Chapter 2

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Privately, after a while, Tom organised a royal court!  He was the prince; his special comrades were guards, chamberlains, equerries, lords and ladies in waiting, and the royal family.  Daily the mock prince was received with elaborate ceremonials borrowed by Tom from his romantic readings; daily the great affairs of the mimic kingdom were discussed in the royal council, and daily his mimic highness issued decrees to his imaginary armies, navies, and viceroyalties.

After which, he would go forth in his rags and beg a few farthings, eat his poor crust, take his customary cuffs and abuse, and then stretch himself upon his handful of foul straw, and resume his empty grandeurs in his dreams.

And still his desire to look just once upon a real prince, in the flesh, grew upon him, day by day, and week by week, until at last it absorbed all other desires, and became the one passion of his life.

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One January day, on his usual begging tour, he tramped despondently up and down the region round about Mincing Lane and Little East Cheap, hour after hour, bare-footed and cold, looking in at cook-shop windows and longing for the dreadful pork-pies and other deadly inventions displayed there—for to him these were dainties fit for the angels; that is, judging by the smell, they were—for it had never been his good luck to own and eat one. There was a cold drizzle of rain; the atmosphere was murky; it was a melancholy day.  At night Tom reached home so wet and tired and hungry that it was not possible for his father and grandmother to observe his forlorn condition and not be moved—after their fashion; wherefore they gave him a brisk cuffing at once and sent him to bed.  For a long time his pain and hunger, and the swearing and fighting going on in the building, kept him awake; but at last his thoughts drifted away to far, romantic lands, and he fell asleep in the company of jewelled and gilded princelings who live in vast palaces, and had servants salaaming before them or flying to execute their orders.  And then, as usual, he dreamed thathewas a princeling himself.

All night long the glories of his royal estate shone upon him; he moved among great lords and ladies, in a blaze of light, breathing perfumes, drinking in delicious music, and answering the reverent obeisances of the glittering throng as it parted to make way for him, with here a smile, and there a nod of his princely head.

And when he awoke in the morning and looked upon the wretchedness about him, his dream had had its usual effect—it had intensified the sordidness of his surroundings a thousandfold.  Then came bitterness, and heart-break, and tears.

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Chapter III. Tom’s meeting with the Prince.

Tom got up hungry, and sauntered hungry away, but with his thoughts busy with the shadowy splendours of his night’s dreams. He wandered here and there in the city, hardly noticing where he was going, or what was happening around him.  People jostled him, and some gave him rough speech; but it was all lost on the musing boy.  By-and-by he found himself at Temple Bar, the farthest from home he had ever travelled in that direction.  He stopped and considered a moment, then fell into his imaginings again, and passed on outside the walls of London.  The Strand had ceased to be a country-road then, and regarded itself as a street, but by a strained construction; for, though there was a tolerably compact row of houses on one side of it, there were only some scattered great buildings on the other, these being palaces of rich nobles, with ample and beautiful grounds stretching to the river—grounds that are now closely packed with grim acres of brick and stone.

Tom discovered Charing Village presently, and rested himself at the beautiful cross built there by a bereaved king of earlier days; then idled down a quiet, lovely road, past the great cardinal’s stately palace, toward a far more mighty and majestic palace beyond—Westminster. Tom stared in glad wonder at the vast pile of masonry, the wide-spreading wings, the frowning bastions and turrets, the huge stone gateway, with its gilded bars and its magnificent array of colossal granite lions, and other the signs and symbols of English royalty.  Was the desire of his soul to be satisfied at last?  Here, indeed, was a king’s palace.  Might he not hope to see a prince now—a prince of flesh and blood, if Heaven were willing?

At each side of the gilded gate stood a living statue—that is to say, an erect and stately and motionless man-at-arms, clad from head to heel in shining steel armour.  At a respectful distance were many country folk, and people from the city, waiting for any chance glimpse of royalty that might offer.  Splendid carriages, with splendid people in them and splendid servants outside, were arriving and departing by several other noble gateways that pierced the royal enclosure.

