CHAPTER IX
The River Pageant
-
AT nine in the evening the whole vast river-front of the palace
was blazing with light. The river itself, as far as the eye could
reach cityward, was so thickly covered with watermen's boats and
with pleasure barges, all fringed with colored lanterns, and gently
agitated by the waves, that it resembled a glowing and limitless
garden of flowers stirred to soft motion by summer winds. The grand
terrace of stone steps leading down to the water, spacious enough to
mass the army of a German principality upon, was a picture to see,
with its ranks of royal halberdiers in polished armor, and its
troops of brilliantly costumed servitors flitting up and down, and
to and fro, in the hurry of preparation.
Presently a command was given, and immediately all living
creatures vanished from the steps. Now the air was heavy with the hush
of suspense and expectancy. As far as one's vision could carry, he
might see the myriads of people in the boats rise up, and shade
their eyes from the glare of lanterns and torches, and gaze toward the
palace.
A file of forty or fifty state barges drew up to the steps. They
were richly gilt, and their lofty prows and sterns were elaborately
carved. Some of them were decorated with banners and streamers; some
with cloth-of-gold and arras embroidered with coats of arms; others
with silken flags that had numberless little silver bells fastened
to them, which shook out tiny showers of joyous music whenever the
breezes fluttered them; others of yet higher pretensions, since they
belonged to nobles in the prince's immediate service, had their
sides picturesquely fenced with shields gorgeously emblazoned with
armorial bearings. Each state barge was towed by a tender. Besides the
rowers, these tenders carried each a number of men-at-arms in glossy
helmet and breastplate, and a company of musicians.
The advance-guard of the expected procession now appeared in the
great gateway, a troop of halberdiers. 'They were dressed in striped
hose of black and tawny, velvet caps graced at the sides with silver
roses, and doublets of murrey and blue cloth, embroidered on the front
and back with the three feathers, the prince's blazon, woven in
gold. Their halberd staves were covered with crimson velvet,
fastened with gilt nails, and ornamented with gold tassels. Filing off
on the right and left, they formed two long lines, extending from
the gateway of the palace to the water's edge. A thick, rayed cloth or
carpet was then unfolded, and laid down between them by attendants
in the gold-and-crimson liveries of the prince. This done, a
flourish of trumpets resounded from within. A lively prelude arose
from the musicians on the water; and two ushers with white wands
marched with a slow and stately pace from the portal. They were
followed by an officer bearing the civic mace, after whom came another
carrying the city's sword; then several sergeants of the city guard,
in their full accoutrements, and with badges on their sleeves; then
the Garter king-at-arms, in his tabard; then several knights of the
Bath, each with a white lace on his sleeve; then their esquires;
then the judges, in their robes of scarlet and coifs; then the Lord
High Chancellor of England, in a robe of scarlet, open before, and
purfled with minever; then a deputation of aldermen, in their
scarlet cloaks; and then the heads of the different civic companies,
in their robes of state. Now came twelve French gentlemen, in splendid
habiliments, consisting of pourpoints of white damask barred with
gold, short mantles of crimson velvet lined with violet taffeta, and
carnation-colored hauts-de-chausses, and took their way down the
steps. They were of the suite of the French ambassador, and were
followed by twelve cavaliers of the suite of the Spanish ambassador,
clothed in black velvet, unrelieved by any ornament. Following these
came several great English nobles with their attendants.'
There was a flourish of trumpets within; and the prince's uncle,
the future great Duke of Somerset, emerged from the gateway, arrayed
in a 'doublet of black cloth-of-gold, and a cloak of crimson satin
flowered with gold, and ribanded with nets of silver.' He turned,
doffed his plumed cap, bent his body in a low reverence, and began
to step backward, bowing at each step. A prolonged trumpet-blast
followed, and a proclamation, 'Way for the high and mighty, the Lord
Edward, Prince of Wales!' High aloft on the palace walls a long line
of red tongues of flame leaped forth with a thunder-crash; the
massed world on the river burst into a mighty roar of welcome; and Tom
Canty, the cause and hero of it all, stepped into view, and slightly
bowed his princely head.
He was 'magnificently habited in a doublet of white satin, with
a front-piece of purple cloth-of-tissue, powdered with diamonds, and
edged with ermine. Over this he wore a mantle of white
cloth-of-gold, pounced with the triple-feather crest, lined with
blue satin, set with pearls and precious stones, and fastened with a
clasp of brilliants. About his neck hung the order of the Garter,
and several princely foreign orders'; and wherever light fell upon him
jewels responded with a blinding flash. O, Tom Canty, born in a hovel,
bred in the gutters of London, familiar with rags and dirt and misery,
what a spectacle is this!
CHAPTER_X
CHAPTER X
The Prince in the Toils
-
WE left John Canty dragging the rightful prince into Offal
Court, with a noisy and delighted mob at his heels. There was but
one person in it who offered a pleading word for the captive, and he
was not heeded; he was hardly even heard, so great was the turmoil.
The prince continued to struggle for freedom, and to rage against
the treatment he was suffering, until John Canty lost what little
patience was left in him, and raised his oaken cudgel in a sudden fury
over the prince's head. The single pleader for the lad sprang to
stop the man's arm, and the blow descended upon his own wrist. Canty
roared out:
'Thou'lt meddle, wilt thou? Then have thy reward.'
His cudgel crashed down upon the meddler's head; there was a
groan, a dim form sank to the ground among the feet of the crowd,
and the next moment it lay there in the dark alone. The mob pressed
on, their enjoyment nothing disturbed by this episode.
Presently the prince found himself in John Canty's abode, with the
door closed against the outsiders. By the vague light of a tallow
candle which was thrust into a bottle, he made out the main features
of the loathsome den, and also of the occupants of it. Two frowsy
girls and a middle-aged woman cowered against the wall in one
corner, with the aspect of animals habituated to harsh usage, and
expecting and dreading it now. From another corner stole a withered
hag with streaming gray hair and malignant eyes. John Canty said to
this one:
'Tarry! There's fine mummeries here. Mar them not till thou'st
enjoyed them; then let thy hand be heavy as thou wilt. Stand forth,
lad. Now say thy foolery again, an thou'st not forget it. Name thy
name. Who art thou?'
The insulted blood mounted to the little prince's cheek once more,
and he lifted a steady and indignant gaze to the man's face, and said:
''Tis but ill-breeding in such as thou to command me to speak. I
tell thee now, as I told thee before, I am Edward, Prince of Wales,
and none other.'
