The King wanted to borrow his deliverer's cudgel and warm the jackets of

the two rascals on the spot; but the man said no, it would bring trouble

--leave the matter till night; the whole tribe being together, then, the

outside world would not venture to interfere or interrupt. He marched

the party back to camp and reported the affair to the Ruffler, who

listened, pondered, and then decided that the King should not be again

detailed to beg, since it was plain he was worthy of something higher and

better--wherefore, on the spot he promoted him from the mendicant rank

and appointed him to steal!

Hugo was overjoyed. He had already tried to make the King steal, and

failed; but there would be no more trouble of that sort, now, for of

course the King would not dream of defying a distinct command delivered

directly from head-quarters. So he planned a raid for that very

afternoon, purposing to get the King in the law's grip in the course of

it; and to do it, too, with such ingenious strategy, that it should seem

to be accidental and unintentional; for the King of the Game-Cocks was

popular now, and the gang might not deal over-gently with an unpopular

member who played so serious a treachery upon him as the delivering him

over to the common enemy, the law.

Very well. All in good time Hugo strolled off to a neighbouring village

with his prey; and the two drifted slowly up and down one street after

another, the one watching sharply for a sure chance to achieve his evil

purpose, and the other watching as sharply for a chance to dart away and

get free of his infamous captivity for ever.

Both threw away some tolerably fair-looking opportunities; for both, in

their secret hearts, were resolved to make absolutely sure work this

time, and neither meant to allow his fevered desires to seduce him into

any venture that had much uncertainty about it.

Hugo's chance came first. For at last a woman approached who carried a

fat package of some sort in a basket. Hugo's eyes sparkled with sinful

pleasure as he said to himself, "Breath o' my life, an' I can but put

THAT upon him, 'tis good-den and God keep thee, King of the Game-Cocks!"

He waited and watched--outwardly patient, but inwardly consuming with

excitement--till the woman had passed by, and the time was ripe; then

said, in a low voice--

"Tarry here till I come again," and darted stealthily after the prey.

The King's heart was filled with joy--he could make his escape, now, if

Hugo's quest only carried him far enough away.

But he was to have no such luck. Hugo crept behind the woman, snatched

the package, and came running back, wrapping it in an old piece of

blanket which he carried on his arm. The hue and cry was raised in a

moment, by the woman, who knew her loss by the lightening of her burden,

although she had not seen the pilfering done. Hugo thrust the bundle

into the King's hands without halting, saying--

"Now speed ye after me with the rest, and cry 'Stop thief!' but mind ye

lead them astray!"

The next moment Hugo turned a corner and darted down a crooked alley--and

in another moment or two he lounged into view again, looking innocent and

indifferent, and took up a position behind a post to watch results.

The insulted King threw the bundle on the ground; and the blanket fell

away from it just as the woman arrived, with an augmenting crowd at her

heels; she seized the King's wrist with one hand, snatched up her bundle

with the other, and began to pour out a tirade of abuse upon the boy

while he struggled, without success, to free himself from her grip.

Hugo had seen enough--his enemy was captured and the law would get him,

now--so he slipped away, jubilant and chuckling, and wended campwards,

framing a judicious version of the matter to give to the Ruffler's crew

as he strode along.

The King continued to struggle in the woman's strong grasp, and now and

then cried out in vexation--

"Unhand me, thou foolish creature; it was not I that bereaved thee of thy

paltry goods."

The crowd closed around, threatening the King and calling him names; a

brawny blacksmith in leather apron, and sleeves rolled to his elbows,

made a reach for him, saying he would trounce him well, for a lesson; but

just then a long sword flashed in the air and fell with convincing force

upon the man's arm, flat side down, the fantastic owner of it remarking

pleasantly, at the same time--

"Marry, good souls, let us proceed gently, not with ill blood and

uncharitable words. This is matter for the law's consideration, not

private and unofficial handling. Loose thy hold from the boy, goodwife."

The blacksmith averaged the stalwart soldier with a glance, then went

muttering away, rubbing his arm; the woman released the boy's wrist

reluctantly; the crowd eyed the stranger unlovingly, but prudently closed

their mouths. The King sprang to his deliverer's side, with flushed

cheeks and sparkling eyes, exclaiming--

"Thou hast lagged sorely, but thou comest in good season, now, Sir Miles;

carve me this rabble to rags!"

Chapter XXIII. The Prince a prisoner.

Hendon forced back a smile, and bent down and whispered in the King's

ear--

"Softly, softly, my prince, wag thy tongue warily--nay, suffer it not to

wag at all. Trust in me--all shall go well in the end." Then he added to

himself: "SIR Miles! Bless me, I had totally forgot I was a knight!

Lord, how marvellous a thing it is, the grip his memory doth take upon

his quaint and crazy fancies! . . . An empty and foolish title is mine,

and yet it is something to have deserved it; for I think it is more

honour to be held worthy to be a spectre-knight in his Kingdom of Dreams

and Shadows, than to be held base enough to be an earl in some of the

REAL kingdoms of this world."

The crowd fell apart to admit a constable, who approached and was about

to lay his hand upon the King's shoulder, when Hendon said--

"Gently, good friend, withhold your hand--he shall go peaceably; I am

responsible for that. Lead on, we will follow."

The officer led, with the woman and her bundle; Miles and the King

followed after, with the crowd at their heels. The King was inclined to

rebel; but Hendon said to him in a low voice--

"Reflect, Sire--your laws are the wholesome breath of your own royalty;

shall their source resist them, yet require the branches to respect them?

Apparently one of these laws has been broken; when the King is on his

throne again, can it ever grieve him to remember that when he was

seemingly a private person he loyally sank the king in the citizen and

submitted to its authority?"

"Thou art right; say no more; thou shalt see that whatsoever the King of

England requires a subject to suffer, under the law, he will himself

suffer while he holdeth the station of a subject."

When the woman was called upon to testify before the justice of the

peace, she swore that the small prisoner at the bar was the person who

had committed the theft; there was none able to show the contrary, so the

King stood convicted. The bundle was now unrolled, and when the contents

proved to be a plump little dressed pig, the judge looked troubled,

whilst Hendon turned pale, and his body was thrilled with an electric

shiver of dismay; but the King remained unmoved, protected by his

ignorance. The judge meditated, during an ominous pause, then turned to

the woman, with the question--

"What dost thou hold this property to be worth?"

The woman courtesied and replied--

"Three shillings and eightpence, your worship--I could not abate a penny

and set forth the value honestly."

The justice glanced around uncomfortably upon the crowd, then nodded to

the constable, and said--

"Clear the court and close the doors."

It was done. None remained but the two officials, the accused, the

accuser, and Miles Hendon. This latter was rigid and colourless, and on

his forehead big drops of cold sweat gathered, broke and blended

together, and trickled down his face. The judge turned to the woman

again, and said, in a compassionate voice--

"'Tis a poor ignorant lad, and mayhap was driven hard by hunger, for

these be grievous times for the unfortunate; mark you, he hath not an

evil face--but when hunger driveth--Good woman! dost know that when one

steals a thing above the value of thirteenpence ha'penny the law saith he

shall HANG for it?"

The little King started, wide-eyed with consternation, but controlled

himself and held his peace; but not so the woman. She sprang to her

feet, shaking with fright, and cried out--

"Oh, good lack, what have I done! God-a-mercy, I would not hang the poor

thing for the whole world! Ah, save me from this, your worship--what

shall I do, what CAN I do?"

The justice maintained his judicial composure, and simply said--

"Doubtless it is allowable to revise the value, since it is not yet writ

upon the record."

"Then in God's name call the pig eightpence, and heaven bless the day

that freed my conscience of this awesome thing!"

Miles Hendon forgot all decorum in his delight; and surprised the King

and wounded his dignity, by throwing his arms around him and hugging him.

The woman made her grateful adieux and started away with her pig; and

when the constable opened the door for her, he followed her out into the

narrow hall. The justice proceeded to write in his record book. Hendon,

always alert, thought he would like to know why the officer followed the

woman out; so he slipped softly into the dusky hall and listened. He

heard a conversation to this effect--

"It is a fat pig, and promises good eating; I will buy it of thee; here

is the eightpence."

"Eightpence, indeed! Thou'lt do no such thing. It cost me three

shillings and eightpence, good honest coin of the last reign, that old

Harry that's just dead ne'er touched or tampered with. A fig for thy

eightpence!"

"Stands the wind in that quarter? Thou wast under oath, and so swore

falsely when thou saidst the value was but eightpence. Come straightway

back with me before his worship, and answer for the crime!--and then the

lad will hang."

"There, there, dear heart, say no more, I am content. Give me the

eightpence, and hold thy peace about the matter."

The woman went off crying: Hendon slipped back into the court room, and

the constable presently followed, after hiding his prize in some

convenient place. The justice wrote a while longer, then read the King a

wise and kindly lecture, and sentenced him to a short imprisonment in the

common jail, to be followed by a public flogging. The astounded King

opened his mouth, and was probably going to order the good judge to be

beheaded on the spot; but he caught a warning sign from Hendon, and

succeeded in closing his mouth again before he lost anything out of it.

Hendon took him by the hand, now, made reverence to the justice, and the

two departed in the wake of the constable toward the jail. The moment

the street was reached, the inflamed monarch halted, snatched away his

hand, and exclaimed--

"Idiot, dost imagine I will enter a common jail ALIVE?"

Hendon bent down and said, somewhat sharply--

"WILL you trust in me? Peace! and forbear to worsen our chances with

dangerous speech. What God wills, will happen; thou canst not hurry it,

thou canst not alter it; therefore wait, and be patient--'twill be time

enow to rail or rejoice when what is to happen has happened." {1}

Chapter XXIV. The escape.

The short winter day was nearly ended. The streets were deserted, save

for a few random stragglers, and these hurried straight along, with the

intent look of people who were only anxious to accomplish their errands

as quickly as possible, and then snugly house themselves from the rising

wind and the gathering twilight. They looked neither to the right nor to

the left; they paid no attention to our party, they did not even seem to

see them. Edward the Sixth wondered if the spectacle of a king on his way

to jail had ever encountered such marvellous indifference before.

By-and-by the constable arrived at a deserted market-square, and

proceeded to cross it. When he had reached the middle of it, Hendon

laid his hand upon his arm, and said in a low voice--

"Bide a moment, good sir, there is none in hearing, and I would say a

word to thee."

"My duty forbids it, sir; prithee hinder me not, the night comes on."

"Stay, nevertheless, for the matter concerns thee nearly. Turn thy back

a moment and seem not to see: LET THIS POOR LAD ESCAPE."

"This to me, sir! I arrest thee in--"

"Nay, be not too hasty. See thou be careful and commit no foolish

error"--then he shut his voice down to a whisper, and said in the man's

ear--"the pig thou hast purchased for eightpence may cost thee thy neck,

man!"

The poor constable, taken by surprise, was speechless, at first, then

found his tongue and fell to blustering and threatening; but Hendon was

tranquil, and waited with patience till his breath was spent; then said--

"I have a liking to thee, friend, and would not willingly see thee come

to harm. Observe, I heard it all--every word. I will prove it to thee."

Then he repeated the conversation which the officer and the woman had had

together in the hall, word for word, and ended with--

"There--have I set it forth correctly? Should not I be able to set it

forth correctly before the judge, if occasion required?"

The man was dumb with fear and distress, for a moment; then he rallied,

and said with forced lightness--

"'Tis making a mighty matter, indeed, out of a jest; I but plagued the

woman for mine amusement."

"Kept you the woman's pig for amusement?"

The man answered sharply--

"Nought else, good sir--I tell thee 'twas but a jest."

"I do begin to believe thee," said Hendon, with a perplexing mixture of

mockery and half-conviction in his tone; "but tarry thou here a moment

whilst I run and ask his worship--for nathless, he being a man

experienced in law, in jests, in--"

He was moving away, still talking; the constable hesitated, fidgeted,

spat out an oath or two, then cried out--

"Hold, hold, good sir--prithee wait a little--the judge! Why, man, he

hath no more sympathy with a jest than hath a dead corpse!--come, and we

will speak further. Ods body! I seem to be in evil case--and all for an

innocent and thoughtless pleasantry. I am a man of family; and my wife

and little ones--List to reason, good your worship: what wouldst thou

of me?"

"Only that thou be blind and dumb and paralytic whilst one may count a

hundred thousand--counting slowly," said Hendon, with the expression of a

man who asks but a reasonable favour, and that a very little one.

"It is my destruction!" said the constable despairingly. "Ah, be

reasonable, good sir; only look at this matter, on all its sides, and see

how mere a jest it is--how manifestly and how plainly it is so. And even

if one granted it were not a jest, it is a fault so small that e'en the

grimmest penalty it could call forth would be but a rebuke and warning

from the judge's lips."

Hendon replied with a solemnity which chilled the air about him--

"This jest of thine hath a name, in law,--wot you what it is?"

"I knew it not! Peradventure I have been unwise. I never dreamed it had

a name--ah, sweet heaven, I thought it was original."

"Yes, it hath a name. In the law this crime is called Non compos mentis

lex talionis sic transit gloria mundi."

"Ah, my God!"

"And the penalty is death!"