Poor little Tom, in his rags, approached, and was moving slowly and timidly past the sentinels, with a beating heart and a rising hope, when all at once he caught sight through the golden bars of a spectacle that almost made him shout for joy.  Within was a comely boy, tanned and brown with sturdy outdoor sports and exercises, whose clothing was all of lovely silks and satins, shining with jewels; at his hip a little jewelled sword and dagger; dainty buskins on his feet, with red heels; and on his head a jaunty crimson cap, with drooping plumes fastened with a great sparkling gem.  Several gorgeous gentlemen stood near—his servants, without a doubt.  Oh! he was a prince—a prince, a living prince, a real prince—without the shadow of a question; and the prayer of the pauper-boy’s heart was answered at last.

Tom’s breath came quick and short with excitement, and his eyes grew big with wonder and delight.  Everything gave way in his mind instantly to one desire:  that was to get close to the prince, and have a good, devouring look at him.  Before he knew what he was about, he had his face against the gate-bars.  The next instant one of the soldiers snatched him rudely away, and sent him spinning among the gaping crowd of country gawks and London idlers.  The soldier said,—

“Mind thy manners, thou young beggar!”

The crowd jeered and laughed; but the young prince sprang to the gate with his face flushed, and his eyes flashing with indignation, and cried out,—

“How dar’st thou use a poor lad like that?  How dar’st thou use the King my father’s meanest subject so?  Open the gates, and let him in!”

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You should have seen that fickle crowd snatch off their hats then. You should have heard them cheer, and shout, “Long live the Prince of Wales!”

The soldiers presented arms with their halberds, opened the gates, and presented again as the little Prince of Poverty passed in, in his fluttering rags, to join hands with the Prince of Limitless Plenty.

Edward Tudor said—

“Thou lookest tired and hungry:  thou’st been treated ill.  Come with me.”

Half a dozen attendants sprang forward to—I don’t know what; interfere, no doubt.  But they were waved aside with a right royal gesture, and they stopped stock still where they were, like so many statues.  Edward took Tom to a rich apartment in the palace, which he called his cabinet.  By his command a repast was brought such as Tom had never encountered before except in books.  The prince, with princely delicacy and breeding, sent away the servants, so that his humble guest might not be embarrassed by their critical presence; then he sat near by, and asked questions while Tom ate.

“What is thy name, lad?”

“Tom Canty, an’ it please thee, sir.”

“’Tis an odd one.  Where dost live?”

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

“Offal Court!  Truly ’tis another odd one.  Hast parents?”

“Parents have I, sir, and a grand-dam likewise that is but indifferently precious to me, God forgive me if it be offence to say it—also twin sisters, Nan and Bet.”

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

“Neither to any other is she, so please your worship.  She hath a wicked heart, and worketh evil all her days.”

“Doth she mistreat thee?”

“There be times that she stayeth her hand, being asleep or overcome with drink; but when she hath her judgment clear again, she maketh it up to me with goodly beatings.”

A fierce look came into the little prince’s eyes, and he cried out—

“What!  Beatings?”

“Oh, indeed, yes, please you, sir.”

“Beatings!—and thou so frail and little.  Hark ye:  before the night come, she shall hie her to the Tower.  The King my father”—

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

“True, indeed.  I had not thought of that.  I will consider of her punishment.  Is thy father kind to thee?”

“Not more than Gammer Canty, sir.”

“Fathers be alike, mayhap.  Mine hath not a doll’s temper.  He smiteth with a heavy hand, yet spareth me:  he spareth me not always with his tongue, though, sooth to say.  How doth thy mother use thee?”

“She is good, sir, and giveth me neither sorrow nor pain of any sort. And Nan and Bet are like to her in this.”

“How old be these?”

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“Fifteen, an’ it please you, sir.”

“The Lady Elizabeth, my sister, is fourteen, and the Lady Jane Grey, my cousin, is of mine own age, and comely and gracious withal; but my sister the Lady Mary, with her gloomy mien and—Look you:  do thy sisters forbid their servants to smile, lest the sin destroy their souls?”