The stunning surprise of this reply nailed the hag's feet to the
floor where she stood, and almost took her breath. She stared at the
prince in stupid amazement, which so amused her ruffianly son that
he burst into a roar of laughter. But the effect upon Tom Canty's
mother and sisters was different. Their dread of bodily injury gave
way at once to distress of a different sort. They ran forward with woe
and dismay in their faces, exclaiming:
'Oh, poor Tom, poor lad!'
The mother fell on her knees before the prince, put her hands upon
his shoulders, and gazed yearningly into his face through her rising
tears. Then she said:
'Oh, my poor boy! thy foolish reading hath wrought its woeful work
at last, and ta'en thy wit away. Ah! why didst thou cleave to it
when I so warned thee 'gainst it? Thou'st broke thy mother's heart.'
The prince looked into her face, and said gently:
'Thy son is well and hath not lost his wits, good dame. Comfort
thee; let me to the palace where he is, and straightway will the
king my father restore him to thee.'
'The king thy father! Oh, my child! unsay these words that be
freighted with death for thee, and ruin for all that be near to
thee. Shake off this gruesome dream. Call back thy poor wandering
memory. Look upon me. Am not I thy mother that bore thee, and loveth
thee?'
The prince shook his head, and reluctantly said:
'God knoweth I am loath to grieve thy heart; but truly have I
never looked upon thy face before.'
The woman sank back to a sitting posture on the floor, and,
covering her eyes with her hands, gave way to heartbroken sobs and
wailings.
'Let the show go on!' shouted Canty. 'What, Nan! what, Bet!
Mannerless wenches! will ye stand in the prince's presence? Upon
your knees, ye pauper scum, and do him reverence!'
He followed this with another horse-laugh. The girls began to
plead timidly for their brother; and Nan said:
'An thou wilt but let him to bed, father, rest and sleep will heal
his madness; prithee, do.'
'Do, father,' said Bet; 'he is more worn than is his wont.
To-morrow will he be himself again, and will beg with diligence, and
come not empty home again.'
This remark sobered the father's joviality, and brought his mind
to business. He turned angrily upon the prince, and said:
'The morrow must we pay two pennies to him that owns this hole;
two pennies mark ye- all this money for a half-year's rent, else out
of this we go. Show what thou'st gathered with thy lazy begging.'
The prince said:
'Offend me not with thy sordid matters. I tell thee again I am the
king's son.'
A sounding blow upon the prince's shoulder from Canty's broad palm
sent him staggering into good-wife Canty's arms, who clasped him to
her breast, and sheltered him from a pelting rain of cuffs and slaps
by interposing her own person.
The frightened girls retreated to their corner; but the
grandmother stepped eagerly forward to assist her son. The prince
sprang away from Mrs. Canty, exclaiming:
'Thou shalt not suffer for me, madam. Let these swine do their
will upon me alone.'
This speech infuriated the swine to such a degree that they set
about their work without waste of time. Between them they belabored
the boy right soundly, and then gave the girls and their mother a
beating for showing sympathy for the victim.
'Now,' said Canty, 'to bed, all of ye. The entertainment has tired
me.'
The light was put out, and the family retired. As soon as the
snorings of the head of the house and his mother showed that they were
asleep, the young girls crept to where the prince lay, and covered him
tenderly from the cold with straw and rags; and their mother crept
to him also, and stroked his hair, and cried over him, whispering
broken words of comfort and compassion in his ear the while. She had
saved a morsel for him to eat also; but the boy's pains had swept away
all appetite- at least for black and tasteless crusts. He was
touched by her brave and costly defense of him, and by her
commiseration; and he thanked her in very noble and princely words,
and begged her to go to sleep and try to forget her sorrows. And he
added that the king his father would not let her loyal kindness and
devotion go unrewarded. This return to his 'madness' broke her heart
anew, and she strained him to her breast again and again and then went
back, drowned in tears, to her bed.
As she lay thinking and mourning, the suggestion began to creep
into her mind that there was an undefinable something about this boy
that was lacking in Tom Canty, mad or sane. She could not describe it,
she could not tell just what it was, and yet her sharp mother-instinct
seemed to detect it and perceive it. What if the boy were really not
her son, after all? Oh, absurd! She almost smiled at the idea, spite
of her griefs and troubles. No matter, she found that it was an idea
that would not 'down', but persisted in haunting her. It pursued
her, it harassed her, it clung to her, and refused to be put away or
ignored. At last she perceived that there was not going to be any
peace for her until she should devise a test that should prove, dearly
and without question, whether this lad was her son or not, and so
banish these wearing and worrying doubts. Ah, yes, this was plainly
the right way out of the difficulty; therefore, she set her wits to
work at once to contrive that test. But it was an easier thing to
propose than to accomplish. She turned over in her mind one
promising test after another, but was obliged to relinquish them
all- none of them were absolutely sure, absolutely perfect; and an
imperfect one could not satisfy her. Evidently she was racking her
head in vain- it seemed manifest that she must give the matter up.
While this depressing thought was passing through her mind, her ear
caught the regular breathing of the boy, and she knew he had fallen
asleep. And while she listened, the measured breathing was broken by a
soft, startled cry, such as one utters in a troubled dream. This
chance occurrence furnished her instantly with a plan worth all her
labored tests combined. She at once set herself feverishly, but
noiselessly, to work to relight her candle, muttering to herself, 'Had
I but seen him then, I should have known! Since that day, when he
was little, that the powder burst in his face, he hath never been
startled of a sudden out of his dreams or out of his thinkings, but he
hath cast his hand before his eyes, even as he did that day, and not
as others would do it, with the palm inward, but always with the
palm turned outward- I have seen it a hundred times, and it hath never
varied nor ever failed. Yes, I shall soon know now!'
By this time she had crept to the slumbering boy's side, with
the candle shaded in her hand. She bent heedfully and warily over him,
scarcely breathing, in her suppressed excitement, and suddenly flashed
the light in his face and struck the floor by his ear with her
knuckles. The sleeper's eyes sprung wide open, and he cast a
startled stare about him- but he made no special movement with his
hands.
The poor woman was smitten almost helpless with surprise and
grief; but she contrived to hide her emotions, and to soothe the boy
to sleep again; then she crept apart and communed miserably with
herself upon the disastrous result of her experiment. She tried to
believe that her Tom's madness had banished this habitual gesture of
his; but she could not do it. 'No,' she said, 'his hands are not
mad, they could not unlearn so old a habit in so brief a time. Oh,
this is a heavy day for me!'
Still, hope was as stubborn now as doubt had been before; she
could not bring herself to accept the verdict of the test; she must
try the thing again- the failure must have been only an accident; so
she startled the boy out of his sleep a second and a third time, at
intervals- with the same result which had marked the first test-
then she dragged herself to bed, and fell sorrowfully asleep,
saying, 'But I cannot give him up- oh, no, I cannot- he must be my
boy!'