"God be merciful to me a sinner!"

"By advantage taken of one in fault, in dire peril, and at thy mercy,

thou hast seized goods worth above thirteenpence ha'penny, paying but a

trifle for the same; and this, in the eye of the law, is constructive

barratry, misprision of treason, malfeasance in office, ad hominem

expurgatis in statu quo--and the penalty is death by the halter, without

ransom, commutation, or benefit of clergy."

"Bear me up, bear me up, sweet sir, my legs do fail me! Be thou

merciful--spare me this doom, and I will turn my back and see nought that

shall happen."

"Good! now thou'rt wise and reasonable. And thou'lt restore the pig?"

"I will, I will indeed--nor ever touch another, though heaven send it and

an archangel fetch it. Go--I am blind for thy sake--I see nothing. I

will say thou didst break in and wrest the prisoner from my hands by

force. It is but a crazy, ancient door--I will batter it down myself

betwixt midnight and the morning."

"Do it, good soul, no harm will come of it; the judge hath a loving

charity for this poor lad, and will shed no tears and break no jailer's

bones for his escape."

Chapter XXV. Hendon Hall.

As soon as Hendon and the King were out of sight of the constable, his

Majesty was instructed to hurry to a certain place outside the town, and

wait there, whilst Hendon should go to the inn and settle his account.

Half an hour later the two friends were blithely jogging eastward on

Hendon's sorry steeds. The King was warm and comfortable, now, for he

had cast his rags and clothed himself in the second-hand suit which

Hendon had bought on London Bridge.

Hendon wished to guard against over-fatiguing the boy; he judged that

hard journeys, irregular meals, and illiberal measures of sleep would be

bad for his crazed mind; whilst rest, regularity, and moderate exercise

would be pretty sure to hasten its cure; he longed to see the stricken

intellect made well again and its diseased visions driven out of the

tormented little head; therefore he resolved to move by easy stages

toward the home whence he had so long been banished, instead of obeying

the impulse of his impatience and hurrying along night and day.

When he and the King had journeyed about ten miles, they reached a

considerable village, and halted there for the night, at a good inn.

The former relations were resumed; Hendon stood behind the King's chair,

while he dined, and waited upon him; undressed him when he was ready for

bed; then took the floor for his own quarters, and slept athwart the

door, rolled up in a blanket.

The next day, and the day after, they jogged lazily along talking over

the adventures they had met since their separation, and mightily enjoying

each other's narratives. Hendon detailed all his wide wanderings in

search of the King, and described how the archangel had led him a fool's

journey all over the forest, and taken him back to the hut, finally, when

he found he could not get rid of him. Then--he said--the old man went

into the bedchamber and came staggering back looking broken-hearted, and

saying he had expected to find that the boy had returned and laid down in

there to rest, but it was not so. Hendon had waited at the hut all day;

hope of the King's return died out, then, and he departed upon the quest

again.

"And old Sanctum Sanctorum WAS truly sorry your highness came not back,"

said Hendon; "I saw it in his face."

"Marry I will never doubt THAT!" said the King--and then told his own

story; after which, Hendon was sorry he had not destroyed the archangel.

During the last day of the trip, Hendon's spirits were soaring. His

tongue ran constantly. He talked about his old father, and his brother

Arthur, and told of many things which illustrated their high and generous

characters; he went into loving frenzies over his Edith, and was so

glad-hearted that he was even able to say some gentle and brotherly

things about Hugh. He dwelt a deal on the coming meeting at Hendon Hall;

what a surprise it would be to everybody, and what an outburst of

thanksgiving and delight there would be.

It was a fair region, dotted with cottages and orchards, and the road led

through broad pasture lands whose receding expanses, marked with gentle

elevations and depressions, suggested the swelling and subsiding

undulations of the sea. In the afternoon the returning prodigal made

constant deflections from his course to see if by ascending some hillock

he might not pierce the distance and catch a glimpse of his home. At

last he was successful, and cried out excitedly--

"There is the village, my Prince, and there is the Hall close by! You may

see the towers from here; and that wood there--that is my father's park.

Ah, NOW thou'lt know what state and grandeur be! A house with seventy

rooms--think of that!--and seven and twenty servants! A brave lodging

for such as we, is it not so? Come, let us speed--my impatience will not

brook further delay."

All possible hurry was made; still, it was after three o'clock before the

village was reached. The travellers scampered through it, Hendon's

tongue going all the time. "Here is the church--covered with the same

ivy--none gone, none added." "Yonder is the inn, the old Red Lion,--and

yonder is the market-place." "Here is the Maypole, and here the pump

--nothing is altered; nothing but the people, at any rate; ten years make a

change in people; some of these I seem to know, but none know me." So

his chat ran on. The end of the village was soon reached; then the

travellers struck into a crooked, narrow road, walled in with tall

hedges, and hurried briskly along it for half a mile, then passed into a

vast flower garden through an imposing gateway, whose huge stone pillars

bore sculptured armorial devices. A noble mansion was before them.

"Welcome to Hendon Hall, my King!" exclaimed Miles. "Ah, 'tis a great

day! My father and my brother, and the Lady Edith will be so mad with

joy that they will have eyes and tongue for none but me in the first

transports of the meeting, and so thou'lt seem but coldly welcomed--but

mind it not; 'twill soon seem otherwise; for when I say thou art my ward,

and tell them how costly is my love for thee, thou'lt see them take thee

to their breasts for Miles Hendon's sake, and make their house and hearts

thy home for ever after!"

The next moment Hendon sprang to the ground before the great door, helped

the King down, then took him by the hand and rushed within. A few steps

brought him to a spacious apartment; he entered, seated the King with

more hurry than ceremony, then ran toward a young man who sat at a

writing-table in front of a generous fire of logs.

"Embrace me, Hugh," he cried, "and say thou'rt glad I am come again! and

call our father, for home is not home till I shall touch his hand, and

see his face, and hear his voice once more!"

But Hugh only drew back, after betraying a momentary surprise, and bent a

grave stare upon the intruder--a stare which indicated somewhat of

offended dignity, at first, then changed, in response to some inward

thought or purpose, to an expression of marvelling curiosity, mixed with

a real or assumed compassion. Presently he said, in a mild voice--

"Thy wits seem touched, poor stranger; doubtless thou hast suffered

privations and rude buffetings at the world's hands; thy looks and dress

betoken it. Whom dost thou take me to be?"

"Take thee? Prithee for whom else than whom thou art? I take thee to be

Hugh Hendon," said Miles, sharply.

The other continued, in the same soft tone--

"And whom dost thou imagine thyself to be?"

"Imagination hath nought to do with it! Dost thou pretend thou knowest

me not for thy brother Miles Hendon?"

An expression of pleased surprise flitted across Hugh's face, and he

exclaimed--

"What! thou art not jesting? can the dead come to life? God be praised

if it be so! Our poor lost boy restored to our arms after all these

cruel years! Ah, it seems too good to be true, it IS too good to be

true--I charge thee, have pity, do not trifle with me! Quick--come to

the light--let me scan thee well!"

He seized Miles by the arm, dragged him to the window, and began to

devour him from head to foot with his eyes, turning him this way and

that, and stepping briskly around him and about him to prove him from all

points of view; whilst the returned prodigal, all aglow with gladness,

smiled, laughed, and kept nodding his head and saying--

"Go on, brother, go on, and fear not; thou'lt find nor limb nor feature

that cannot bide the test. Scour and scan me to thy content, my good old

Hugh--I am indeed thy old Miles, thy same old Miles, thy lost brother,

is't not so? Ah, 'tis a great day--I SAID 'twas a great day! Give me

thy hand, give me thy cheek--lord, I am like to die of very joy!"

He was about to throw himself upon his brother; but Hugh put up his hand

in dissent, then dropped his chin mournfully upon his breast, saying with

emotion--

"Ah, God of his mercy give me strength to bear this grievous

disappointment!"

Miles, amazed, could not speak for a moment; then he found his tongue,

and cried out--

"WHAT disappointment? Am I not thy brother?"

Hugh shook his head sadly, and said--

"I pray heaven it may prove so, and that other eyes may find the

resemblances that are hid from mine. Alack, I fear me the letter spoke

but too truly."

"What letter?"

"One that came from over sea, some six or seven years ago. It said my

brother died in battle."

"It was a lie! Call thy father--he will know me."

"One may not call the dead."

"Dead?" Miles's voice was subdued, and his lips trembled. "My father

dead!--oh, this is heavy news. Half my new joy is withered now. Prithee

let me see my brother Arthur--he will know me; he will know me and

console me."

"He, also, is dead."

"God be merciful to me, a stricken man! Gone,--both gone--the worthy

taken and the worthless spared, in me! Ah! I crave your mercy!--do not

say the Lady Edith--"

"Is dead? No, she lives."

"Then, God be praised, my joy is whole again! Speed thee, brother--let

her come to me! An' SHE say I am not myself--but she will not; no, no,

SHE will know me, I were a fool to doubt it. Bring her--bring the old

servants; they, too, will know me."

"All are gone but five--Peter, Halsey, David, Bernard, and Margaret."

So saying, Hugh left the room. Miles stood musing a while, then began to

walk the floor, muttering--

"The five arch-villains have survived the two-and-twenty leal and honest

--'tis an odd thing."

He continued walking back and forth, muttering to himself; he had

forgotten the King entirely. By-and-by his Majesty said gravely, and

with a touch of genuine compassion, though the words themselves were

capable of being interpreted ironically--

"Mind not thy mischance, good man; there be others in the world whose

identity is denied, and whose claims are derided. Thou hast company."

"Ah, my King," cried Hendon, colouring slightly, "do not thou condemn me

--wait, and thou shalt see. I am no impostor--she will say it; you shall

hear it from the sweetest lips in England. I an impostor? Why, I know

this old hall, these pictures of my ancestors, and all these things that

are about us, as a child knoweth its own nursery. Here was I born and

bred, my lord; I speak the truth; I would not deceive thee; and should

none else believe, I pray thee do not THOU doubt me--I could not bear

it."

"I do not doubt thee," said the King, with a childlike simplicity and

faith.

"I thank thee out of my heart!" exclaimed Hendon with a fervency which

showed that he was touched. The King added, with the same gentle

simplicity--

"Dost thou doubt ME?"

A guilty confusion seized upon Hendon, and he was grateful that the door

opened to admit Hugh, at that moment, and saved him the necessity of

replying.

A beautiful lady, richly clothed, followed Hugh, and after her came

several liveried servants. The lady walked slowly, with her head bowed

and her eyes fixed upon the floor. The face was unspeakably sad. Miles

Hendon sprang forward, crying out--

"Oh, my Edith, my darling--"

But Hugh waved him back, gravely, and said to the lady--

"Look upon him. Do you know him?"

At the sound of Miles's voice the woman had started slightly, and her

cheeks had flushed; she was trembling now. She stood still, during an

impressive pause of several moments; then slowly lifted up her head and

looked into Hendon's eyes with a stony and frightened gaze; the blood

sank out of her face, drop by drop, till nothing remained but the grey

pallor of death; then she said, in a voice as dead as the face, "I know

him not!" and turned, with a moan and a stifled sob, and tottered out of

the room.

Miles Hendon sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

After a pause, his brother said to the servants--

"You have observed him. Do you know him?"

They shook their heads; then the master said--

"The servants know you not, sir. I fear there is some mistake. You have

seen that my wife knew you not."

"Thy WIFE!" In an instant Hugh was pinned to the wall, with an iron grip

about his throat. "Oh, thou fox-hearted slave, I see it all! Thou'st

writ the lying letter thyself, and my stolen bride and goods are its

fruit. There--now get thee gone, lest I shame mine honourable

soldiership with the slaying of so pitiful a mannikin!"

Hugh, red-faced, and almost suffocated, reeled to the nearest chair, and

commanded the servants to seize and bind the murderous stranger. They

hesitated, and one of them said--

"He is armed, Sir Hugh, and we are weaponless."

"Armed! What of it, and ye so many? Upon him, I say!"

But Miles warned them to be careful what they did, and added--

"Ye know me of old--I have not changed; come on, an' it like you."

This reminder did not hearten the servants much; they still held back.

"Then go, ye paltry cowards, and arm yourselves and guard the doors,

whilst I send one to fetch the watch!" said Hugh. He turned at the

threshold, and said to Miles, "You'll find it to your advantage to offend

not with useless endeavours at escape."

"Escape? Spare thyself discomfort, an' that is all that troubles thee.

For Miles Hendon is master of Hendon Hall and all its belongings. He

will remain--doubt it not."

Chapter XXVI. Disowned.

The King sat musing a few moments, then looked up and said--

"'Tis strange--most strange. I cannot account for it."

"No, it is not strange, my liege. I know him, and this conduct is but

natural. He was a rascal from his birth."

"Oh, I spake not of HIM, Sir Miles."

"Not of him? Then of what? What is it that is strange?"

"That the King is not missed."

"How? Which? I doubt I do not understand."

"Indeed? Doth it not strike you as being passing strange that the land

is not filled with couriers and proclamations describing my person and

making search for me? Is it no matter for commotion and distress that

the Head of the State is gone; that I am vanished away and lost?"