“They?  Oh, dost think, sir, thattheyhave servants?”

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

“And prithee, why not?  Who helpeth them undress at night?  Who attireth them when they rise?”

“None, sir.  Would’st have them take off their garment, and sleep without—like the beasts?”

“Their garment!  Have they but one?”

“Ah, good your worship, what would they do with more?  Truly they have not two bodies each.”

“It is a quaint and marvellous thought!  Thy pardon, I had not meant to laugh.  But thy good Nan and thy Bet shall have raiment and lackeys enow, and that soon, too:  my cofferer shall look to it.  No, thank me not; ’tis nothing.  Thou speakest well; thou hast an easy grace in it.  Art learned?”

“I know not if I am or not, sir.  The good priest that is called Father Andrew taught me, of his kindness, from his books.”

“Know’st thou the Latin?”

“But scantly, sir, I doubt.”

“Learn it, lad:  ’tis hard only at first.  The Greek is harder; but neither these nor any tongues else, I think, are hard to the Lady Elizabeth and my cousin.  Thou should’st hear those damsels at it!  But tell me of thy Offal Court.  Hast thou a pleasant life there?”

“In truth, yes, so please you, sir, save when one is hungry. There be Punch-and-Judy shows, and monkeys—oh such antic creatures! and so bravely dressed!—and there be plays wherein they that play do shout and fight till all are slain, and ’tis so fine to see, and costeth but a farthing—albeit ’tis main hard to get the farthing, please your worship.”

“Tell me more.”

“We lads of Offal Court do strive against each other with the cudgel, like to the fashion of the ’prentices, sometimes.”

The prince’s eyes flashed.  Said he—

“Marry, that would not I mislike.  Tell me more.”

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

“That would I like also.  Speak on.”

“In summer, sir, we wade and swim in the canals and in the river, and each doth duck his neighbour, and splatter him with water, and dive and shout and tumble and—”

“’Twould be worth my father’s kingdom but to enjoy it once! Prithee go on.”

“We dance and sing about the Maypole in Cheapside; we play in the sand, each covering his neighbour up; and times we make mud pastry—oh the lovely mud, it hath not its like for delightfulness in all the world!—we do fairly wallow in the mud, sir, saving your worship’s presence.”

“Oh, prithee, say no more, ’tis glorious!  If that I could but clothe me in raiment like to thine, and strip my feet, and revel in the mud once, just once, with none to rebuke me or forbid, meseemeth I could forego the crown!”

“And if that I could clothe me once, sweet sir, as thou art clad—just once—”

“Oho, would’st like it?  Then so shall it be.  Doff thy rags, and don these splendours, lad!  It is a brief happiness, but will be not less keen for that.  We will have it while we may, and change again before any come to molest.”

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A few minutes later the little Prince of Wales was garlanded with Tom’s fluttering odds and ends, and the little Prince of Pauperdom was tricked out in the gaudy plumage of royalty.  The two went and stood side by side before a great mirror, and lo, a miracle: there did not seem to have been any change made!  They stared at each other, then at the glass, then at each other again.  At last the puzzled princeling said—

“What dost thou make of this?”

“Ah, good your worship, require me not to answer.  It is not meet that one of my degree should utter the thing.”

“Then willIutter it.  Thou hast the same hair, the same eyes, the same voice and manner, the same form and stature, the same face and countenance that I bear.  Fared we forth naked, there is none could say which was you, and which the Prince of Wales.  And, now that I am clothed as thou wert clothed, it seemeth I should be able the more nearly to feel as thou didst when the brute soldier—Hark ye, is not this a bruise upon your hand?”

“Yes; but it is a slight thing, and your worship knoweth that the poor man-at-arms—”

“Peace!  It was a shameful thing and a cruel!” cried the little prince, stamping his bare foot.  "If the King—Stir not a step till I come again! It is a command!”