The poor mother's interruptions having ceased, and the prince's
pains having gradually lost their power to disturb him, utter
weariness at last sealed his eyes in a profound and restful sleep.
Hour after hour slipped away, and still he slept like the dead. Thus
four or five hours passed. Then his stupor began to lighten.
Presently, while half asleep and half awake, he murmured:
'Sir William!'
After a moment:
'Ho, Sir William Herbert! Hie thee hither, and list to the
strangest dream that ever.... Sir William! Dost hear? Man, I did think
me changed to a pauper, and... Ho there! Guards! Sir William! What! is
there no groom of the chamber in waiting? Alack it shall go hard
with-'
'What aileth thee?' asked a whisper near him. 'Who art thou
calling?'
'Sir William Herbert. Who art thou?'
'I? Who should I be, but thy sister Nan? Oh, Tom, I had forgot!
Thou'rt mad yet- poor lad thou'rt mad yet, would I had never woke to
know it again! But, prithee, master thy tongue, lest we be all
beaten till we die!'
The startled prince sprang partly up, but a sharp reminder from
his stiffened bruises brought him to himself, and he sunk back among
his foul straw with a moan and the ejaculation:
'Alas, it was no dream, then!'
In a moment all the heavy sorrow and misery which sleep had
banished were upon him again, and he realized that he was no longer
a petted prince in a palace, with the adoring eyes of a nation upon
him, but a pauper, an outcast, clothed in rags, prisoner in a den
fit only for beasts, and consorting with beggars and thieves.
In the midst of his grief he began to be conscious of hilarious
noises and shoutings, apparently but a block or two away. The next
moment there were several sharp raps at the door; John Canty ceased
from snoring and said:
'Who knocketh? What wilt thou?'
A voice answered:
'Know'st thou who it was thou laid thy cudgel on?'
'No. Neither know I, nor care.'
'Belike thou'lt change thy note eftsoons. An thou would save thy
neck, nothing but flight may stead thee. The man is this moment
delivering up the ghost. 'Tis the priest, Father Andrew!'
'God-a-mercy!' exclaimed Canty. He roused his family, and hoarsely
commanded, 'Up with ye all and fly- or bide where ye are and perish!'
Scarcely five minutes later the Canty household were in the street
and flying for their lives. John Canty held the prince by the wrist,
and hurried him along the dark way, giving him this caution in a low
voice:
'Mind thy tongue, thou mad fool, and speak not our name. I will
choose me a new name, speedily, to throw the law's dogs off the scent.
Mind thy tongue, I tell thee!'
He growled these words to the rest of the family:
'If it so chance that we be separated, let each make for London
Bridge; whoso findeth himself as far as the last linen-draper's shop
on the bridge, let him tarry there till the others be come, then
will we flee into Southwark together.'
At this moment the party burst suddenly out of darkness into
light; and not only into light, but into the midst of a multitude of
singing, dancing, and shouting people, massed together on the
river-frontage. There was a line of bonfires stretching as far as
one could see, up and down the Thames; London Bridge was
illuminated; Southwark Bridge likewise; the entire river was aglow
with the flash and sheen of colored lights, and constant explosions of
fireworks filled the skies with an intricate commingling of shooting
splendors and a thick rain of dazzling sparks that almost turned night
into day; everywhere were crowds of revelers; all London seemed to
be at large.
John Canty delivered himself of a furious curse and commanded a
retreat; but it was too late. He and his tribe were swallowed up in
that swarming hive of humanity, and hopelessly separated from each
other in an instant. We are not considering that the prince was one of
his tribe; Canty still kept his grip upon him. The prince's heart
was beating high with hopes of escape now. A burly waterman,
considerably exalted with liquor, found himself rudely shoved by Canty
in his efforts to plow through the crowd; he laid his great hand on
Canty's shoulder and said:
'Nay, whither so fast, friend? Dost canker thy soul with sordid
business when all that be leal men and true make holiday?'
'Mine affairs are mine own, they concern thee not,' answered
Canty, roughly; 'take away thy hand and let me pass.'
'Sith that is thy humor, thou'lt not pass till thou'st drunk to
the Prince of Wales, I tell thee that,' said the waterman, barring the
way resolutely.
'Give me the cup, then, and make speed, make speed.'
Other revelers were interested by this time. They cried out:
'The loving-cup, the loving-cup! make the sour knave drink the
loving-cup, else will we feed him to the fishes.'
So a huge loving-cup was brought; the waterman, grasping it by one
of its handles, and with his other hand bearing up the end of an
imaginary napkin, presented it in due and ancient form to Canty, who
had to grasp the opposite handle with one of his hands and take off
the lid with the other, according to ancient custom.*(6) This left the
prince hand-free for a second, of course. He wasted no time, but dived
among the forest of legs about him and disappeared. In another
moment he could not have been harder to find, under that tossing sea
of life, if its billows had been the Atlantic's and he a lost
sixpence.
He very soon realized this fact, and straightway busied himself
about his own affairs without further thought of John Canty. He
quickly realized another thing, too. To wit, that a spurious Prince of
Wales was being feasted by the city in his stead. He easily
concluded that the pauper lad, Tom Canty, had deliberately taken
advantage of his stupendous opportunity and become a usurper.
Therefore there was but one course to pursue- find his way to
the Guildhall, make himself known, and denounce the impostor. He
also made up his mind that Tom should be allowed a reasonable time for
spiritual preparation, and then be hanged, drawn, and quartered,
according to the law and usage of the day, in cases of high treason.
CHAPTER_XI
CHAPTER XI
At Guildhall
-
THE royal barge, attended by its gorgeous fleet, took its
stately way down the Thames through the wilderness of illuminated
boats. The air was laden with music; the river-banks were beruffled
with joy- flames; the distant city lay in a soft luminous glow from
its countless invisible bonfires; above it rose many a slender spire
into the sky, incrusted with sparkling lights, wherefore in their
remoteness they seemed like jeweled lances thrust aloft; as the
fleet swept along, it was greeted from the banks with a continuous
hoarse roar of cheers and the ceaseless flash and boom of artillery.
To Tom Canty, half buried in his silken cushions, these sounds and
this spectacle were a wonder unspeakably sublime and astonishing. To
his little friends at his side, the Princess Elizabeth and the Lady
Jane Grey, they were nothing.