"Most true, my King, I had forgot." Then Hendon sighed, and muttered to

himself, "Poor ruined mind--still busy with its pathetic dream."

"But I have a plan that shall right us both--I will write a paper, in

three tongues--Latin, Greek and English--and thou shalt haste away with

it to London in the morning. Give it to none but my uncle, the Lord

Hertford; when he shall see it, he will know and say I wrote it. Then he

will send for me."

"Might it not be best, my Prince, that we wait here until I prove myself

and make my rights secure to my domains? I should be so much the better

able then to--"

The King interrupted him imperiously--

"Peace! What are thy paltry domains, thy trivial interests, contrasted

with matters which concern the weal of a nation and the integrity of a

throne?" Then, he added, in a gentle voice, as if he were sorry for his

severity, "Obey, and have no fear; I will right thee, I will make thee

whole--yes, more than whole. I shall remember, and requite."

So saying, he took the pen, and set himself to work. Hendon contemplated

him lovingly a while, then said to himself--

"An' it were dark, I should think it WAS a king that spoke; there's no

denying it, when the humour's upon on him he doth thunder and lighten

like your true King; now where got he that trick? See him scribble and

scratch away contentedly at his meaningless pot-hooks, fancying them to

be Latin and Greek--and except my wit shall serve me with a lucky device

for diverting him from his purpose, I shall be forced to pretend to post

away to-morrow on this wild errand he hath invented for me."

The next moment Sir Miles's thoughts had gone back to the recent episode.

So absorbed was he in his musings, that when the King presently handed

him the paper which he had been writing, he received it and pocketed it

without being conscious of the act. "How marvellous strange she acted,"

he muttered. "I think she knew me--and I think she did NOT know me.

These opinions do conflict, I perceive it plainly; I cannot reconcile

them, neither can I, by argument, dismiss either of the two, or even

persuade one to outweigh the other. The matter standeth simply thus:

she MUST have known my face, my figure, my voice, for how could it be

otherwise? Yet she SAID she knew me not, and that is proof perfect, for

she cannot lie. But stop--I think I begin to see. Peradventure he hath

influenced her, commanded her, compelled her to lie. That is the

solution. The riddle is unriddled. She seemed dead with fear--yes, she

was under his compulsion. I will seek her; I will find her; now that he

is away, she will speak her true mind. She will remember the old times

when we were little playfellows together, and this will soften her heart,

and she will no more betray me, but will confess me. There is no

treacherous blood in her--no, she was always honest and true. She has

loved me, in those old days--this is my security; for whom one has loved,

one cannot betray."

He stepped eagerly toward the door; at that moment it opened, and the

Lady Edith entered. She was very pale, but she walked with a firm step,

and her carriage was full of grace and gentle dignity. Her face was as

sad as before.

Miles sprang forward, with a happy confidence, to meet her, but she

checked him with a hardly perceptible gesture, and he stopped where he

was. She seated herself, and asked him to do likewise. Thus simply did

she take the sense of old comradeship out of him, and transform him into

a stranger and a guest. The surprise of it, the bewildering

unexpectedness of it, made him begin to question, for a moment, if he WAS

the person he was pretending to be, after all. The Lady Edith said--

"Sir, I have come to warn you. The mad cannot be persuaded out of their

delusions, perchance; but doubtless they may be persuaded to avoid

perils. I think this dream of yours hath the seeming of honest truth to

you, and therefore is not criminal--but do not tarry here with it; for

here it is dangerous." She looked steadily into Miles's face a moment,

then added, impressively, "It is the more dangerous for that you ARE much

like what our lost lad must have grown to be if he had lived."

"Heavens, madam, but I AM he!"

"I truly think you think it, sir. I question not your honesty in that; I

but warn you, that is all. My husband is master in this region; his

power hath hardly any limit; the people prosper or starve, as he wills.

If you resembled not the man whom you profess to be, my husband might bid

you pleasure yourself with your dream in peace; but trust me, I know him

well; I know what he will do; he will say to all that you are but a mad

impostor, and straightway all will echo him." She bent upon Miles that

same steady look once more, and added: "If you WERE Miles Hendon, and he

knew it and all the region knew it--consider what I am saying, weigh it

well--you would stand in the same peril, your punishment would be no less

sure; he would deny you and denounce you, and none would be bold enough

to give you countenance."

"Most truly I believe it," said Miles, bitterly. "The power that can

command one life-long friend to betray and disown another, and be obeyed,

may well look to be obeyed in quarters where bread and life are on the

stake and no cobweb ties of loyalty and honour are concerned."

A faint tinge appeared for a moment in the lady's cheek, and she dropped

her eyes to the floor; but her voice betrayed no emotion when she

proceeded--

"I have warned you--I must still warn you--to go hence. This man will

destroy you, else. He is a tyrant who knows no pity. I, who am his

fettered slave, know this. Poor Miles, and Arthur, and my dear guardian,

Sir Richard, are free of him, and at rest: better that you were with

them than that you bide here in the clutches of this miscreant. Your

pretensions are a menace to his title and possessions; you have assaulted

him in his own house: you are ruined if you stay. Go--do not hesitate.

If you lack money, take this purse, I beg of you, and bribe the servants

to let you pass. Oh, be warned, poor soul, and escape while you may."

Miles declined the purse with a gesture, and rose up and stood before

her.

"Grant me one thing," he said. "Let your eyes rest upon mine, so that I

may see if they be steady. There--now answer me. Am I Miles Hendon?"

"No. I know you not."

"Swear it!"

The answer was low, but distinct--

"I swear."

"Oh, this passes belief!"

"Fly! Why will you waste the precious time? Fly, and save yourself."

At that moment the officers burst into the room, and a violent struggle

began; but Hendon was soon overpowered and dragged away. The King was

taken also, and both were bound and led to prison.

Chapter XXVII. In prison.

The cells were all crowded; so the two friends were chained in a large

room where persons charged with trifling offences were commonly kept.

They had company, for there were some twenty manacled and fettered

prisoners here, of both sexes and of varying ages,--an obscene and noisy

gang. The King chafed bitterly over the stupendous indignity thus put

upon his royalty, but Hendon was moody and taciturn. He was pretty

thoroughly bewildered; he had come home, a jubilant prodigal, expecting

to find everybody wild with joy over his return; and instead had got the

cold shoulder and a jail. The promise and the fulfilment differed so

widely that the effect was stunning; he could not decide whether it was

most tragic or most grotesque. He felt much as a man might who had

danced blithely out to enjoy a rainbow, and got struck by lightning.

But gradually his confused and tormenting thoughts settled down into some

sort of order, and then his mind centred itself upon Edith. He turned

her conduct over, and examined it in all lights, but he could not make

anything satisfactory out of it. Did she know him--or didn't she know

him? It was a perplexing puzzle, and occupied him a long time; but he

ended, finally, with the conviction that she did know him, and had

repudiated him for interested reasons. He wanted to load her name with

curses now; but this name had so long been sacred to him that he found he

could not bring his tongue to profane it.

Wrapped in prison blankets of a soiled and tattered condition, Hendon and

the King passed a troubled night. For a bribe the jailer had furnished

liquor to some of the prisoners; singing of ribald songs, fighting,

shouting, and carousing was the natural consequence. At last, a while

after midnight, a man attacked a woman and nearly killed her by beating

her over the head with his manacles before the jailer could come to the

rescue. The jailer restored peace by giving the man a sound clubbing

about the head and shoulders--then the carousing ceased; and after that,

all had an opportunity to sleep who did not mind the annoyance of the

moanings and groanings of the two wounded people.

During the ensuing week, the days and nights were of a monotonous

sameness as to events; men whose faces Hendon remembered more or less

distinctly, came, by day, to gaze at the 'impostor' and repudiate and

insult him; and by night the carousing and brawling went on with

symmetrical regularity. However, there was a change of incident at last.

The jailer brought in an old man, and said to him--

"The villain is in this room--cast thy old eyes about and see if thou

canst say which is he."

Hendon glanced up, and experienced a pleasant sensation for the first

time since he had been in the jail. He said to himself, "This is Blake

Andrews, a servant all his life in my father's family--a good honest

soul, with a right heart in his breast. That is, formerly. But none are

true now; all are liars. This man will know me--and will deny me, too,

like the rest."

The old man gazed around the room, glanced at each face in turn, and

finally said--

"I see none here but paltry knaves, scum o' the streets. Which is he?"

The jailer laughed.

"Here," he said; "scan this big animal, and grant me an opinion."

The old man approached, and looked Hendon over, long and earnestly, then

shook his head and said--

"Marry, THIS is no Hendon--nor ever was!"

"Right! Thy old eyes are sound yet. An' I were Sir Hugh, I would take

the shabby carle and--"

The jailer finished by lifting himself a-tip-toe with an imaginary

halter, at the same time making a gurgling noise in his throat suggestive

of suffocation. The old man said, vindictively--

"Let him bless God an' he fare no worse. An' _I_ had the handling o' the

villain he should roast, or I am no true man!"

The jailer laughed a pleasant hyena laugh, and said--

"Give him a piece of thy mind, old man--they all do it. Thou'lt find it

good diversion."

Then he sauntered toward his ante-room and disappeared. The old man

dropped upon his knees and whispered--

"God be thanked, thou'rt come again, my master! I believed thou wert

dead these seven years, and lo, here thou art alive! I knew thee the

moment I saw thee; and main hard work it was to keep a stony countenance

and seem to see none here but tuppenny knaves and rubbish o' the streets.

I am old and poor, Sir Miles; but say the word and I will go forth and

proclaim the truth though I be strangled for it."

"No," said Hendon; "thou shalt not. It would ruin thee, and yet help but

little in my cause. But I thank thee, for thou hast given me back

somewhat of my lost faith in my kind."

The old servant became very valuable to Hendon and the King; for he

dropped in several times a day to 'abuse' the former, and always smuggled

in a few delicacies to help out the prison bill of fare; he also

furnished the current news. Hendon reserved the dainties for the King;

without them his Majesty might not have survived, for he was not able to

eat the coarse and wretched food provided by the jailer. Andrews was

obliged to confine himself to brief visits, in order to avoid suspicion;

but he managed to impart a fair degree of information each time

--information delivered in a low voice, for Hendon's benefit, and

interlarded with insulting epithets delivered in a louder voice for the

benefit of other hearers.

So, little by little, the story of the family came out. Arthur had been

dead six years. This loss, with the absence of news from Hendon,

impaired the father's health; he believed he was going to die, and he

wished to see Hugh and Edith settled in life before he passed away; but

Edith begged hard for delay, hoping for Miles's return; then the letter

came which brought the news of Miles's death; the shock prostrated Sir

Richard; he believed his end was very near, and he and Hugh insisted upon

the marriage; Edith begged for and obtained a month's respite, then

another, and finally a third; the marriage then took place by the

death-bed of Sir Richard. It had not proved a happy one. It was

whispered about the country that shortly after the nuptials the bride

found among her husband's papers several rough and incomplete drafts of

the fatal letter, and had accused him of precipitating the marriage--and

Sir Richard's death, too--by a wicked forgery. Tales of cruelty to the

Lady Edith and the servants were to be heard on all hands; and since the

father's death Sir Hugh had thrown off all soft disguises and become a

pitiless master toward all who in any way depended upon him and his

domains for bread.

There was a bit of Andrew's gossip which the King listened to with a

lively interest--

"There is rumour that the King is mad. But in charity forbear to say _I_

mentioned it, for 'tis death to speak of it, they say."

His Majesty glared at the old man and said--

"The King is NOT mad, good man--and thou'lt find it to thy advantage to

busy thyself with matters that nearer concern thee than this seditious

prattle."

"What doth the lad mean?" said Andrews, surprised at this brisk assault

from such an unexpected quarter. Hendon gave him a sign, and he did not

pursue his question, but went on with his budget--

"The late King is to be buried at Windsor in a day or two--the 16th of

the month--and the new King will be crowned at Westminster the 20th."

"Methinks they must needs find him first," muttered his Majesty; then

added, confidently, "but they will look to that--and so also shall I."

"In the name of--"

But the old man got no further--a warning sign from Hendon checked his

remark. He resumed the thread of his gossip--

"Sir Hugh goeth to the coronation--and with grand hopes. He confidently

looketh to come back a peer, for he is high in favour with the Lord

Protector."

"What Lord Protector?" asked his Majesty.

"His Grace the Duke of Somerset."

"What Duke of Somerset?"

"Marry, there is but one--Seymour, Earl of Hertford."

The King asked sharply--

"Since when is HE a duke, and Lord Protector?"

"Since the last day of January."

"And prithee who made him so?"

"Himself and the Great Council--with help of the King."

His Majesty started violently. "The KING!" he cried. "WHAT king, good

sir?"

"What king, indeed! (God-a-mercy, what aileth the boy?) Sith we have but

one, 'tis not difficult to answer--his most sacred Majesty King Edward

the Sixth--whom God preserve! Yea, and a dear and gracious little urchin

is he, too; and whether he be mad or no--and they say he mendeth daily

--his praises are on all men's lips; and all bless him, likewise, and offer

prayers that he may be spared to reign long in England; for he began

humanely with saving the old Duke of Norfolk's life, and now is he bent

on destroying the cruellest of the laws that harry and oppress the

people."