In a moment he had snatched up and put away an article of national importance that lay upon a table, and was out at the door and flying through the palace grounds in his bannered rags, with a hot face and glowing eyes.  As soon as he reached the great gate, he seized the bars, and tried to shake them, shouting—

“Open!  Unbar the gates!”

The soldier that had maltreated Tom obeyed promptly; and as the prince burst through the portal, half-smothered with royal wrath, the soldier fetched him a sounding box on the ear that sent him whirling to the roadway, and said—

“Take that, thou beggar’s spawn, for what thou got’st me from his Highness!”

The crowd roared with laughter.  The prince picked himself out of the mud, and made fiercely at the sentry, shouting—

“I am the Prince of Wales, my person is sacred; and thou shalt hang for laying thy hand upon me!”

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

“I salute your gracious Highness.”  Then angrily—“Be off, thou crazy rubbish!”

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Here the jeering crowd closed round the poor little prince, and hustled him far down the road, hooting him, and shouting—

“Way for his Royal Highness!  Way for the Prince of Wales!”

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Chapter IV. The Prince’s troubles begin.

After hours of persistent pursuit and persecution, the little prince was at last deserted by the rabble and left to himself.  As long as he had been able to rage against the mob, and threaten it royally, and royally utter commands that were good stuff to laugh at, he was very entertaining; but when weariness finally forced him to be silent, he was no longer of use to his tormentors, and they sought amusement elsewhere. He looked about him, now, but could not recognise the locality.  He was within the city of London—that was all he knew.  He moved on, aimlessly, and in a little while the houses thinned, and the passers-by were infrequent.  He bathed his bleeding feet in the brook which flowed then where Farringdon Street now is; rested a few moments, then passed on, and presently came upon a great space with only a few scattered houses in it, and a prodigious church.  He recognised this church.  Scaffoldings were about, everywhere, and swarms of workmen; for it was undergoing elaborate repairs.  The prince took heart at once—he felt that his troubles were at an end, now.  He said to himself, “It is the ancient Grey Friars’ Church, which the king my father hath taken from the monks and given for a home for ever for poor and forsaken children, and new-named it Christ’s Church.  Right gladly will they serve the son of him who hath done so generously by them—and the more that that son is himself as poor and as forlorn as any that be sheltered here this day, or ever shall be.”

He was soon in the midst of a crowd of boys who were running, jumping, playing at ball and leap-frog, and otherwise disporting themselves, and right noisily, too.  They were all dressed alike, and in the fashion which in that day prevailed among serving-men and ’prentices{1}—that is to say, each had on the crown of his head a flat black cap about the size of a saucer, which was not useful as a covering, it being of such scanty dimensions, neither was it ornamental; from beneath it the hair fell, unparted, to the middle of the forehead, and was cropped straight around; a clerical band at the neck; a blue gown that fitted closely and hung as low as the knees or lower; full sleeves; a broad red belt; bright yellow stockings, gartered above the knees; low shoes with large metal buckles. It was a sufficiently ugly costume.

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

“Good lads, say to your master that Edward Prince of Wales desireth speech with him.”

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

“Marry, art thou his grace’s messenger, beggar?”

The prince’s face flushed with anger, and his ready hand flew to his hip, but there was nothing there.  There was a storm of laughter, and one boy said—

“Didst mark that?  He fancied he had a sword—belike he is the prince himself.”

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

“I am the prince; and it ill beseemeth you that feed upon the king my father’s bounty to use me so.”

This was vastly enjoyed, as the laughter testified.  The youth who had first spoken, shouted to his comrades—

“Ho, swine, slaves, pensioners of his grace’s princely father, where be your manners?  Down on your marrow bones, all of ye, and do reverence to his kingly port and royal rags!”

With boisterous mirth they dropped upon their knees in a body and did mock homage to their prey.  The prince spurned the nearest boy with his foot, and said fiercely—

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

Ah, but this was not a joke—this was going beyond fun.  The laughter ceased on the instant, and fury took its place.  A dozen shouted—

“Hale him forth!  To the horse-pond, to the horse-pond!  Where be the dogs?  Ho, there, Lion! ho, Fangs!”