Arrived at the Dowgate, the fleet was towed up the limpid Walbrook
(whose channel has now been for two centuries buried out of sight
under acres of buildings) to Bucklersbury, past houses and under
bridges populous with merry-makers and brilliantly lighted, and at
last came to a halt in a basin where now is Barge Yard, in the
center of the ancient city of London. Tom disembarked, and he and
his gallant procession crossed Cheapside and made a short march
through the Old Jewry and Basinghall Street to the Guildhall.
Tom and his little ladies were received with due ceremony by the
Lord Mayor and the Fathers of the City, in their gold chains and
scarlet robes of state, and conducted to a rich canopy of state at the
head of the great hall, preceded by heralds making proclamation, and
by the Mace and the City Sword. The lords and ladies who were to
attend upon Tom and his two small friends took their places behind
their chairs.
At a lower table the court grandees and other guests of noble
degree were seated, with the magnates of the city; the commoners
took places at a multitude of tables on the main floor of the hall.
From their lofty vantage-ground, the giants Gog and Magog, the ancient
guardians of the city, contemplated the spectacle below them with eyes
grown familar to it in forgotten generations. There was a
bugle-blast and a proclamation, and a fat butler appeared in a high
perch in the leftward wall, followed by his servitors bearing with
impressive solemnity a royal Baron of Beef, smoking hot and ready
for the knife.
After grace, Tom (being instructed) rose- and the whole house with
him- and drank from a portly golden loving-cup with the Princess
Elizabeth; from her it passed to the Lady Jane, and then traversed the
general assemblage. So the banquet began.
By midnight the revelry was at its height. Now came one of those
picturesque spectacles so admired in that old day. A description of it
is still extant in the quaint wording of a chronicler who witnessed
it:
'Space being made, presently entered a baron and an earl appareled
after the Turkish fashion in long robes of bawdkin powdered with gold;
hats on their heads of crimson velvet, with great rolls of gold,
girded with two swords, called simitars, hanging by great bawdricks of
gold. Next came yet another baron and another earl, in two long
gowns of yellow satin, traversed with white satin, and in every bend
of white was a bend of crimson satin, after the fashion of Russia,
with furred hats of gray on their heads; either of them having an
hatchet in their hands, and boots with pykes' (points a foot long),
'turned up. And after them came a knight, then the Lord High
Admiral, and with him five nobles, in doublets of crimson velvet,
voyded low on the back and before to the cannel-bone, laced on the
breasts with chains of silver; and, over that, short cloaks of crimson
satin, and on their heads hats after the dancers' fashion, with
pheasants' feather in them. These were appareled after the fashion
of Prussia. The torch-bearers, which were about an hundred, were
appareled in crimson satin and green, like Moors, their faces black.
Next came in a mommarye. Then the minstrels, which were disguised,
danced; and the lords and ladies did wildly dance also, that it was
a pleasure to behold.'
And while Tom, in his high seat, was gazing upon this 'wild'
dancing, lost in admiration of the dazzling commingling of
kaleidoscopic colors which the whirling turmoil of gaudy figures below
him presented, the ragged but real Little Prince of Wales was
proclaiming his rights and his wrongs, denouncing the impostor, and
clamoring for admission at the gates of Guildhall! The crowd enjoyed
this episode prodigiously, and pressed forward and craned their
necks to see the small rioter. Presently they began to taunt him and
mock at him, purposely to goad him into a higher and still more
entertaining fury. Tears of mortification sprung to his eyes, but he
stood his ground and defied the mob right royally. Other taunts
followed, added mockings stung him, and he exclaimed:
'I tell ye again, you pack of unmannerly curs, I am the Prince
of Wales! And all forlorn and friendless as I be, with none to give me
word of grace or help me in my need, yet will not I be driven from
my ground, but will maintain it!'
'Though thou be prince or no prince 'tis all one, thou be'st a
gallant lad, and not friendless neither! Here stand I by thy side to
prove it; and mind I tell thee thou might'st have a worser friend than
Miles Hendon and yet not tire thy legs with seeking. Rest thy small
jaw, my child, I talk the language of these base kennel-rats like to a
very native.'
The speaker was a sort of Don Caesar de Bazan in dress, aspect,
and bearing. He was tall, trim-built, muscular. His doublet and trunks
were of rich material, but faded and threadbare, and their gold-lace
adornments were sadly tarnished; his ruff was rumpled and damaged; the
plume in his slouched hat was broken and had a bedraggled and
disreputable look; at his side he wore a long rapier in a rusty iron
sheath; his swaggering carriage marked him at once as a ruffler of the
camp. The speech of this fantastic figure was received with an
explosion of jeers and laughter. Some cried, ''Tis another prince in
disguise!' ''Ware thy tongue, friend, belike he is dangerous!' 'Marry,
he looketh it- mark his eye!' 'Pluck the lad from him- to the
horse-pond wi' the cub!'
Instantly a hand was laid upon the prince, under the impulse of
this happy thought; as instantly the stranger's long sword was out and
the meddler went to the earth under a sounding thump with the flat
of it. The next moment a score of voices shouted 'Kill the dog! kill
him! kill him!' and the mob closed in on the warrior, who backed
himself against a wall and began to lay about him with his long weapon
like a madman. His victims sprawled this way and that, but the
mob-tide poured over their prostrate forms and dashed itself against
the champion with undiminished fury. His moments seemed numbered,
his destruction certain, when suddenly a trumpet-blast sounded, a
voice shouted, 'Way for the king's messenger!' and a troop of horsemen
came charging down upon the mob, who fled out of harm's reach as
fast as their legs could carry them. The bold stranger caught up the
prince in his arms, and was soon far away from danger and the
multitude.
Return we within the Guildhall. Suddenly, high above the
jubilant roar and thunder of the revel, broke the clear peal of a
bugle-note. There was instant silence- a deep hush; then a single
voice rose- that of the messenger from the palace- and began to pipe
forth a proclamation, the whole multitude standing, listening. The
closing words, solemnly pronounced were:
'The king is dead!'
The great assemblage bent their heads upon their breasts with
one accord; remained so, in profound silence, a few moments, then
all sunk upon their knees in a body, stretched out their hands towards
Tom, and a mighty shout burst forth that seemed to shake the building:
'Long live the king!'
Poor Tom's dazed eyes wandered abroad over this stupefying
spectacle, and finally rested dreamily upon the kneeling princesses
beside him a moment, then upon the Earl of Hertford. A sudden
purpose dawned in his face. He said, in a low tone, at Lord Hertford's
ear:
'Answer me truly, on thy faith and honor! Uttered I here a
command, the which none but a king might hold privilege and
prerogative to utter, would such commandment be obeyed, and none
rise up to say me nay?'