This news struck his Majesty dumb with amazement, and plunged him into so

deep and dismal a reverie that he heard no more of the old man's gossip.

He wondered if the 'little urchin' was the beggar-boy whom he left

dressed in his own garments in the palace. It did not seem possible that

this could be, for surely his manners and speech would betray him if he

pretended to be the Prince of Wales--then he would be driven out, and

search made for the true prince. Could it be that the Court had set up

some sprig of the nobility in his place? No, for his uncle would not

allow that--he was all-powerful and could and would crush such a

movement, of course. The boy's musings profited him nothing; the more he

tried to unriddle the mystery the more perplexed he became, the more his

head ached, and the worse he slept. His impatience to get to London grew

hourly, and his captivity became almost unendurable.

Hendon's arts all failed with the King--he could not be comforted; but a

couple of women who were chained near him succeeded better. Under their

gentle ministrations he found peace and learned a degree of patience. He

was very grateful, and came to love them dearly and to delight in the

sweet and soothing influence of their presence. He asked them why they

were in prison, and when they said they were Baptists, he smiled, and

inquired--

"Is that a crime to be shut up for in a prison? Now I grieve, for I

shall lose ye--they will not keep ye long for such a little thing."

They did not answer; and something in their faces made him uneasy. He

said, eagerly--

"You do not speak; be good to me, and tell me--there will be no other

punishment? Prithee tell me there is no fear of that."

They tried to change the topic, but his fears were aroused, and he

pursued it--

"Will they scourge thee? No, no, they would not be so cruel! Say they

would not. Come, they WILL not, will they?"

The women betrayed confusion and distress, but there was no avoiding an

answer, so one of them said, in a voice choked with emotion--

"Oh, thou'lt break our hearts, thou gentle spirit!--God will help us to

bear our--"

"It is a confession!" the King broke in. "Then they WILL scourge thee,

the stony-hearted wretches! But oh, thou must not weep, I cannot bear

it. Keep up thy courage--I shall come to my own in time to save thee

from this bitter thing, and I will do it!"

When the King awoke in the morning, the women were gone.

"They are saved!" he said, joyfully; then added, despondently, "but woe

is me!--for they were my comforters."

Each of them had left a shred of ribbon pinned to his clothing, in token

of remembrance. He said he would keep these things always; and that soon

he would seek out these dear good friends of his and take them under his

protection.

Just then the jailer came in with some subordinates, and commanded that

the prisoners be conducted to the jail-yard. The King was overjoyed--it

would be a blessed thing to see the blue sky and breathe the fresh air

once more. He fretted and chafed at the slowness of the officers, but

his turn came at last, and he was released from his staple and ordered to

follow the other prisoners with Hendon.

The court or quadrangle was stone-paved, and open to the sky. The

prisoners entered it through a massive archway of masonry, and were

placed in file, standing, with their backs against the wall. A rope was

stretched in front of them, and they were also guarded by their officers.

It was a chill and lowering morning, and a light snow which had fallen

during the night whitened the great empty space and added to the general

dismalness of its aspect. Now and then a wintry wind shivered through the

place and sent the snow eddying hither and thither.

In the centre of the court stood two women, chained to posts. A glance

showed the King that these were his good friends. He shuddered, and said

to himself, "Alack, they are not gone free, as I had thought. To think

that such as these should know the lash!--in England! Ay, there's the

shame of it--not in Heathennesse, Christian England! They will be

scourged; and I, whom they have comforted and kindly entreated, must look

on and see the great wrong done; it is strange, so strange, that I, the

very source of power in this broad realm, am helpless to protect them.

But let these miscreants look well to themselves, for there is a day

coming when I will require of them a heavy reckoning for this work. For

every blow they strike now, they shall feel a hundred then."

A great gate swung open, and a crowd of citizens poured in. They flocked

around the two women, and hid them from the King's view. A clergyman

entered and passed through the crowd, and he also was hidden. The King

now heard talking, back and forth, as if questions were being asked and

answered, but he could not make out what was said. Next there was a deal

of bustle and preparation, and much passing and repassing of officials

through that part of the crowd that stood on the further side of the

women; and whilst this proceeded a deep hush gradually fell upon the

people.

Now, by command, the masses parted and fell aside, and the King saw a

spectacle that froze the marrow in his bones. Faggots had been piled

about the two women, and a kneeling man was lighting them!

The women bowed their heads, and covered their faces with their hands;

the yellow flames began to climb upward among the snapping and crackling

faggots, and wreaths of blue smoke to stream away on the wind; the

clergyman lifted his hands and began a prayer--just then two young girls

came flying through the great gate, uttering piercing screams, and threw

themselves upon the women at the stake. Instantly they were torn away by

the officers, and one of them was kept in a tight grip, but the other

broke loose, saying she would die with her mother; and before she could

be stopped she had flung her arms about her mother's neck again. She was

torn away once more, and with her gown on fire. Two or three men held

her, and the burning portion of her gown was snatched off and thrown

flaming aside, she struggling all the while to free herself, and saying

she would be alone in the world, now; and begging to be allowed to die

with her mother. Both the girls screamed continually, and fought for

freedom; but suddenly this tumult was drowned under a volley of

heart-piercing shrieks of mortal agony--the King glanced from the frantic

girls to the stake, then turned away and leaned his ashen face against

the wall, and looked no more. He said, "That which I have seen, in that

one little moment, will never go out from my memory, but will abide

there; and I shall see it all the days, and dream of it all the nights,

till I die. Would God I had been blind!"

Hendon was watching the King. He said to himself, with satisfaction,

"His disorder mendeth; he hath changed, and groweth gentler. If he had

followed his wont, he would have stormed at these varlets, and said he

was King, and commanded that the women be turned loose unscathed. Soon

his delusion will pass away and be forgotten, and his poor mind will be

whole again. God speed the day!"

That same day several prisoners were brought in to remain over night, who

were being conveyed, under guard, to various places in the kingdom, to

undergo punishment for crimes committed. The King conversed with these

--he had made it a point, from the beginning, to instruct himself for the

kingly office by questioning prisoners whenever the opportunity offered

--and the tale of their woes wrung his heart. One of them was a poor

half-witted woman who had stolen a yard or two of cloth from a weaver

--she was to be hanged for it. Another was a man who had been accused of

stealing a horse; he said the proof had failed, and he had imagined that

he was safe from the halter; but no--he was hardly free before he was

arraigned for killing a deer in the King's park; this was proved against

him, and now he was on his way to the gallows. There was a tradesman's

apprentice whose case particularly distressed the King; this youth said

he found a hawk, one evening, that had escaped from its owner, and he

took it home with him, imagining himself entitled to it; but the court

convicted him of stealing it, and sentenced him to death.

The King was furious over these inhumanities, and wanted Hendon to break

jail and fly with him to Westminster, so that he could mount his throne

and hold out his sceptre in mercy over these unfortunate people and save

their lives. "Poor child," sighed Hendon, "these woeful tales have

brought his malady upon him again; alack, but for this evil hap, he would

have been well in a little time."

Among these prisoners was an old lawyer--a man with a strong face and a

dauntless mien. Three years past, he had written a pamphlet against the

Lord Chancellor, accusing him of injustice, and had been punished for it

by the loss of his ears in the pillory, and degradation from the bar, and

in addition had been fined 3,000 pounds and sentenced to imprisonment for

life. Lately he had repeated his offence; and in consequence was now

under sentence to lose WHAT REMAINED OF HIS EARS, pay a fine of 5,000

pounds, be branded on both cheeks, and remain in prison for life.

"These be honourable scars," he said, and turned back his grey hair and

showed the mutilated stubs of what had once been his ears.

The King's eye burned with passion. He said--

"None believe in me--neither wilt thou. But no matter--within the

compass of a month thou shalt be free; and more, the laws that have

dishonoured thee, and shamed the English name, shall be swept from the

statute books. The world is made wrong; kings should go to school to

their own laws, at times, and so learn mercy." {1}

Chapter XXVIII. The sacrifice.

Meantime Miles was growing sufficiently tired of confinement and

inaction. But now his trial came on, to his great gratification, and he

thought he could welcome any sentence provided a further imprisonment

should not be a part of it. But he was mistaken about that. He was in a

fine fury when he found himself described as a 'sturdy vagabond' and

sentenced to sit two hours in the stocks for bearing that character and

for assaulting the master of Hendon Hall. His pretensions as to

brothership with his prosecutor, and rightful heirship to the Hendon

honours and estates, were left contemptuously unnoticed, as being not

even worth examination.

He raged and threatened on his way to punishment, but it did no good; he

was snatched roughly along by the officers, and got an occasional cuff,

besides, for his irreverent conduct.

The King could not pierce through the rabble that swarmed behind; so he

was obliged to follow in the rear, remote from his good friend and

servant. The King had been nearly condemned to the stocks himself for

being in such bad company, but had been let off with a lecture and a

warning, in consideration of his youth. When the crowd at last halted,

he flitted feverishly from point to point around its outer rim, hunting a

place to get through; and at last, after a deal of difficulty and delay,

succeeded. There sat his poor henchman in the degrading stocks, the

sport and butt of a dirty mob--he, the body servant of the King of

England! Edward had heard the sentence pronounced, but he had not

realised the half that it meant. His anger began to rise as the sense of

this new indignity which had been put upon him sank home; it jumped to

summer heat, the next moment, when he saw an egg sail through the air and

crush itself against Hendon's cheek, and heard the crowd roar its

enjoyment of the episode. He sprang across the open circle and

confronted the officer in charge, crying--

"For shame! This is my servant--set him free! I am the--"

"Oh, peace!" exclaimed Hendon, in a panic, "thou'lt destroy thyself.

Mind him not, officer, he is mad."

"Give thyself no trouble as to the matter of minding him, good man, I

have small mind to mind him; but as to teaching him somewhat, to that I

am well inclined." He turned to a subordinate and said, "Give the little

fool a taste or two of the lash, to mend his manners."

"Half a dozen will better serve his turn," suggested Sir Hugh, who had

ridden up, a moment before, to take a passing glance at the proceedings.

The King was seized. He did not even struggle, so paralysed was he with

the mere thought of the monstrous outrage that was proposed to be

inflicted upon his sacred person. History was already defiled with the

record of the scourging of an English king with whips--it was an

intolerable reflection that he must furnish a duplicate of that shameful

page. He was in the toils, there was no help for him; he must either

take this punishment or beg for its remission. Hard conditions; he would

take the stripes--a king might do that, but a king could not beg.

But meantime, Miles Hendon was resolving the difficulty. "Let the child

go," said he; "ye heartless dogs, do ye not see how young and frail he

is? Let him go--I will take his lashes."

"Marry, a good thought--and thanks for it," said Sir Hugh, his face

lighting with a sardonic satisfaction. "Let the little beggar go, and

give this fellow a dozen in his place--an honest dozen, well laid on."

The King was in the act of entering a fierce protest, but Sir Hugh

silenced him with the potent remark, "Yes, speak up, do, and free thy

mind--only, mark ye, that for each word you utter he shall get six

strokes the more."

Hendon was removed from the stocks, and his back laid bare; and whilst

the lash was applied the poor little King turned away his face and

allowed unroyal tears to channel his cheeks unchecked. "Ah, brave good

heart," he said to himself, "this loyal deed shall never perish out of my

memory. I will not forget it--and neither shall THEY!" he added, with

passion. Whilst he mused, his appreciation of Hendon's magnanimous

conduct grew to greater and still greater dimensions in his mind, and so

also did his gratefulness for it. Presently he said to himself, "Who

saves his prince from wounds and possible death--and this he did for me

--performs high service; but it is little--it is nothing--oh, less than

nothing!--when 'tis weighed against the act of him who saves his prince

from SHAME!"

Hendon made no outcry under the scourge, but bore the heavy blows with

soldierly fortitude. This, together with his redeeming the boy by taking

his stripes for him, compelled the respect of even that forlorn and

degraded mob that was gathered there; and its gibes and hootings died

away, and no sound remained but the sound of the falling blows. The

stillness that pervaded the place, when Hendon found himself once more in

the stocks, was in strong contrast with the insulting clamour which had

prevailed there so little a while before. The King came softly to

Hendon's side, and whispered in his ear--

"Kings cannot ennoble thee, thou good, great soul, for One who is higher

than kings hath done that for thee; but a king can confirm thy nobility

to men." He picked up the scourge from the ground, touched Hendon's

bleeding shoulders lightly with it, and whispered, "Edward of England

dubs thee Earl!"

Hendon was touched. The water welled to his eyes, yet at the same time

the grisly humour of the situation and circumstances so undermined his

gravity that it was all he could do to keep some sign of his inward mirth

from showing outside. To be suddenly hoisted, naked and gory, from the

common stocks to the Alpine altitude and splendour of an Earldom, seemed

to him the last possibility in the line of the grotesque. He said to

himself, "Now am I finely tinselled, indeed! The spectre-knight of the

Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows is become a spectre-earl--a dizzy flight

for a callow wing! An' this go on, I shall presently be hung like a very

maypole with fantastic gauds and make-believe honours. But I shall value

them, all valueless as they are, for the love that doth bestow them.

