Hugo entertained himself in that way, the King felled him to the

ground with a cudgel, to the prodigious delight of the tribe. Hugo,

consumed with anger and shame, sprang up, seized a cudgel, and came at

his small adversary in a fury. Instantly a ring was formed around the

gladiators, and the betting and cheering began. But poor Hugo stood no

chance whatever. His frantic and lubberly 'prentice-work found but a

poor market for itself when pitted against an arm which had been trained

by the first masters of Europe in single-stick, quarter-staff, and every

art and trick of swordsmanship. The little King stood, alert but at

graceful ease, and caught and turned aside the thick rain of blows with a

facility and precision which set the motley on-lookers wild with

admiration; and every now and then, when his practised eye detected an

opening, and a lightning-swift rap upon Hugo's head followed as a result,

the storm of cheers and laughter that swept the place was something

wonderful to hear. At the end of fifteen minutes, Hugo, all battered,

bruised, and the target for a pitiless bombardment of ridicule, slunk

from the field; and the unscathed hero of the fight was seized and borne

aloft upon the shoulders of the joyous rabble to the place of honour

beside the Ruffler, where with vast ceremony he was crowned King of the

Game-Cocks; his meaner title being at the same time solemnly cancelled

and annulled, and a decree of banishment from the gang pronounced against

any who should thenceforth utter it.

All attempts to make the King serviceable to the troop had failed. He had

stubbornly refused to act; moreover, he was always trying to escape. He

had been thrust into an unwatched kitchen, the first day of his return;

he not only came forth empty-handed, but tried to rouse the housemates.

He was sent out with a tinker to help him at his work; he would not work;

moreover, he threatened the tinker with his own soldering-iron; and

finally both Hugo and the tinker found their hands full with the mere

matter of keeping his from getting away. He delivered the thunders of

his royalty upon the heads of all who hampered his liberties or tried to

force him to service. He was sent out, in Hugo's charge, in company with

a slatternly woman and a diseased baby, to beg; but the result was not

encouraging--he declined to plead for the mendicants, or be a party to

their cause in any way.

Thus several days went by; and the miseries of this tramping life, and

the weariness and sordidness and meanness and vulgarity of it, became

gradually and steadily so intolerable to the captive that he began at

last to feel that his release from the hermit's knife must prove only a

temporary respite from death, at best.

But at night, in his dreams, these things were forgotten, and he was on

his throne, and master again. This, of course, intensified the

sufferings of the awakening--so the mortifications of each succeeding

morning of the few that passed between his return to bondage and the

combat with Hugo, grew bitterer and bitterer, and harder and harder to

bear.

The morning after that combat, Hugo got up with a heart filled with

vengeful purposes against the King. He had two plans, in particular.

One was to inflict upon the lad what would be, to his proud spirit and

'imagined' royalty, a peculiar humiliation; and if he failed to

accomplish this, his other plan was to put a crime of some kind upon the

King, and then betray him into the implacable clutches of the law.

In pursuance of the first plan, he purposed to put a 'clime' upon the

King's leg; rightly judging that that would mortify him to the last and

perfect degree; and as soon as the clime should operate, he meant to get

Canty's help, and FORCE the King to expose his leg in the highway and beg

for alms. 'Clime' was the cant term for a sore, artificially created.

To make a clime, the operator made a paste or poultice of unslaked lime,

soap, and the rust of old iron, and spread it upon a piece of leather,

which was then bound tightly upon the leg. This would presently fret off

the skin, and make the flesh raw and angry-looking; blood was then rubbed

upon the limb, which, being fully dried, took on a dark and repulsive

colour. Then a bandage of soiled rags was put on in a cleverly careless

way which would allow the hideous ulcer to be seen, and move the

compassion of the passer-by. {8}

Hugo got the help of the tinker whom the King had cowed with the

soldering-iron; they took the boy out on a tinkering tramp, and as soon

as they were out of sight of the camp they threw him down and the tinker

held him while Hugo bound the poultice tight and fast upon his leg.

The King raged and stormed, and promised to hang the two the moment the

sceptre was in his hand again; but they kept a firm grip upon him and

enjoyed his impotent struggling and jeered at his threats. This

continued until the poultice began to bite; and in no long time its work

would have been perfected, if there had been no interruption. But there

was; for about this time the 'slave' who had made the speech denouncing

England's laws, appeared on the scene, and put an end to the enterprise,

and stripped off the poultice and bandage.