'None, my liege, in all these realms. In thy person bides the
majesty of England. Thou art the king- thy word is law.'
Tom responded, in a strong, earnest voice, and with great
animation:
'Then shall the king's law be law of mercy, from this day, and
never more be law of blood! Up from thy knees and away! To the Tower
and say the king decrees the Duke of Norfolk shall not die!'*(7)
The words were caught up and carried eagerly from lip to lip far
and wide over the hall, and as Hertford hurried from the presence,
another prodigious shout burst forth:
'The reign of blood is ended! Long live Edward king of England!'
CHAPTER_XII
CHAPTER XII
The Prince and his Deliverer
-
AS soon as Miles Hendon and the little prince were clear of the
mob, they struck down through back lanes and alleys toward the
river. Their way was unobstructed until they approached London Bridge;
then they plowed into the multitude again, Hendon keeping a fast
grip upon the prince's- no, the king's- wrist. The tremendous news was
already abroad, and the boy learned it from a thousand voices at once-
'The king is dead!' The tidings struck a chill to the heart of the
poor little waif, and sent a shudder through his frame. He realized
the greatness of his loss, and was filled with a bitter grief; for the
grim tyrant who had been such a terror to others had always been
gentle with him. The tears sprung to his eyes and blurred all objects.
For an instant he felt himself the most forlorn, outcast, and forsaken
of God's creatures- then another cry shook the night with its
far-reaching thunders: 'Long live King Edward the Sixth!' and this
made his eyes kindle, and thrilled him with pride to his fingers'
ends. 'Ah,' he thought, 'how grand and strange it seems- I AM KING!'
Our friends threaded their way slowly through the throngs upon the
Bridge. This structure, which had stood for six hundred years, and had
been a noisy and populous thoroughfare all that time, was a curious
affair, for a closely packed rank of stores and shops, with family
quarters overhead, stretched along both sides of it, from one bank
of the river to the other. The Bridge was a sort of town to itself; it
had its inn, its beerhouses, its bakeries, its haberdasheries, its
food markets, its manufacturing industries, and even its church. It
looked upon the two neighbors which it linked together- London and
Southwark- as being well enough, as suburbs, but not otherwise
particularly important. It was a close corporation, so to speak; it
was a narrow town, of a single street a fifth of a mile long, its
population was but a village population, and everybody in it knew
all his fellow-townsmen intimately, and had known their fathers and
mothers before them- and all their little family affairs into the
bargain. It had its aristocracy, of course- its fine old families of
butchers, and bakers, and what not, who had occupied the same old
premises for five or six hundred years, and knew the great history
of the Bridge from beginning to end, and all its strange legends;
and who always talked bridgy talk, and thought bridgy thoughts, and
lied in a long, level, direct, substantial bridgy way. It was just the
sort of population to be narrow and ignorant and self-conceited.
Children were born on the Bridge, were reared there, grew to old age
and finally died without ever having set a foot upon any part of the
world but London Bridge alone. Such people would naturally imagine
that the mighty and interminable procession which moved through its
street night and day, with its confused roar of shouts and cries,
its neighings and bellowings and bleatings and its muffled
thunder-tramp, was the one great thing in this world, and themselves
somehow the proprietors of it. And so they were in effect- at least
they could exhibit it from their windows, and did- for a
consideration- whenever a returning king or hero gave it a fleeting
splendor, for there was no place like it for affording a long,
straight, uninterrupted view of marching columns.
Men born and reared upon the Bridge found life unendurably dull
and inane elsewhere. History tells of one of these who left the Bridge
at the age of seventy-one and retired to the country. But he could
only fret and toss in his bed; he could not go to sleep, the deep
stillness was so painful, so awful, so oppressive. When he was worn
out with it, at last, he fled back to his old home, a lean and haggard
specter, and fell peacefully to rest and pleasant dreams under the
lulling music of the lashing waters and the boom and crash and thunder
of London Bridge.
In the times of which we are writing, the Bridge furnished 'object
lessons' in English history, for its children- namely, the livid and
decaying heads of renowned men impaled upon iron spikes atop of its
gateways. But we digress.
Hendon's lodgings were in the little inn on the Bridge. As he
neared the door with his small friend, a rough voice said:
'So, thou'rt come at last! Thou'lt not escape again. I warrant
thee; and if pounding thy bones to a pudding can teach thee
somewhat, thou'lt not keep us waiting another time, mayhap'- and
John Canty put out his hand to seize the boy.
Miles Hendon stepped in the way, and said:
'Not too fast, friend. Thou art needlessly rough, methinks. What
is the lad to thee?'
'If it be any business of thine to make and meddle in others'
affairs, he is my son.'
''Tis a lie!' cried the little king, hotly.
'Boldly said, and I believe thee, whether thy small head-piece
be sound or cracked, my boy. But whether this scurvy ruffian be thy
father or no, 'tis all one, he shall not have thee to beat thee and
abuse, according to his threat, so thou prefer to abide with me.'
'I do, I do- I know him not, I loathe him, and will die before I
will go with him.'
'Then 'tis settled, and there is naught more to say.'
'We will see, as to that!' exclaimed John Canty, striding past
Hendon to get at the boy; 'by force shall he-'
'If thou do but touch him, thou animated offal, I will spit thee
like a goose!' said Hendon, barring the way and laying his hand upon
his sword-hilt. Canty drew back. 'Now mark ye,' continued Hendon, 'I
took this lad under my protection when a mob such as thou would have
mishandled him, mayhap killed him; dost imagine I will desert him
now to a worser fate?- for whether thou art his father or no- and
sooth to say, I think it is a lie- a decent swift death were better
for such a lad than life in such brute hands as thine. So go thy ways,
and set quick about it, for I like not much bandying of words, being
not overpatient in my nature.'
John Canty moved off, muttering threats and curses, and was
swallowed from sight in the crowd. Hendon ascended three flights of
stairs to his room, with his charge, after ordering a meal to be
sent thither. It was a poor apartment, with a shabby bed and some odds
and ends of old furniture in it, and was vaguely lighted by a couple
of sickly candles. The little king dragged himself to the bed and
lay down upon it, almost exhausted with hunger and fatigue. He had
been on his feet a good part of a day and a night, for it was now
two or three o'clock in the morning, and had eaten nothing meantime.
He murmured drowsily:
'Prithee, call me when the table is spread,' and sunk into a
deep sleep immediately.