Better these poor mock dignities of mine, that come unasked, from a clean

hand and a right spirit, than real ones bought by servility from grudging

and interested power."

The dreaded Sir Hugh wheeled his horse about, and as he spurred away, the

living wall divided silently to let him pass, and as silently closed

together again. And so remained; nobody went so far as to venture a

remark in favour of the prisoner, or in compliment to him; but no matter

--the absence of abuse was a sufficient homage in itself. A late comer

who was not posted as to the present circumstances, and who delivered a

sneer at the 'impostor,' and was in the act of following it with a dead

cat, was promptly knocked down and kicked out, without any words, and

then the deep quiet resumed sway once more.

Chapter XXIX. To London.

When Hendon's term of service in the stocks was finished, he was released

and ordered to quit the region and come back no more. His sword was

restored to him, and also his mule and his donkey. He mounted and rode

off, followed by the King, the crowd opening with quiet respectfulness to

let them pass, and then dispersing when they were gone.

Hendon was soon absorbed in thought. There were questions of high import

to be answered. What should he do? Whither should he go? Powerful help

must be found somewhere, or he must relinquish his inheritance and remain

under the imputation of being an impostor besides. Where could he hope

to find this powerful help? Where, indeed! It was a knotty question.

By-and-by a thought occurred to him which pointed to a possibility--the

slenderest of slender possibilities, certainly, but still worth

considering, for lack of any other that promised anything at all. He

remembered what old Andrews had said about the young King's goodness and

his generous championship of the wronged and unfortunate. Why not go and

try to get speech of him and beg for justice? Ah, yes, but could so

fantastic a pauper get admission to the august presence of a monarch?

Never mind--let that matter take care of itself; it was a bridge that

would not need to be crossed till he should come to it. He was an old

campaigner, and used to inventing shifts and expedients: no doubt he

would be able to find a way. Yes, he would strike for the capital.

Maybe his father's old friend Sir Humphrey Marlow would help him--'good

old Sir Humphrey, Head Lieutenant of the late King's kitchen, or stables,

or something'--Miles could not remember just what or which. Now that he

had something to turn his energies to, a distinctly defined object to

accomplish, the fog of humiliation and depression which had settled down

upon his spirits lifted and blew away, and he raised his head and looked

about him. He was surprised to see how far he had come; the village was

away behind him. The King was jogging along in his wake, with his head

bowed; for he, too, was deep in plans and thinkings. A sorrowful

misgiving clouded Hendon's new-born cheerfulness: would the boy be

willing to go again to a city where, during all his brief life, he had

never known anything but ill-usage and pinching want? But the question

must be asked; it could not be avoided; so Hendon reined up, and called

out--

"I had forgotten to inquire whither we are bound. Thy commands, my

liege!"

"To London!"

Hendon moved on again, mightily contented with the answer--but astounded

at it too.

The whole journey was made without an adventure of importance. But it

ended with one. About ten o'clock on the night of the 19th of February

they stepped upon London Bridge, in the midst of a writhing, struggling

jam of howling and hurrahing people, whose beer-jolly faces stood out

strongly in the glare from manifold torches--and at that instant the

decaying head of some former duke or other grandee tumbled down between

them, striking Hendon on the elbow and then bounding off among the

hurrying confusion of feet. So evanescent and unstable are men's works in

this world!--the late good King is but three weeks dead and three days in

his grave, and already the adornments which he took such pains to select

from prominent people for his noble bridge are falling. A citizen

stumbled over that head, and drove his own head into the back of somebody

in front of him, who turned and knocked down the first person that came

handy, and was promptly laid out himself by that person's friend. It was

the right ripe time for a free fight, for the festivities of the morrow

--Coronation Day--were already beginning; everybody was full of strong

drink and patriotism; within five minutes the free fight was occupying a

good deal of ground; within ten or twelve it covered an acre of so, and

was become a riot. By this time Hendon and the King were hopelessly

separated from each other and lost in the rush and turmoil of the roaring

masses of humanity. And so we leave them.

Chapter XXX. Tom's progress.

Whilst the true King wandered about the land poorly clad, poorly fed,

cuffed and derided by tramps one while, herding with thieves and

murderers in a jail another, and called idiot and impostor by all

impartially, the mock King Tom Canty enjoyed quite a different

experience.

When we saw him last, royalty was just beginning to have a bright side

for him. This bright side went on brightening more and more every day:

in a very little while it was become almost all sunshine and

delightfulness. He lost his fears; his misgivings faded out and died;

his embarrassments departed, and gave place to an easy and confident

bearing. He worked the whipping-boy mine to ever-increasing profit.

He ordered my Lady Elizabeth and my Lady Jane Grey into his presence when

he wanted to play or talk, and dismissed them when he was done with them,

with the air of one familiarly accustomed to such performances. It no

longer confused him to have these lofty personages kiss his hand at

parting.

He came to enjoy being conducted to bed in state at night, and dressed

with intricate and solemn ceremony in the morning. It came to be a proud

pleasure to march to dinner attended by a glittering procession of

officers of state and gentlemen-at-arms; insomuch, indeed, that he

doubled his guard of gentlemen-at-arms, and made them a hundred. He

liked to hear the bugles sounding down the long corridors, and the

distant voices responding, "Way for the King!"

He even learned to enjoy sitting in throned state in council, and seeming

to be something more than the Lord Protector's mouthpiece. He liked to

receive great ambassadors and their gorgeous trains, and listen to the

affectionate messages they brought from illustrious monarchs who called

him brother. O happy Tom Canty, late of Offal Court!

He enjoyed his splendid clothes, and ordered more: he found his four

hundred servants too few for his proper grandeur, and trebled them. The

adulation of salaaming courtiers came to be sweet music to his ears. He

remained kind and gentle, and a sturdy and determined champion of all

that were oppressed, and he made tireless war upon unjust laws: yet upon

occasion, being offended, he could turn upon an earl, or even a duke, and

give him a look that would make him tremble. Once, when his royal

'sister,' the grimly holy Lady Mary, set herself to reason with him

against the wisdom of his course in pardoning so many people who would

otherwise be jailed, or hanged, or burned, and reminded him that their

august late father's prisons had sometimes contained as high as sixty

thousand convicts at one time, and that during his admirable reign he had

delivered seventy-two thousand thieves and robbers over to death by the

executioner, {9} the boy was filled with generous indignation, and

commanded her to go to her closet, and beseech God to take away the stone

that was in her breast, and give her a human heart.

Did Tom Canty never feel troubled about the poor little rightful prince

who had treated him so kindly, and flown out with such hot zeal to avenge

him upon the insolent sentinel at the palace-gate? Yes; his first royal

days and nights were pretty well sprinkled with painful thoughts about

the lost prince, and with sincere longings for his return, and happy

restoration to his native rights and splendours. But as time wore on,

and the prince did not come, Tom's mind became more and more occupied

with his new and enchanting experiences, and by little and little the

vanished monarch faded almost out of his thoughts; and finally, when he

did intrude upon them at intervals, he was become an unwelcome spectre,

for he made Tom feel guilty and ashamed.

Tom's poor mother and sisters travelled the same road out of his mind.

At first he pined for them, sorrowed for them, longed to see them, but

later, the thought of their coming some day in their rags and dirt, and

betraying him with their kisses, and pulling him down from his lofty

place, and dragging him back to penury and degradation and the slums,

made him shudder. At last they ceased to trouble his thoughts almost

wholly. And he was content, even glad: for, whenever their mournful and

accusing faces did rise before him now, they made him feel more

despicable than the worms that crawl.

At midnight of the 19th of February, Tom Canty was sinking to sleep in

his rich bed in the palace, guarded by his loyal vassals, and surrounded

by the pomps of royalty, a happy boy; for tomorrow was the day appointed

for his solemn crowning as King of England. At that same hour, Edward,

the true king, hungry and thirsty, soiled and draggled, worn with travel,

and clothed in rags and shreds--his share of the results of the riot--was

wedged in among a crowd of people who were watching with deep interest

certain hurrying gangs of workmen who streamed in and out of Westminster

Abbey, busy as ants: they were making the last preparation for the royal

coronation.

Chapter XXXI. The Recognition procession.

When Tom Canty awoke the next morning, the air was heavy with a

thunderous murmur: all the distances were charged with it. It was music

to him; for it meant that the English world was out in its strength to

give loyal welcome to the great day.

Presently Tom found himself once more the chief figure in a wonderful

floating pageant on the Thames; for by ancient custom the 'recognition

procession' through London must start from the Tower, and he was bound

thither.

When he arrived there, the sides of the venerable fortress seemed

suddenly rent in a thousand places, and from every rent leaped a red

tongue of flame and a white gush of smoke; a deafening explosion

followed, which drowned the shoutings of the multitude, and made the

ground tremble; the flame-jets, the smoke, and the explosions, were

repeated over and over again with marvellous celerity, so that in a few

moments the old Tower disappeared in the vast fog of its own smoke, all

but the very top of the tall pile called the White Tower; this, with its

banners, stood out above the dense bank of vapour as a mountain-peak

projects above a cloud-rack.

Tom Canty, splendidly arrayed, mounted a prancing war-steed, whose rich

trappings almost reached to the ground; his 'uncle,' the Lord Protector

Somerset, similarly mounted, took place in his rear; the King's Guard

formed in single ranks on either side, clad in burnished armour; after

the Protector followed a seemingly interminable procession of resplendent

nobles attended by their vassals; after these came the lord mayor and the

aldermanic body, in crimson velvet robes, and with their gold chains

across their breasts; and after these the officers and members of all the

guilds of London, in rich raiment, and bearing the showy banners of the

several corporations. Also in the procession, as a special guard of

honour through the city, was the Ancient and Honourable Artillery

Company--an organisation already three hundred years old at that time,

and the only military body in England possessing the privilege (which it

still possesses in our day) of holding itself independent of the commands

of Parliament. It was a brilliant spectacle, and was hailed with

acclamations all along the line, as it took its stately way through the

packed multitudes of citizens. The chronicler says, 'The King, as he

entered the city, was received by the people with prayers, welcomings,

cries, and tender words, and all signs which argue an earnest love of

subjects toward their sovereign; and the King, by holding up his glad

countenance to such as stood afar off, and most tender language to those

that stood nigh his Grace, showed himself no less thankful to receive the

people's goodwill than they to offer it. To all that wished him well, he

gave thanks. To such as bade "God save his Grace," he said in return,

"God save you all!" and added that "he thanked them with all his heart."

Wonderfully transported were the people with the loving answers and

gestures of their King.'

In Fenchurch Street a 'fair child, in costly apparel,' stood on a stage

to welcome his Majesty to the city. The last verse of his greeting was

in these words--

'Welcome, O King! as much as hearts can think; Welcome, again, as much as

tongue can tell,--Welcome to joyous tongues, and hearts that will not

shrink: God thee preserve, we pray, and wish thee ever well.'

The people burst forth in a glad shout, repeating with one voice what the

child had said. Tom Canty gazed abroad over the surging sea of eager

faces, and his heart swelled with exultation; and he felt that the one

thing worth living for in this world was to be a king, and a nation's

idol. Presently he caught sight, at a distance, of a couple of his

ragged Offal Court comrades--one of them the lord high admiral in his

late mimic court, the other the first lord of the bedchamber in the same

pretentious fiction; and his pride swelled higher than ever. Oh, if they

could only recognise him now! What unspeakable glory it would be, if

they could recognise him, and realise that the derided mock king of the

slums and back alleys was become a real King, with illustrious dukes and

princes for his humble menials, and the English world at his feet! But

he had to deny himself, and choke down his desire, for such a recognition

might cost more than it would come to: so he turned away his head, and

left the two soiled lads to go on with their shoutings and glad

adulations, unsuspicious of whom it was they were lavishing them upon.

Every now and then rose the cry, "A largess! a largess!" and Tom

responded by scattering a handful of bright new coins abroad for the

multitude to scramble for.

The chronicler says, 'At the upper end of Gracechurch Street, before the

sign of the Eagle, the city had erected a gorgeous arch, beneath which

was a stage, which stretched from one side of the street to the other.

This was an historical pageant, representing the King's immediate

progenitors. There sat Elizabeth of York in the midst of an immense

white rose, whose petals formed elaborate furbelows around her; by her

side was Henry VII., issuing out of a vast red rose, disposed in the same

manner: the hands of the royal pair were locked together, and the

wedding-ring ostentatiously displayed. From the red and white roses

proceeded a stem, which reached up to a second stage, occupied by Henry

VIII., issuing from a red and white rose, with the effigy of the new

King's mother, Jane Seymour, represented by his side. One branch sprang

from this pair, which mounted to a third stage, where sat the effigy of

Edward VI. himself, enthroned in royal majesty; and the whole pageant was

framed with wreaths of roses, red and white.'

This quaint and gaudy spectacle so wrought upon the rejoicing people,

that their acclamations utterly smothered the small voice of the child

whose business it was to explain the thing in eulogistic rhymes. But Tom

Canty was not sorry; for this loyal uproar was sweeter music to him than

any poetry, no matter what its quality might be. Whithersoever Tom

turned his happy young face, the people recognised the exactness of his

effigy's likeness to himself, the flesh and blood counterpart; and new

whirlwinds of applause burst forth.