Then followed such a thing as England had never seen before—the sacred person of the heir to the throne rudely buffeted by plebeian hands, and set upon and torn by dogs.

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As night drew to a close that day, the prince found himself far down in the close-built portion of the city.  His body was bruised, his hands were bleeding, and his rags were all besmirched with mud.  He wandered on and on, and grew more and more bewildered, and so tired and faint he could hardly drag one foot after the other.  He had ceased to ask questions of anyone, since they brought him only insult instead of information.  He kept muttering to himself, “Offal Court—that is the name; if I can but find it before my strength is wholly spent and I drop, then am I saved—for his people will take me to the palace and prove that I am none of theirs, but the true prince, and I shall have mine own again.”  And now and then his mind reverted to his treatment by those rude Christ’s Hospital boys, and he said, “When I am king, they shall not have bread and shelter only, but also teachings out of books; for a full belly is little worth where the mind is starved, and the heart.  I will keep this diligently in my remembrance, that this day’s lesson be not lost upon me, and my people suffer thereby; for learning softeneth the heart and breedeth gentleness and charity.” {1}

The lights began to twinkle, it came on to rain, the wind rose, and a raw and gusty night set in.  The houseless prince, the homeless heir to the throne of England, still moved on, drifting deeper into the maze of squalid alleys where the swarming hives of poverty and misery were massed together.

Suddenly a great drunken ruffian collared him and said—

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“Out to this time of night again, and hast not brought a farthing home, I warrant me!  If it be so, an’ I do not break all the bones in thy lean body, then am I not John Canty, but some other.”

The prince twisted himself loose, unconsciously brushed his profaned shoulder, and eagerly said—

“Oh, arthisfather, truly?  Sweet heaven grant it be so—then wilt thou fetch him away and restore me!”

“Hisfather?  I know not what thou mean’st; I but know I amthyfather, as thou shalt soon have cause to—”

“Oh, jest not, palter not, delay not!—I am worn, I am wounded, I can bear no more.  Take me to the king my father, and he will make thee rich beyond thy wildest dreams.  Believe me, man, believe me!—I speak no lie, but only the truth!—put forth thy hand and save me!  I am indeed the Prince of Wales!”

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

“Gone stark mad as any Tom o’ Bedlam!”—then collared him once more, and said with a coarse laugh and an oath, “But mad or no mad, I and thy Gammer Canty will soon find where the soft places in thy bones lie, or I’m no true man!”

With this he dragged the frantic and struggling prince away, and disappeared up a front court followed by a delighted and noisy swarm of human vermin.

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Chapter V. Tom as a Patrician.

Tom Canty, left alone in the prince’s cabinet, made good use of his opportunity.  He turned himself this way and that before the great mirror, admiring his finery; then walked away, imitating the prince’s high-bred carriage, and still observing results in the glass.  Next he drew the beautiful sword, and bowed, kissing the blade, and laying it across his breast, as he had seen a noble knight do, by way of salute to the lieutenant of the Tower, five or six weeks before, when delivering the great lords of Norfolk and Surrey into his hands for captivity.  Tom played with the jewelled dagger that hung upon his thigh; he examined the costly and exquisite ornaments of the room; he tried each of the sumptuous chairs, and thought how proud he would be if the Offal Court herd could only peep in and see him in his grandeur.  He wondered if they would believe the marvellous tale he should tell when he got home, or if they would shake their heads, and say his overtaxed imagination had at last upset his reason.

At the end of half an hour it suddenly occurred to him that the prince was gone a long time; then right away he began to feel lonely; very soon he fell to listening and longing, and ceased to toy with the pretty things about him; he grew uneasy, then restless, then distressed. Suppose some one should come, and catch him in the prince’s clothes, and the prince not there to explain.  Might they not hang him at once, and inquire into his case afterward?  He had heard that the great were prompt about small matters.  His fear rose higher and higher; and trembling he softly opened the door to the antechamber, resolved to fly and seek the prince, and, through him, protection and release.  Six gorgeous gentlemen-servants and two young pages of high degree, clothed like butterflies, sprang to their feet and bowed low before him.  He stepped quickly back and shut the door.  He said—

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“Oh, they mock at me!  They will go and tell.  Oh! why came I here to cast away my life?”