A smile twinkled in Hendon's eye, and he said to himself:
'By the mass, the little beggar takes to one's quarters and usurps
one's bed with as natural and easy a grace as if he owned them- with
never a by-your-leave or so-please-it-you, or anything of the sort. In
his diseased ravings he called himself the Prince of Wales, and
bravely doth he keep up the character. Poor little friendless rat,
doubtless his mind has been disordered with ill usage. Well, I will be
his friend; I have saved him, and it draweth me strongly to him;
already I love the bold-tongued little rascal. How soldierlike he
faced the smutty rabble and flung back his high defiance! And what a
comely, sweet and gentle face he hath, now that sleep hath conjured
away its troubles and its griefs. I will teach him, I will cure his
malady; yea, I will be his elder brother, and care for him and watch
over him; and who so would shame him or do him hurt, may order his
shroud, for though I be burnt for it he shall need it!'
He bent over the boy and contemplated him with kind and pitying
interest, tapping the young cheek tenderly and smoothing back the
tangled curls with his great brown hand. A slight shiver passed over
the boy's form. Hendon muttered:
'See, now, how like a man it was to let him lie here uncovered and
fill his body with deadly rheums. Now what shall I do? 'Twill wake him
to take him up and put him within the bed, and he sorely needeth
sleep.'
He looked about for extra covering, but finding none, doffed his
doublet and wrapped the lad in it, saying, 'I am used to nipping air
and scant apparel, 'tis little I shall mind the cold'- then walked
up and down the room to keep his blood in motion, soliloquizing as
before.
'His injured mind persuades him he is Prince of Wales; 'twill be
odd to have a Prince of Wales still with us, now that he that was
the prince is prince no more, but king- for this poor mind is set upon
the one fantasy, and will not reason out that now it should cast by
the prince and call itself the king.... If my father liveth still,
after these seven years that I have heard naught from home in my
foreign dungeon, he will welcome the poor lad and give him generous
shelter for my sake; so will my good elder brother, Arthur; my other
brother, Hugh- but I will crack his crown, an he interfere, the
fox-hearted, ill-conditioned animal! Yes, thither will we fare- and
straightway, too.'
A servant entered with a smoking meal, disposed it upon a small
deal table, placed the chairs, and took his departure, leaving such
cheap lodgers as these to wait upon themselves. The door slammed after
him, and the noise woke the boy, who sprung to a sitting posture,
and shot a glad glance about him; then a grieved look came into his
face and he murmured to himself, with a deep sigh, 'Alack, it was
but a dream. Woe is me.' Next he noticed Miles Hendon's doublet-
glanced from that to Hendon, comprehended the sacrifice that had
been made for him, and said, gently:
'Thou art good to me, yes, thou art very good to me. Take it and
put it on- I shall not need it more.'
Then he got up and walked to the washstand in the corner, and
stood there waiting. Hendon said in a cheery voice:
'We'll have a right hearty sup and bite now, for everything is
savory and smoking hot, and that and thy nap together will make thee a
little man again, never fear!'
The boy made no answer, but bent a steady look, that was filled
with grave surprise, and also somewhat touched with impatience, upon
the tall knight of the sword. Hendon was puzzled, and said:
'What's amiss?'
'Good sir, I would wash me.'
'Oh, is that all! Ask no permission of Miles Hendon for aught thou
cravest. Make thyself perfectly free here and welcome, with all that
are his belongings.'
Still the boy stood, and moved not; more, he tapped the floor once
or twice with his small impatient foot. Hendon was wholly perplexed.
Said he:
'Bless us, what is it?'
'Prithee, pour the water, and make not so many words!'
Hendon, suppressing a horse-laugh, and saying to himself, 'By
all the saints, but this is admirable!' stepped briskly forward and
did the small insolent's bidding; then stood by, in a sort of
stupefaction, until the command, 'Come- the towel!' woke him sharply
up. He took up a towel from under the boy's nose and handed it to him,
without comment. He now proceeded to comfort his own face with a wash,
and while he was at it his adopted child seated himself at the table
and prepared to fall to. Hendon despatched his ablutions with
alacrity, then drew back the other chair and was about to place
himself at table, when the boy said, indignantly:
'Forbear! Wouldst sit in the presence of the king?'
This blow staggered Hendon to his foundations. He muttered to
himself, 'Lo, the poor thing's madness is up with the time! it hath
changed with the great change that is come to the realm, and now in
fancy is he king! Good lack, I must humor the conceit, too- there is
no other way- faith, he would order me to the Tower, else!'
And pleased with this jest, he removed the chair from the table,
took his stand behind the king, and proceeded to wait upon him in
the courtliest way he was capable of.
When the king ate, the rigor of his royal dignity relaxed a
little, and with his growing contentment came a desire to talk. He
said:
'I think thou callest thyself Miles Hendon, if I heard thee
aright?'
'Yes, sire,' Miles replied then observed to himself, 'If I must
humor the poor lad's madness, I must sire him, I must majesty him, I
must not go by halves, I must stick at nothing that belongeth to the
part I play, else shall I play it ill and work evil to this charitable
and kindly cause.'
The king warmed his heart with a second glass of wine, and said:
'I would know thee- tell me thy story. Thou hast a gallant way with
thee, and a noble- art nobly born?'
'We are of the tail of the nobility, good your majesty. My
father is a baronet- one of the smaller lords, by knight
service*(8)- Sir Richard Hendon, of Hendon Hall, by Monk's Holm in
Kent.'
'The name has escaped my memory. Go on- tell me thy story.'
''Tis not much, your majesty, yet perchance it may beguile a short
half-hour for want of a better. My father, Sir Richard, is very
rich, and of a most generous nature. My mother died whilst I was yet a
boy. I have two brothers: Arthur, my elder, with a soul like to his
father's; and Hugh, younger than I, a mean spirit, covetous,
treacherous, vicious, underhanded- a reptile. Such was he from the
cradle; such was he ten years past, when I last saw him- a ripe rascal
at nineteen, I being twenty then, and Arthur twenty-two. There is none
other of us but the Lady Edith, my cousin- she was sixteen, then-
beautiful, gentle, good, the daughter of an earl, the last of her
race, heiress of a great fortune and a lapsed title. My father was her
guardian. I loved her and she loved me; but she was betrothed to
Arthur from the cradle, and Sir Richard would not suffer the
contract to be broken. Arthur loved another maid, and bade us be of
good cheer and hold fast to the hope that delay and luck together
would some day give success to our several causes. Hugh loved the Lady
Edith's fortune, though in truth he said it was herself he loved-
but then 'twas his way, alway, to say one thing and mean the other.