The great pageant moved on, and still on, under one triumphal arch after

another, and past a bewildering succession of spectacular and symbolical

tableaux, each of which typified and exalted some virtue, or talent, or

merit, of the little King's. 'Throughout the whole of Cheapside, from

every penthouse and window, hung banners and streamers; and the richest

carpets, stuffs, and cloth-of-gold tapestried the streets--specimens of

the great wealth of the stores within; and the splendour of this

thoroughfare was equalled in the other streets, and in some even

surpassed.'

"And all these wonders and these marvels are to welcome me--me!" murmured

Tom Canty.

The mock King's cheeks were flushed with excitement, his eyes were

flashing, his senses swam in a delirium of pleasure. At this point, just

as he was raising his hand to fling another rich largess, he caught sight

of a pale, astounded face, which was strained forward out of the second

rank of the crowd, its intense eyes riveted upon him. A sickening

consternation struck through him; he recognised his mother! and up flew

his hand, palm outward, before his eyes--that old involuntary gesture,

born of a forgotten episode, and perpetuated by habit. In an instant

more she had torn her way out of the press, and past the guards, and was

at his side. She embraced his leg, she covered it with kisses, she

cried, "O my child, my darling!" lifting toward him a face that was

transfigured with joy and love. The same instant an officer of the

King's Guard snatched her away with a curse, and sent her reeling back

whence she came with a vigorous impulse from his strong arm. The words

"I do not know you, woman!" were falling from Tom Canty's lips when this

piteous thing occurred; but it smote him to the heart to see her treated

so; and as she turned for a last glimpse of him, whilst the crowd was

swallowing her from his sight, she seemed so wounded, so broken-hearted,

that a shame fell upon him which consumed his pride to ashes, and

withered his stolen royalty. His grandeurs were stricken valueless:

they seemed to fall away from him like rotten rags.

The procession moved on, and still on, through ever augmenting splendours

and ever augmenting tempests of welcome; but to Tom Canty they were as if

they had not been. He neither saw nor heard. Royalty had lost its grace

and sweetness; its pomps were become a reproach. Remorse was eating his

heart out. He said, "Would God I were free of my captivity!"

He had unconsciously dropped back into the phraseology of the first days

of his compulsory greatness.

The shining pageant still went winding like a radiant and interminable

serpent down the crooked lanes of the quaint old city, and through the

huzzaing hosts; but still the King rode with bowed head and vacant eyes,

seeing only his mother's face and that wounded look in it.

"Largess, largess!" The cry fell upon an unheeding ear.

"Long live Edward of England!" It seemed as if the earth shook with the

explosion; but there was no response from the King. He heard it only as

one hears the thunder of the surf when it is blown to the ear out of a

great distance, for it was smothered under another sound which was still

nearer, in his own breast, in his accusing conscience--a voice which kept

repeating those shameful words, "I do not know you, woman!"

The words smote upon the King's soul as the strokes of a funeral bell

smite upon the soul of a surviving friend when they remind him of secret

treacheries suffered at his hands by him that is gone.

New glories were unfolded at every turning; new wonders, new marvels,

sprang into view; the pent clamours of waiting batteries were released;

new raptures poured from the throats of the waiting multitudes: but the

King gave no sign, and the accusing voice that went moaning through his

comfortless breast was all the sound he heard.

By-and-by the gladness in the faces of the populace changed a little, and

became touched with a something like solicitude or anxiety: an abatement

in the volume of the applause was observable too. The Lord Protector was

quick to notice these things: he was as quick to detect the cause. He

spurred to the King's side, bent low in his saddle, uncovered, and said--

"My liege, it is an ill time for dreaming. The people observe thy

downcast head, thy clouded mien, and they take it for an omen. Be

advised: unveil the sun of royalty, and let it shine upon these boding

vapours, and disperse them. Lift up thy face, and smile upon the

people."

So saying, the Duke scattered a handful of coins to right and left, then

retired to his place. The mock King did mechanically as he had been

bidden. His smile had no heart in it, but few eyes were near enough or

sharp enough to detect that. The noddings of his plumed head as he

saluted his subjects were full of grace and graciousness; the largess

which he delivered from his hand was royally liberal: so the people's

anxiety vanished, and the acclamations burst forth again in as mighty a

volume as before.

Still once more, a little before the progress was ended, the Duke was

obliged to ride forward, and make remonstrance. He whispered--

"O dread sovereign! shake off these fatal humours; the eyes of the world

are upon thee." Then he added with sharp annoyance, "Perdition catch

that crazy pauper! 'twas she that hath disturbed your Highness."

The gorgeous figure turned a lustreless eye upon the Duke, and said in a

dead voice--

"She was my mother!"

"My God!" groaned the Protector as he reined his horse backward to his

post, "the omen was pregnant with prophecy. He is gone mad again!"

Chapter XXXII. Coronation Day.

Let us go backward a few hours, and place ourselves in Westminster Abbey,

at four o'clock in the morning of this memorable Coronation Day. We are

not without company; for although it is still night, we find the

torch-lighted galleries already filling up with people who are well

content to sit still and wait seven or eight hours till the time shall

come for them to see what they may not hope to see twice in their lives

--the coronation of a King. Yes, London and Westminster have been astir

ever since the warning guns boomed at three o'clock, and already crowds

of untitled rich folk who have bought the privilege of trying to find

sitting-room in the galleries are flocking in at the entrances reserved

for their sort.

The hours drag along tediously enough. All stir has ceased for some

time, for every gallery has long ago been packed. We may sit, now, and

look and think at our leisure. We have glimpses, here and there and

yonder, through the dim cathedral twilight, of portions of many galleries

and balconies, wedged full with other people, the other portions of these

galleries and balconies being cut off from sight by intervening pillars

and architectural projections. We have in view the whole of the great

north transept--empty, and waiting for England's privileged ones. We see

also the ample area or platform, carpeted with rich stuffs, whereon the

throne stands. The throne occupies the centre of the platform, and is

raised above it upon an elevation of four steps. Within the seat of the

throne is enclosed a rough flat rock--the stone of Scone--which many

generations of Scottish kings sat on to be crowned, and so it in time

became holy enough to answer a like purpose for English monarchs. Both

the throne and its footstool are covered with cloth of gold.

Stillness reigns, the torches blink dully, the time drags heavily. But at

last the lagging daylight asserts itself, the torches are extinguished,

and a mellow radiance suffuses the great spaces. All features of the

noble building are distinct now, but soft and dreamy, for the sun is

lightly veiled with clouds.

At seven o'clock the first break in the drowsy monotony occurs; for on

the stroke of this hour the first peeress enters the transept, clothed

like Solomon for splendour, and is conducted to her appointed place by an

official clad in satins and velvets, whilst a duplicate of him gathers up

the lady's long train, follows after, and, when the lady is seated,

arranges the train across her lap for her. He then places her footstool

according to her desire, after which he puts her coronet where it will be

convenient to her hand when the time for the simultaneous coroneting of

the nobles shall arrive.

By this time the peeresses are flowing in in a glittering stream, and the

satin-clad officials are flitting and glinting everywhere, seating them

and making them comfortable. The scene is animated enough now. There is

stir and life, and shifting colour everywhere. After a time, quiet

reigns again; for the peeresses are all come and are all in their places,

a solid acre or such a matter, of human flowers, resplendent in

variegated colours, and frosted like a Milky Way with diamonds. There

are all ages here: brown, wrinkled, white-haired dowagers who are able to

go back, and still back, down the stream of time, and recall the crowning

of Richard III. and the troublous days of that old forgotten age; and

there are handsome middle-aged dames; and lovely and gracious young

matrons; and gentle and beautiful young girls, with beaming eyes and

fresh complexions, who may possibly put on their jewelled coronets

awkwardly when the great time comes; for the matter will be new to them,

and their excitement will be a sore hindrance. Still, this may not

happen, for the hair of all these ladies has been arranged with a special

view to the swift and successful lodging of the crown in its place when

the signal comes.

We have seen that this massed array of peeresses is sown thick with

diamonds, and we also see that it is a marvellous spectacle--but now we

are about to be astonished in earnest. About nine, the clouds suddenly

break away and a shaft of sunshine cleaves the mellow atmosphere, and

drifts slowly along the ranks of ladies; and every rank it touches flames

into a dazzling splendour of many-coloured fires, and we tingle to our

finger-tips with the electric thrill that is shot through us by the

surprise and the beauty of the spectacle! Presently a special envoy from

some distant corner of the Orient, marching with the general body of

foreign ambassadors, crosses this bar of sunshine, and we catch our

breath, the glory that streams and flashes and palpitates about him is so

overpowering; for he is crusted from head to heel with gems, and his

slightest movement showers a dancing radiance all around him.

Let us change the tense for convenience. The time drifted along--one

hour--two hours--two hours and a half; then the deep booming of artillery

told that the King and his grand procession had arrived at last; so the

waiting multitude rejoiced. All knew that a further delay must follow,

for the King must be prepared and robed for the solemn ceremony; but this

delay would be pleasantly occupied by the assembling of the peers of the

realm in their stately robes. These were conducted ceremoniously to

their seats, and their coronets placed conveniently at hand; and

meanwhile the multitude in the galleries were alive with interest, for

most of them were beholding for the first time, dukes, earls, and barons,

whose names had been historical for five hundred years. When all were

finally seated, the spectacle from the galleries and all coigns of

vantage was complete; a gorgeous one to look upon and to remember.

Now the robed and mitred great heads of the church, and their attendants,

filed in upon the platform and took their appointed places; these were

followed by the Lord Protector and other great officials, and these again

by a steel-clad detachment of the Guard.

There was a waiting pause; then, at a signal, a triumphant peal of music

burst forth, and Tom Canty, clothed in a long robe of cloth of gold,

appeared at a door, and stepped upon the platform. The entire multitude

rose, and the ceremony of the Recognition ensued.

Then a noble anthem swept the Abbey with its rich waves of sound; and

thus heralded and welcomed, Tom Canty was conducted to the throne. The

ancient ceremonies went on, with impressive solemnity, whilst the

audience gazed; and as they drew nearer and nearer to completion, Tom

Canty grew pale, and still paler, and a deep and steadily deepening woe

and despondency settled down upon his spirits and upon his remorseful

heart.

At last the final act was at hand. The Archbishop of Canterbury lifted

up the crown of England from its cushion and held it out over the

trembling mock-King's head. In the same instant a rainbow-radiance

flashed along the spacious transept; for with one impulse every

individual in the great concourse of nobles lifted a coronet and poised

it over his or her head--and paused in that attitude.

A deep hush pervaded the Abbey. At this impressive moment, a startling

apparition intruded upon the scene--an apparition observed by none in the

absorbed multitude, until it suddenly appeared, moving up the great

central aisle. It was a boy, bareheaded, ill shod, and clothed in coarse

plebeian garments that were falling to rags. He raised his hand with a

solemnity which ill comported with his soiled and sorry aspect, and

delivered this note of warning--

"I forbid you to set the crown of England upon that forfeited head. I am

the King!"

In an instant several indignant hands were laid upon the boy; but in the

same instant Tom Canty, in his regal vestments, made a swift step

forward, and cried out in a ringing voice--

"Loose him and forbear! He IS the King!"

A sort of panic of astonishment swept the assemblage, and they partly

rose in their places and stared in a bewildered way at one another and at

the chief figures in this scene, like persons who wondered whether they

were awake and in their senses, or asleep and dreaming. The Lord

Protector was as amazed as the rest, but quickly recovered himself, and

exclaimed in a voice of authority--

"Mind not his Majesty, his malady is upon him again--seize the vagabond!"

He would have been obeyed, but the mock-King stamped his foot and cried

out--

"On your peril! Touch him not, he is the King!"

The hands were withheld; a paralysis fell upon the house; no one moved,

no one spoke; indeed, no one knew how to act or what to say, in so

strange and surprising an emergency. While all minds were struggling to

right themselves, the boy still moved steadily forward, with high port

and confident mien; he had never halted from the beginning; and while the

tangled minds still floundered helplessly, he stepped upon the platform,

and the mock-King ran with a glad face to meet him; and fell on his knees

before him and said--

"Oh, my lord the King, let poor Tom Canty be first to swear fealty to

thee, and say, 'Put on thy crown and enter into thine own again!'"

The Lord Protector's eye fell sternly upon the new-comer's face; but

straightway the sternness vanished away, and gave place to an expression

of wondering surprise. This thing happened also to the other great

officers. They glanced at each other, and retreated a step by a common

and unconscious impulse. The thought in each mind was the same: "What a

strange resemblance!"

The Lord Protector reflected a moment or two in perplexity, then he said,

with grave respectfulness--

"By your favour, sir, I desire to ask certain questions which--"

"I will answer them, my lord."

The Duke asked him many questions about the Court, the late King, the

prince, the princesses--the boy answered them correctly and without

hesitating. He described the rooms of state in the palace, the late

King's apartments, and those of the Prince of Wales.