He walked up and down the floor, filled with nameless fears, listening, starting at every trifling sound.  Presently the door swung open, and a silken page said—

“The Lady Jane Grey.”

The door closed and a sweet young girl, richly clad, bounded toward him. But she stopped suddenly, and said in a distressed voice—

“Oh, what aileth thee, my lord?”

Tom’s breath was nearly failing him; but he made shift to stammer out—

“Ah, be merciful, thou!  In sooth I am no lord, but only poor Tom Canty of Offal Court in the city.  Prithee let me see the prince, and he will of his grace restore to me my rags, and let me hence unhurt.  Oh, be thou merciful, and save me!”

By this time the boy was on his knees, and supplicating with his eyes and uplifted hands as well as with his tongue.  The young girl seemed horror-stricken.  She cried out—

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“O my lord, on thy knees?—and tome!”

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

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

Whilst he lay there benumbed with terror, dreadful tidings were speeding through the palace.  The whisper—for it was whispered always—flew from menial to menial, from lord to lady, down all the long corridors, from story to story, from saloon to saloon, “The prince hath gone mad, the prince hath gone mad!”  Soon every saloon, every marble hall, had its groups of glittering lords and ladies, and other groups of dazzling lesser folk, talking earnestly together in whispers, and every face had in it dismay. Presently a splendid official came marching by these groups, making solemn proclamation—

“IN THE NAME OF THE KING!

Let none list to this false and foolish matter, upon pain of death, nor discuss the same, nor carry it abroad.  In the name of the King!”

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

Soon there was a general buzz along the corridors, of “The prince! See, the prince comes!”

Poor Tom came slowly walking past the low-bowing groups, trying to bow in return, and meekly gazing upon his strange surroundings with bewildered and pathetic eyes.  Great nobles walked upon each side of him, making him lean upon them, and so steady his steps. Behind him followed the court-physicians and some servants.

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Presently Tom found himself in a noble apartment of the palace and heard the door close behind him.  Around him stood those who had come with him. Before him, at a little distance, reclined a very large and very fat man, with a wide, pulpy face, and a stern expression.  His large head was very grey; and his whiskers, which he wore only around his face, like a frame, were grey also.  His clothing was of rich stuff, but old, and slightly frayed in places.  One of his swollen legs had a pillow under it, and was wrapped in bandages.  There was silence now; and there was no head there but was bent in reverence, except this man’s.  This stern-countenanced invalid was the dread Henry VIII.  He said—and his face grew gentle as he began to speak—

“How now, my lord Edward, my prince?  Hast been minded to cozen me, the good King thy father, who loveth thee, and kindly useth thee, with a sorry jest?”

Poor Tom was listening, as well as his dazed faculties would let him, to the beginning of this speech; but when the words ‘me, the good King’ fell upon his ear, his face blanched, and he dropped as instantly upon his knees as if a shot had brought him there. Lifting up his hands, he exclaimed—

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“Thou theKing?  Then am I undone indeed!”

This speech seemed to stun the King.  His eyes wandered from face to face aimlessly, then rested, bewildered, upon the boy before him.  Then he said in a tone of deep disappointment—

“Alack, I had believed the rumour disproportioned to the truth; but I fear me ’tis not so.”  He breathed a heavy sigh, and said in a gentle voice, “Come to thy father, child:  thou art not well.”

Tom was assisted to his feet, and approached the Majesty of England, humble and trembling.  The King took the frightened face between his hands, and gazed earnestly and lovingly into it awhile, as if seeking some grateful sign of returning reason there, then pressed the curly head against his breast, and patted it tenderly.  Presently he said—

“Dost not know thy father, child?  Break not mine old heart; say thou know’st me.  Thoudostknow me, dost thou not?”