But he lost his arts upon the girl; he could deceive my father, but
none else. My father loved him best of us all, and trusted and
believed him; for he was the youngest child and others hated him-
these qualities being in all ages sufficient to win a parent's dearest
love; and he had a smooth persuasive tongue, with an admirable gift of
lying- and these be qualities which do mightily assist a blind
affection to cozen itself. I was wild- in troth I might go yet farther
and say very wild, though 'twas a wildness of an innocent sort,
since it hurt none but me, brought shame to none, nor loss, nor had in
it any taint of crime or baseness, or what might not beseem mine
honorable degree.
'Yet did my brother Hugh turn these faults to good account- he
seeing that our brother Arthur's health was but indifferent, and
hoping the worst might work him profit were I swept out of the path-
so- but 'twere a long tale, good my liege, and little worth the
telling. Briefly, then, this brother did deftly magnify my faults
and make them crimes; ending his base work with finding a silken
ladder in mine apartments- conveyed thither by his own means- and
did convince my father by this, and suborned evidence of servants
and other lying knaves, that I was minded to carry off my Edith and
marry with her, in rank defiance of his will.
'Three years of banishment from home and England might make a
soldier and a man of me, my father said, and teach me some degree of
wisdom. I fought out my long probation in the continental wars,
tasting sumptuously of hard knocks, privation, and adventure; but in
my last battle I was taken captive, and during the seven years that
have waxed and waned since then, a foreign dungeon hath harbored me.
Through wit and courage I won to the free air at last, and fled hither
straight; and am but just arrived, right poor in purse and raiment,
and poorer still in knowledge of what these dull seven years have
wrought at Hendon Hall, its people and belongings. So please you, sir,
my meager tale is told.'
'Thou hast been shamefully abused!' said the little king, with a
flashing eye. 'But I will right thee- by the cross will I! The king
hath said it.'
Then, fired by the story of Miles's wrongs, he loosed his tongue
and poured the history of his own recent misfortunes into the ears
of his astonished listener. When he had finished, Miles said to
himself.
'Lo, what an imagination he hath! Verily this is no common mind;
else, crazed or sane, it could not weave so straight and gaudy a
tale as this out of the airy nothings wherewith it hath wrought this
curious romaunt. Poor ruined little head, it shall not lack friend
or shelter whilst I bide with the living. He shall never leave my
side; he shall be my pet, my little comrade. And he shall be cured!-
aye, made whole and sound- then will he make himself a name- and proud
shall I be to say, "Yes, he is mine- I took him, a homeless little
ragamuffin, but I saw what was in him, and I said his name would be
heard some day- behold him, observe him- was I right?"'
The king spoke- in a thoughtful, measured voice:
'Thou didst save me injury and shame, perchance my life, and so my
crown. Such service demandeth rich reward. Name thy desire, and so
it be within the compass of my royal power, it is thine.'
This fantastic suggestion startled Hendon out of his reverie. He
was about to thank the king and put the matter aside with saying he
bad only done his duty and desired no reward, but a wiser thought came
into his head, and he asked leave to be silent a few moments and
consider the gracious offer- an idea which the king gravely
approved, remarking that it was best to be not too hasty with a
thing of such great import.
Miles reflected during some moments, then said to himself, 'Yes,
that is the thing to do- by any other means it were impossible to
get at it- and certes, this hour's experience has taught me 'twould be
most wearing and inconvenient to continue it as it is. Yes, I will
propose it; 'twas a happy accident that I did not throw the chance
away.' Then he dropped upon one knee and said:
'My poor service went not beyond the limit of a subject's simple
duty, and therefore hath no merit; but since your majesty is pleased
to hold it worthy some reward, I take heart of grace to make
petition to this effect. Near four hundred years ago, as your grace
knoweth, there being ill blood betwixt John, king of England, and
the king of France, it was decreed that two champions should fight
together in the lists, and so settle the dispute by what is called the
arbitrament of God. These two kings, and the Spanish king, being
assembled to witness and judge the conflict, the French champion
appeared; but so redoubtable was he that our English knights refused
to measure weapons with him. So the matter, which was a weighty one,
was like to go against the English monarch by default. Now in the
Tower lay the Lord de Courcy, the mightiest arm in England, stripped
of his honors and possessions, and wasting with long captivity. Appeal
was made to him; he gave assent, and came forth arrayed for battle;
but no sooner did the Frenchman glimpse his huge frame and hear his
famous name but he fled away, and the French king's cause was lost.
King John restored De Courcy's titles and possessions, and said, "Name
thy wish and thou shalt have it, though it cost me half my kingdom";
whereat De Courcy, kneeling, as I do now, made answerer, "This,
then, I ask, my liege; that I and my successors may have and hold
the privilege of remaining covered in the presence of the kings of
England, henceforth while the throne shall last." The boon was
granted, as your majesty knoweth; and there hath been no time, these
four hundred years, that that line has failed of an heir; and so, even
unto this day, the head of that ancient house still weareth his hat or
helm before the king's majesty, without let or hindrance, and this
none other may do.*(9) Invoking this precedent in aid of my prayer,
I beseech the king to grant to me but this one grace and privilege- to
my more than sufficient reward- and none other, to wit: that I and
my heirs, forever, may sit in the presence of the majesty of England!'
'Rise, Sir Miles Hendon, knight,' said the king, gravely- giving
the accolade with Hendon's sword- 'rise, and seat thyself. Thy
petition is granted. While England remains, and the crown continues,
the privilege shall not lapse.'
His majesty walked apart, musing, and Hendon dropped into a
chair at table, observing to himself, ''Twas a brave thought, and hath
wrought me a mighty deliverance; my legs are grievously wearied. An
I had not thought of that, I must have had to stand for weeks, till my
poor lad's wits are cured.' After a little he went on, 'And so I am
become a knight of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows! A most odd and
strange position, truly, for one so matter-of-fact as I. I will not
laugh- no, God forbid, for this thing which is so substanceless to
me is real to him. And to me, also, in one way, it is not a falsity,
for it reflects with truth the sweet and generous spirit that is in
him.' After a pause: 'Ah, what if he should call me by my fine title
before folk!- there'd be a merry contrast betwixt my glory and my
raiment! But no matter; let him call me what he will, so it please
him; I shall be content.'
CHAPTER_XIII
CHAPTER XIII
The Dissappearance of the Prince
-
A HEAVY drowsiness presently fell upon the two comrades. The
king said:
'Remove these rags'- meaning his clothing.
Hendon disappareled the boy without dissent or remark, tucked
him up in bed, then glanced about the room, saying to himself,
ruefully, 'He hath taken my bed again, as before- marry, what shall
I do?' The little king observed his perplexity, and dissipated it with
a word. He said, sleepily:
'Thou wilt sleep athwart the door, and guard it.' In a moment more
he was out of his troubles, in a deep slumber.