It was strange; it was wonderful; yes, it was unaccountable--so all said

that heard it. The tide was beginning to turn, and Tom Canty's hopes to

run high, when the Lord Protector shook his head and said--

"It is true it is most wonderful--but it is no more than our lord the

King likewise can do." This remark, and this reference to himself as

still the King, saddened Tom Canty, and he felt his hopes crumbling from

under him. "These are not PROOFS," added the Protector.

The tide was turning very fast now, very fast indeed--but in the wrong

direction; it was leaving poor Tom Canty stranded on the throne, and

sweeping the other out to sea. The Lord Protector communed with himself

--shook his head--the thought forced itself upon him, "It is perilous to

the State and to us all, to entertain so fateful a riddle as this; it

could divide the nation and undermine the throne." He turned and said--

"Sir Thomas, arrest this--No, hold!" His face lighted, and he confronted

the ragged candidate with this question--

"Where lieth the Great Seal? Answer me this truly, and the riddle is

unriddled; for only he that was Prince of Wales CAN so answer! On so

trivial a thing hang a throne and a dynasty!"

It was a lucky thought, a happy thought. That it was so considered by

the great officials was manifested by the silent applause that shot from

eye to eye around their circle in the form of bright approving glances.

Yes, none but the true prince could dissolve the stubborn mystery of the

vanished Great Seal--this forlorn little impostor had been taught his

lesson well, but here his teachings must fail, for his teacher himself

could not answer THAT question--ah, very good, very good indeed; now we

shall be rid of this troublesome and perilous business in short order!

And so they nodded invisibly and smiled inwardly with satisfaction, and

looked to see this foolish lad stricken with a palsy of guilty confusion.

How surprised they were, then, to see nothing of the sort happen--how

they marvelled to hear him answer up promptly, in a confident and

untroubled voice, and say--

"There is nought in this riddle that is difficult." Then, without so

much as a by-your-leave to anybody, he turned and gave this command, with

the easy manner of one accustomed to doing such things: "My Lord St.

John, go you to my private cabinet in the palace--for none knoweth the

place better than you--and, close down to the floor, in the left corner

remotest from the door that opens from the ante-chamber, you shall find

in the wall a brazen nail-head; press upon it and a little jewel-closet

will fly open which not even you do know of--no, nor any soul else in

all the world but me and the trusty artisan that did contrive it for me.

The first thing that falleth under your eye will be the Great Seal--fetch

it hither."

All the company wondered at this speech, and wondered still more to see

the little mendicant pick out this peer without hesitancy or apparent

fear of mistake, and call him by name with such a placidly convincing air

of having known him all his life. The peer was almost surprised into

obeying. He even made a movement as if to go, but quickly recovered his

tranquil attitude and confessed his blunder with a blush. Tom Canty

turned upon him and said, sharply--

"Why dost thou hesitate? Hast not heard the King's command? Go!"

The Lord St. John made a deep obeisance--and it was observed that it was

a significantly cautious and non-committal one, it not being delivered at

either of the kings, but at the neutral ground about half-way between the

two--and took his leave.

Now began a movement of the gorgeous particles of that official group

which was slow, scarcely perceptible, and yet steady and persistent--a

movement such as is observed in a kaleidoscope that is turned slowly,

whereby the components of one splendid cluster fall away and join

themselves to another--a movement which, little by little, in the present

case, dissolved the glittering crowd that stood about Tom Canty and

clustered it together again in the neighbourhood of the new-comer. Tom

Canty stood almost alone. Now ensued a brief season of deep suspense and

waiting--during which even the few faint hearts still remaining near Tom

Canty gradually scraped together courage enough to glide, one by one,

over to the majority. So at last Tom Canty, in his royal robes and

jewels, stood wholly alone and isolated from the world, a conspicuous

figure, occupying an eloquent vacancy.

Now the Lord St. John was seen returning. As he advanced up the

mid-aisle the interest was so intense that the low murmur of conversation

in the great assemblage died out and was succeeded by a profound hush, a

breathless stillness, through which his footfalls pulsed with a dull and

distant sound. Every eye was fastened upon him as he moved along. He

reached the platform, paused a moment, then moved toward Tom Canty with a

deep obeisance, and said--

"Sire, the Seal is not there!"

A mob does not melt away from the presence of a plague-patient with more

haste than the band of pallid and terrified courtiers melted away from

the presence of the shabby little claimant of the Crown. In a moment he

stood all alone, without friend or supporter, a target upon which was

concentrated a bitter fire of scornful and angry looks. The Lord

Protector called out fiercely--

"Cast the beggar into the street, and scourge him through the town--the

paltry knave is worth no more consideration!"

Officers of the guard sprang forward to obey, but Tom Canty waved them

off and said--

"Back! Whoso touches him perils his life!"

The Lord Protector was perplexed in the last degree. He said to the Lord

St. John--

"Searched you well?--but it boots not to ask that. It doth seem passing

strange. Little things, trifles, slip out of one's ken, and one does not

think it matter for surprise; but how so bulky a thing as the Seal of

England can vanish away and no man be able to get track of it again--a

massy golden disk--"

Tom Canty, with beaming eyes, sprang forward and shouted--

"Hold, that is enough! Was it round?--and thick?--and had it letters and

devices graved upon it?--yes? Oh, NOW I know what this Great Seal is

that there's been such worry and pother about. An' ye had described it to

me, ye could have had it three weeks ago. Right well I know where it

lies; but it was not I that put it there--first."

"Who, then, my liege?" asked the Lord Protector.

"He that stands there--the rightful King of England. And he shall tell

you himself where it lies--then you will believe he knew it of his own

knowledge. Bethink thee, my King--spur thy memory--it was the last, the

very LAST thing thou didst that day before thou didst rush forth from the

palace, clothed in my rags, to punish the soldier that insulted me."

A silence ensued, undisturbed by a movement or a whisper, and all eyes

were fixed upon the new-comer, who stood, with bent head and corrugated

brow, groping in his memory among a thronging multitude of valueless

recollections for one single little elusive fact, which, found, would

seat him upon a throne--unfound, would leave him as he was, for good and

all--a pauper and an outcast. Moment after moment passed--the moments

built themselves into minutes--still the boy struggled silently on, and

gave no sign. But at last he heaved a sigh, shook his head slowly, and

said, with a trembling lip and in a despondent voice--

"I call the scene back--all of it--but the Seal hath no place in it." He

paused, then looked up, and said with gentle dignity, "My lords and

gentlemen, if ye will rob your rightful sovereign of his own for lack of

this evidence which he is not able to furnish, I may not stay ye, being

powerless. But--"

"Oh, folly, oh, madness, my King!" cried Tom Canty, in a panic, "wait!

--think! Do not give up!--the cause is not lost! Nor SHALL be, neither!

List to what I say--follow every word--I am going to bring that morning

back again, every hap just as it happened. We talked--I told you of my

sisters, Nan and Bet--ah, yes, you remember that; and about mine old

grandam--and the rough games of the lads of Offal Court--yes, you

remember these things also; very well, follow me still, you shall recall

everything. You gave me food and drink, and did with princely courtesy

send away the servants, so that my low breeding might not shame me before

them--ah, yes, this also you remember."

As Tom checked off his details, and the other boy nodded his head in

recognition of them, the great audience and the officials stared in

puzzled wonderment; the tale sounded like true history, yet how could

this impossible conjunction between a prince and a beggar-boy have come

about? Never was a company of people so perplexed, so interested, and so

stupefied, before.

"For a jest, my prince, we did exchange garments. Then we stood before a

mirror; and so alike were we that both said it seemed as if there had

been no change made--yes, you remember that. Then you noticed that the

soldier had hurt my hand--look! here it is, I cannot yet even write with

it, the fingers are so stiff. At this your Highness sprang up, vowing

vengeance upon that soldier, and ran towards the door--you passed a

table--that thing you call the Seal lay on that table--you snatched it up

and looked eagerly about, as if for a place to hide it--your eye caught

sight of--"

"There, 'tis sufficient!--and the good God be thanked!" exclaimed the

ragged claimant, in a mighty excitement. "Go, my good St. John--in an

arm-piece of the Milanese armour that hangs on the wall, thou'lt find the

Seal!"

"Right, my King! right!" cried Tom Canty; "NOW the sceptre of England is

thine own; and it were better for him that would dispute it that he had

been born dumb! Go, my Lord St. John, give thy feet wings!"

The whole assemblage was on its feet now, and well-nigh out of its mind

with uneasiness, apprehension, and consuming excitement. On the floor

and on the platform a deafening buzz of frantic conversation burst forth,

and for some time nobody knew anything or heard anything or was

interested in anything but what his neighbour was shouting into his ear,

or he was shouting into his neighbour's ear. Time--nobody knew how much

of it--swept by unheeded and unnoted. At last a sudden hush fell upon

the house, and in the same moment St. John appeared upon the platform,

and held the Great Seal aloft in his hand. Then such a shout went up--

"Long live the true King!"

For five minutes the air quaked with shouts and the crash of musical

instruments, and was white with a storm of waving handkerchiefs; and

through it all a ragged lad, the most conspicuous figure in England,

stood, flushed and happy and proud, in the centre of the spacious

platform, with the great vassals of the kingdom kneeling around him.

Then all rose, and Tom Canty cried out--

"Now, O my King, take these regal garments back, and give poor Tom, thy

servant, his shreds and remnants again."

The Lord Protector spoke up--

"Let the small varlet be stripped and flung into the Tower."

But the new King, the true King, said--

"I will not have it so. But for him I had not got my crown again--none

shall lay a hand upon him to harm him. And as for thee, my good uncle,

my Lord Protector, this conduct of thine is not grateful toward this poor

lad, for I hear he hath made thee a duke"--the Protector blushed--"yet he

was not a king; wherefore what is thy fine title worth now? To-morrow

you shall sue to me, THROUGH HIM, for its confirmation, else no duke, but

a simple earl, shalt thou remain."

Under this rebuke, his Grace the Duke of Somerset retired a little from

the front for the moment. The King turned to Tom, and said kindly--"My

poor boy, how was it that you could remember where I hid the Seal when I

could not remember it myself?"

"Ah, my King, that was easy, since I used it divers days."

"Used it--yet could not explain where it was?"

"I did not know it was THAT they wanted. They did not describe it, your

Majesty."

"Then how used you it?"

The red blood began to steal up into Tom's cheeks, and he dropped his

eyes and was silent.

"Speak up, good lad, and fear nothing," said the King. "How used you the

Great Seal of England?"

Tom stammered a moment, in a pathetic confusion, then got it out--

"To crack nuts with!"

Poor child, the avalanche of laughter that greeted this nearly swept him

off his feet. But if a doubt remained in any mind that Tom Canty was not

the King of England and familiar with the august appurtenances of

royalty, this reply disposed of it utterly.

Meantime the sumptuous robe of state had been removed from Tom's

shoulders to the King's, whose rags were effectually hidden from sight

under it. Then the coronation ceremonies were resumed; the true King was

anointed and the crown set upon his head, whilst cannon thundered the

news to the city, and all London seemed to rock with applause.

Chapter XXXIII. Edward as King.

Miles Hendon was picturesque enough before he got into the riot on London

Bridge--he was more so when he got out of it. He had but little money

when he got in, none at all when he got out. The pickpockets had

stripped him of his last farthing.

But no matter, so he found his boy. Being a soldier, he did not go at

his task in a random way, but set to work, first of all, to arrange his

campaign.

What would the boy naturally do? Where would he naturally go? Well

--argued Miles--he would naturally go to his former haunts, for that is the

instinct of unsound minds, when homeless and forsaken, as well as of

sound ones. Whereabouts were his former haunts? His rags, taken

together with the low villain who seemed to know him and who even claimed

to be his father, indicated that his home was in one or another of the

poorest and meanest districts of London. Would the search for him be

difficult, or long? No, it was likely to be easy and brief. He would

not hunt for the boy, he would hunt for a crowd; in the centre of a big

crowd or a little one, sooner or later, he should find his poor little

friend, sure; and the mangy mob would be entertaining itself with

pestering and aggravating the boy, who would be proclaiming himself King,

as usual. Then Miles Hendon would cripple some of those people, and

carry off his little ward, and comfort and cheer him with loving words,

and the two would never be separated any more.

So Miles started on his quest. Hour after hour he tramped through back

alleys and squalid streets, seeking groups and crowds, and finding no end

of them, but never any sign of the boy. This greatly surprised him, but

did not discourage him. To his notion, there was nothing the matter with

his plan of campaign; the only miscalculation about it was that the

campaign was becoming a lengthy one, whereas he had expected it to be

short.

When daylight arrived, at last, he had made many a mile, and canvassed

many a crowd, but the only result was that he was tolerably tired, rather

hungry and very sleepy. He wanted some breakfast, but there was no way

to get it. To beg for it did not occur to him; as to pawning his sword,

he would as soon have thought of parting with his honour; he could spare

some of his clothes--yes, but one could as easily find a customer for a

disease as for such clothes.