'Dear heart, he should have been born a king!' muttered Hendon,
admiringly, 'he playeth the part to a marvel.'
Then he stretched himself across the door, on the floor, saying
contentedly:
'I have lodged worse for seven years; 'twould be but ill gratitude
to Him above to find fault with this.'
He dropped asleep as the dawn appeared. Toward noon he rose,
uncovered his unconscious ward- a section at a time- and took his
measure with a string. The king awoke, just as he had completed his
work, complained of the cold, and asked what he was doing.
''Tis done now, my liege,' said Hendon; 'I have a bit of
business outside, but will presently return; sleep thou again- thou
needest it. There- let me cover thy head also- thou'lt be warm the
sooner.'
The king was back in dreamland before this speech was ended. Miles
slipped softly out, and slipped as softly in again, in the course of
thirty or forty minutes, with a complete second-hand suit of boy's
clothing, of cheap material, and showing signs of wear; but tidy,
and suited to the season of the year. He seated himself and began to
overhaul his purchase, mumbling to himself:
'A longer purse would have got a better sort, but when one has not
the long purse one must be content with what a short one may do-
-
'"There was a woman in our town,
In our town did dwell"-
-
'He stirred, methinks- I must sing in a less thunderous key;
'tis not good to mar his sleep, with this journey before him and he so
wearied out, poorchap.... This garment- 'tis well enough- a stitch
here and another one there will set it aright. This other is better,
albeit a stitch or two will not come amiss in it, likewise.... These
be very good and sound, and will keep his small feet warm and dry-
an odd new thing to him, belike, since he has doubtless been used to
foot it bare, winters and summers the same.... Would thread were
bread, seeing one getteth a year's sufficiency for a farthing, and
such a brave big needle without cost, for mere love. Now shall I
have the demon's own time to thread it!'
And so he had. He did as men have always done, and probably always
will do, to the end of time- held the needle still, and tried to
thrust the thread through the eye, which is the opposite of a
woman's way. Time and time again the thread missed the mark, going
sometimes on one side of the needle, sometimes on the other, sometimes
doubling up against the shaft; but he was patient, having been through
these experiences before, when he was soldiering. He succeeded at
last, and took up the garment that had lain waiting, meantime,
across his lap, and began his work. 'The inn is paid- the breakfast
that is to come, included- and there is wherewithal left to buy a
couple of donkeys and meet our little costs for the two or three
days betwixt this and the plenty that awaits us at Hendon Hall-
-
'"She loved her hus"-
-
'Body o' me! I have driven the needle under my nail!... It matters
little- 'tis not a novelty- yet 'tis not a convenience, neither.... We
shall be merry there, little one, never doubt it! Thy troubles will
vanish there, and likewise thy sad distemper-
-
'"She loved her husband dearilee,
But another man"-
-
'These be noble large stitches!'- holding the garment up and
viewing it admiringly- 'they have a grandeur and a majesty that do
cause these small stingy ones of the tailor-man to look mighty
paltry and plebeian-
-
'"She loved her husband dearilee,
But another man he loved she,"-
-
'Marry, 'tis done- a goodly piece of work, too, and wrought with
expedition. Now will I wake him, apparel him, pour for him, feed
him, and then will we hie us to the mart by the Tabard inn in
Southwark and- be pleased to rise, my liege!- he answereth not- what
ho, my liege!- of a truth must I profane his sacred person with a
touch, sith his slumber is deaf to speech. What!'
He threw back the covers- the boy was gone!
He stared about him in speechless astonishment for a moment;
noticed for the first time that his ward's ragged raiment was also
missing, then he began to rage and storm, and shout for the
inn-keeper. At that moment a servant entered with the breakfast.
'Explain, thou limb of Satan, or thy time is come! 'roared the man
of war, and made so savage a spring toward the waiter that this latter
could not find his tongue, for the instant, for fright and surprise.
'Where is the boy?'
In disjointed and trembling syllables the man gave the information
desired.
'You were hardly gone from the place, your worship, when a youth
came running and said it was your worship's will that the boy come
to you straight, at the bridge-end on the Southwark side. I brought
him thither; and when he woke the lad and gave his message, the lad
did grumble some little for being disturbed 'so early,' as he called
it, but straightway trussed on his rags and went with the youth,
only saying it had been better manners that your worship came
yourself, not sent a stranger- and so-'
'And so thou'rt a fool!- a fool, and easily cozened- hang all
thy breed! Yet mayhap no hurt is done. Possibly no harm is meant the
boy. I will go fetch him. Make the table ready. Stay! the coverings of
the bed were disposed as if one lay beneath them- happened that by
accident?'
'I know not, good your worship. I saw the youth meddle with
them- he that came for the boy.'
'Thousand deaths! 'twas done to deceive me- 'tis plain 'twas
done to gain time. Hark ye! Was that youth alone?'
'All alone, your worship.'
'Art sure?'
'Sure, your worship.'
'Collect thy scattered wits- bethink thee- take time, man.'
After a moment's thought, the servant said:
'When he came, none came with him; but now I remember me that as
the two stepped into the throng of the Bridge, a ruffian-looking man
plunged out from some near place; and just as he was joining them-'
'What then?- out with it!' thundered the impatient Hendon,
interrupting.
'Just then the crowd lapped them up and closed them in, and I
saw no more, being called by my master, who was in a rage because a
joint that the scrivener had ordered was forgot, though I take all the
saints to witness that to blame me for that miscarriage were like
holding the unborn babe to judgment for sins com-'
'Out of my sight, idiot! Thy prating drives me mad! Hold!
whither art flying? Canst not bide still an instant? Went they
toward Southwark?'
'Even so, your worship- for, as I said before, as to that
detestable joint, the babe unborn is no whit more blameless than-'
'Art here yet! And prating still? Vanish, lest I throttle thee!'
The servitor vanished. Hendon followed after him, passed him, and
plunged down the stairs two steps at a stride, muttering, ''Tis that
scurvy villain that claimed he was his son. I have lost thee, my
poor little mad master- it is a bitter thought- and I had come to love
thee so! No! by book and bell, not lost! Not lost, for I will
ransack the land till I find thee again. Poor child, yonder is his
breakfast- and mine, but I have no hunger now- so, let the rats have
it- speed, speed! that is the word!' As he wormed his swift way
through the noisy multitudes upon the Bridge, he several times said to
himself- clinging to the thought as if it were a particularly pleasing
one: 'He grumbled but he went- he went, yes, because he thought
Miles Hendon asked it, sweet lad- he would ne'er have done it for
another, I know it well!'
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