At noon he was still tramping--among the rabble which followed after the

royal procession, now; for he argued that this regal display would

attract his little lunatic powerfully. He followed the pageant through

all its devious windings about London, and all the way to Westminster and

the Abbey. He drifted here and there amongst the multitudes that were

massed in the vicinity for a weary long time, baffled and perplexed, and

finally wandered off, thinking, and trying to contrive some way to better

his plan of campaign. By-and-by, when he came to himself out of his

musings, he discovered that the town was far behind him and that the day

was growing old. He was near the river, and in the country; it was a

region of fine rural seats--not the sort of district to welcome clothes

like his.

It was not at all cold; so he stretched himself on the ground in the lee

of a hedge to rest and think. Drowsiness presently began to settle upon

his senses; the faint and far-off boom of cannon was wafted to his ear,

and he said to himself, "The new King is crowned," and straightway fell

asleep. He had not slept or rested, before, for more than thirty hours.

He did not wake again until near the middle of the next morning.

He got up, lame, stiff, and half famished, washed himself in the river,

stayed his stomach with a pint or two of water, and trudged off toward

Westminster, grumbling at himself for having wasted so much time. Hunger

helped him to a new plan, now; he would try to get speech with old Sir

Humphrey Marlow and borrow a few marks, and--but that was enough of a

plan for the present; it would be time enough to enlarge it when this

first stage should be accomplished.

Toward eleven o'clock he approached the palace; and although a host of

showy people were about him, moving in the same direction, he was not

inconspicuous--his costume took care of that. He watched these people's

faces narrowly, hoping to find a charitable one whose possessor might be

willing to carry his name to the old lieutenant--as to trying to get into

the palace himself, that was simply out of the question.

Presently our whipping-boy passed him, then wheeled about and scanned his

figure well, saying to himself, "An' that is not the very vagabond his

Majesty is in such a worry about, then am I an ass--though belike I was

that before. He answereth the description to a rag--that God should make

two such would be to cheapen miracles by wasteful repetition. I would I

could contrive an excuse to speak with him."

Miles Hendon saved him the trouble; for he turned about, then, as a man

generally will when somebody mesmerises him by gazing hard at him from

behind; and observing a strong interest in the boy's eyes, he stepped

toward him and said--

"You have just come out from the palace; do you belong there?"

"Yes, your worship."

"Know you Sir Humphrey Marlow?"

The boy started, and said to himself, "Lord! mine old departed father!"

Then he answered aloud, "Right well, your worship."

"Good--is he within?"

"Yes," said the boy; and added, to himself, "within his grave."

"Might I crave your favour to carry my name to him, and say I beg to say

a word in his ear?"

"I will despatch the business right willingly, fair sir."

"Then say Miles Hendon, son of Sir Richard, is here without--I shall be

greatly bounden to you, my good lad."

The boy looked disappointed. "The King did not name him so," he said to

himself; "but it mattereth not, this is his twin brother, and can give

his Majesty news of t'other Sir-Odds-and-Ends, I warrant." So he said to

Miles, "Step in there a moment, good sir, and wait till I bring you

word."

Hendon retired to the place indicated--it was a recess sunk in the palace

wall, with a stone bench in it--a shelter for sentinels in bad weather.

He had hardly seated himself when some halberdiers, in charge of an

officer, passed by. The officer saw him, halted his men, and commanded

Hendon to come forth. He obeyed, and was promptly arrested as a

suspicious character prowling within the precincts of the palace. Things

began to look ugly. Poor Miles was going to explain, but the officer

roughly silenced him, and ordered his men to disarm him and search him.

"God of his mercy grant that they find somewhat," said poor Miles; "I

have searched enow, and failed, yet is my need greater than theirs."

Nothing was found but a document. The officer tore it open, and Hendon

smiled when he recognised the 'pot-hooks' made by his lost little friend

that black day at Hendon Hall. The officer's face grew dark as he read

the English paragraph, and Miles blenched to the opposite colour as he

listened.

"Another new claimant of the Crown!" cried the officer. "Verily they

breed like rabbits, to-day. Seize the rascal, men, and see ye keep him

fast whilst I convey this precious paper within and send it to the King."

He hurried away, leaving the prisoner in the grip of the halberdiers.

"Now is my evil luck ended at last," muttered Hendon, "for I shall dangle

at a rope's end for a certainty, by reason of that bit of writing. And

what will become of my poor lad!--ah, only the good God knoweth."

By-and-by he saw the officer coming again, in a great hurry; so he

plucked his courage together, purposing to meet his trouble as became a

man. The officer ordered the men to loose the prisoner and return his

sword to him; then bowed respectfully, and said--

"Please you, sir, to follow me."

Hendon followed, saying to himself, "An' I were not travelling to death

and judgment, and so must needs economise in sin, I would throttle this

knave for his mock courtesy."

The two traversed a populous court, and arrived at the grand entrance of

the palace, where the officer, with another bow, delivered Hendon into

the hands of a gorgeous official, who received him with profound respect

and led him forward through a great hall, lined on both sides with rows

of splendid flunkeys (who made reverential obeisance as the two passed

along, but fell into death-throes of silent laughter at our stately

scarecrow the moment his back was turned), and up a broad staircase,

among flocks of fine folk, and finally conducted him into a vast room,

clove a passage for him through the assembled nobility of England, then

made a bow, reminded him to take his hat off, and left him standing in

the middle of the room, a mark for all eyes, for plenty of indignant

frowns, and for a sufficiency of amused and derisive smiles.

Miles Hendon was entirely bewildered. There sat the young King, under a

canopy of state, five steps away, with his head bent down and aside,

speaking with a sort of human bird of paradise--a duke, maybe. Hendon

observed to himself that it was hard enough to be sentenced to death in

the full vigour of life, without having this peculiarly public

humiliation added. He wished the King would hurry about it--some of the

gaudy people near by were becoming pretty offensive. At this moment the

King raised his head slightly, and Hendon caught a good view of his face.

The sight nearly took his breath away!--He stood gazing at the fair young

face like one transfixed; then presently ejaculated--

"Lo, the Lord of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows on his throne!"

He muttered some broken sentences, still gazing and marvelling; then

turned his eyes around and about, scanning the gorgeous throng and the

splendid saloon, murmuring, "But these are REAL--verily these are REAL

--surely it is not a dream."

He stared at the King again--and thought, "IS it a dream . . . or IS he

the veritable Sovereign of England, and not the friendless poor Tom o'

Bedlam I took him for--who shall solve me this riddle?"

A sudden idea flashed in his eye, and he strode to the wall, gathered up

a chair, brought it back, planted it on the floor, and sat down in it!

A buzz of indignation broke out, a rough hand was laid upon him and a

voice exclaimed--

"Up, thou mannerless clown! would'st sit in the presence of the King?"

The disturbance attracted his Majesty's attention, who stretched forth

his hand and cried out--

"Touch him not, it is his right!"

The throng fell back, stupefied. The King went on--

"Learn ye all, ladies, lords, and gentlemen, that this is my trusty and

well-beloved servant, Miles Hendon, who interposed his good sword and

saved his prince from bodily harm and possible death--and for this he is

a knight, by the King's voice. Also learn, that for a higher service, in

that he saved his sovereign stripes and shame, taking these upon himself,

he is a peer of England, Earl of Kent, and shall have gold and lands meet

for the dignity. More--the privilege which he hath just exercised is his

by royal grant; for we have ordained that the chiefs of his line shall

have and hold the right to sit in the presence of the Majesty of England

henceforth, age after age, so long as the crown shall endure. Molest him

not."

Two persons, who, through delay, had only arrived from the country during

this morning, and had now been in this room only five minutes, stood

listening to these words and looking at the King, then at the scarecrow,

then at the King again, in a sort of torpid bewilderment. These were Sir

Hugh and the Lady Edith. But the new Earl did not see them. He was

still staring at the monarch, in a dazed way, and muttering--

"Oh, body o' me! THIS my pauper! This my lunatic! This is he whom _I_

would show what grandeur was, in my house of seventy rooms and

seven-and-twenty servants! This is he who had never known aught but rags

for raiment, kicks for comfort, and offal for diet! This is he whom _I_

adopted and would make respectable! Would God I had a bag to hide my head

in!"

Then his manners suddenly came back to him, and he dropped upon his

knees, with his hands between the King's, and swore allegiance and did

homage for his lands and titles. Then he rose and stood respectfully

aside, a mark still for all eyes--and much envy, too.

Now the King discovered Sir Hugh, and spoke out with wrathful voice and

kindling eye--

"Strip this robber of his false show and stolen estates, and put him

under lock and key till I have need of him."

The late Sir Hugh was led away.

There was a stir at the other end of the room, now; the assemblage fell

apart, and Tom Canty, quaintly but richly clothed, marched down, between

these living walls, preceded by an usher. He knelt before the King, who

said--

"I have learned the story of these past few weeks, and am well pleased

with thee. Thou hast governed the realm with right royal gentleness and

mercy. Thou hast found thy mother and thy sisters again? Good; they

shall be cared for--and thy father shall hang, if thou desire it and the

law consent. Know, all ye that hear my voice, that from this day, they

that abide in the shelter of Christ's Hospital and share the King's

bounty shall have their minds and hearts fed, as well as their baser

parts; and this boy shall dwell there, and hold the chief place in its

honourable body of governors, during life. And for that he hath been a

king, it is meet that other than common observance shall be his due;

wherefore note this his dress of state, for by it he shall be known, and

none shall copy it; and wheresoever he shall come, it shall remind the

people that he hath been royal, in his time, and none shall deny him his

due of reverence or fail to give him salutation. He hath the throne's

protection, he hath the crown's support, he shall be known and called by

the honourable title of the King's Ward."

The proud and happy Tom Canty rose and kissed the King's hand, and was

conducted from the presence. He did not waste any time, but flew to his

mother, to tell her and Nan and Bet all about it and get them to help him

enjoy the great news. {1}

Conclusion. Justice and retribution.

When the mysteries were all cleared up, it came out, by confession of

Hugh Hendon, that his wife had repudiated Miles by his command, that day

at Hendon Hall--a command assisted and supported by the perfectly

trustworthy promise that if she did not deny that he was Miles Hendon,

and stand firmly to it, he would have her life; whereupon she said, "Take

it!"--she did not value it--and she would not repudiate Miles; then the

husband said he would spare her life but have Miles assassinated! This

was a different matter; so she gave her word and kept it.

Hugh was not prosecuted for his threats or for stealing his brother's

estates and title, because the wife and brother would not testify against

him--and the former would not have been allowed to do it, even if she had

wanted to. Hugh deserted his wife and went over to the continent, where

he presently died; and by-and-by the Earl of Kent married his relict.

There were grand times and rejoicings at Hendon village when the couple

paid their first visit to the Hall.

Tom Canty's father was never heard of again.

The King sought out the farmer who had been branded and sold as a slave,

and reclaimed him from his evil life with the Ruffler's gang, and put him

in the way of a comfortable livelihood.

He also took that old lawyer out of prison and remitted his fine. He

provided good homes for the daughters of the two Baptist women whom he

saw burned at the stake, and roundly punished the official who laid the

undeserved stripes upon Miles Hendon's back.

He saved from the gallows the boy who had captured the stray falcon, and

also the woman who had stolen a remnant of cloth from a weaver; but he

was too late to save the man who had been convicted of killing a deer in

the royal forest.

He showed favour to the justice who had pitied him when he was supposed

to have stolen a pig, and he had the gratification of seeing him grow in

the public esteem and become a great and honoured man.

As long as the King lived he was fond of telling the story of his

adventures, all through, from the hour that the sentinel cuffed him away

from the palace gate till the final midnight when he deftly mixed himself

into a gang of hurrying workmen and so slipped into the Abbey and climbed

up and hid himself in the Confessor's tomb, and then slept so long, next

day, that he came within one of missing the Coronation altogether. He

said that the frequent rehearsing of the precious lesson kept him strong

in his purpose to make its teachings yield benefits to his people; and

so, whilst his life was spared he should continue to tell the story, and

thus keep its sorrowful spectacles fresh in his memory and the springs of

pity replenished in his heart.

Miles Hendon and Tom Canty were favourites of the King, all through his

brief reign, and his sincere mourners when he died. The good Earl of Kent

had too much sense to abuse his peculiar privilege; but he exercised it

twice after the instance we have seen of it before he was called from

this world--once at the accession of Queen Mary, and once at the

accession of Queen Elizabeth. A descendant of his exercised it at the

accession of James I. Before this one's son chose to use the privilege,

near a quarter of a century had elapsed, and the 'privilege of the Kents'

had faded out of most people's memories; so, when the Kent of that day

appeared before Charles I. and his court and sat down in the sovereign's

presence to assert and perpetuate the right of his house, there was a

fine stir indeed! But the matter was soon explained, and the right

confirmed. The last Earl of the line fell in the wars of the

Commonwealth fighting for the King, and the odd privilege ended with him.

Tom Canty lived to be a very old man, a handsome, white-haired old

fellow, of grave and benignant aspect. As long as he lasted he was

honoured; and he was also reverenced, for his striking and peculiar

costume kept the people reminded that 'in his time he had been royal;'

so, wherever he appeared the crowd fell apart, making way for him, and

whispering, one to another, "Doff thy hat, it is the King's Ward!"--and

so they saluted, and got his kindly smile in return--and they valued it,

too, for his was an honourable history.