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

“True, true—that is well—be comforted, tremble not so; there is none here would hurt thee; there is none here but loves thee. Thou art better now; thy ill dream passeth—is’t not so?  Thou wilt not miscall thyself again, as they say thou didst a little while agone?”

“I pray thee of thy grace believe me, I did but speak the truth, most dread lord; for I am the meanest among thy subjects, being a pauper born, and ’tis by a sore mischance and accident I am here, albeit I was therein nothing blameful.  I am but young to die, and thou canst save me with one little word.  Oh speak it, sir!”

“Die?  Talk not so, sweet prince—peace, peace, to thy troubled heart—thou shalt not die!”

Tom dropped upon his knees with a glad cry—

“God requite thy mercy, O my King, and save thee long to bless thy land!” Then springing up, he turned a joyful face toward the two lords in waiting, and exclaimed, “Thou heard’st it!  I am not to die:  the King hath said it!”  There was no movement, save that all bowed with grave respect; but no one spoke.  He hesitated, a little confused, then turned timidly toward the King, saying, “I may go now?”

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“Go?  Surely, if thou desirest.  But why not tarry yet a little? Whither would’st go?”

Tom dropped his eyes, and answered humbly—

“Peradventure I mistook; but I did think me free, and so was I moved to seek again the kennel where I was born and bred to misery, yet which harboureth my mother and my sisters, and so is home to me; whereas these pomps and splendours whereunto I am not used—oh, please you, sir, to let me go!”

The King was silent and thoughtful a while, and his face betrayed a growing distress and uneasiness.  Presently he said, with something of hope in his voice—

“Perchance he is but mad upon this one strain, and hath his wits unmarred as toucheth other matter.  God send it may be so!  We will make trial.”

Then he asked Tom a question in Latin, and Tom answered him lamely in the same tongue.  The lords and doctors manifested their gratification also. The King said—

“’Twas not according to his schooling and ability, but showeth that his mind is but diseased, not stricken fatally.  How say you, sir?”

The physician addressed bowed low, and replied—

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

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The King looked pleased with this encouragement, coming as it did from so excellent authority, and continued with good heart—

“Now mark ye all:  we will try him further.”

He put a question to Tom in French.  Tom stood silent a moment, embarrassed by having so many eyes centred upon him, then said diffidently—

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

The King fell back upon his couch.  The attendants flew to his assistance; but he put them aside, and said—

“Trouble me not—it is nothing but a scurvy faintness.  Raise me! There, ’tis sufficient.  Come hither, child; there, rest thy poor troubled head upon thy father’s heart, and be at peace.  Thou’lt soon be well:  ’tis but a passing fantasy.  Fear thou not; thou’lt soon be well.”  Then he turned toward the company:  his gentle manner changed, and baleful lightnings began to play from his eyes.  He said—

“List ye all!  This my son is mad; but it is not permanent.  Over-study hath done this, and somewhat too much of confinement.  Away with his books and teachers! see ye to it.  Pleasure him with sports, beguile him in wholesome ways, so that his health come again.”  He raised himself higher still, and went on with energy, “He is mad; but he is my son, and England’s heir; and, mad or sane, still shall he reign!  And hear ye further, and proclaim it: whoso speaketh of this his distemper worketh against the peace and order of these realms, and shall to the gallows! . . . Give me to drink—I burn:  this sorrow sappeth my strength. . . . There, take away the cup. . . . Support me.  There, that is well.  Mad, is he?  Were he a thousand times mad, yet is he Prince of Wales, and I the King will confirm it.  This very morrow shall he be installed in his princely dignity in due and ancient form.  Take instant order for it, my lord Hertford.”

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

“The King’s majesty knoweth that the Hereditary Great Marshal of England lieth attainted in the Tower.  It were not meet that one attainted—”

“Peace!  Insult not mine ears with his hated name.  Is this man to live for ever?  Am I to be baulked of my will?  Is the prince to tarry uninstalled, because, forsooth, the realm lacketh an Earl Marshal free of treasonable taint to invest him with his honours? No, by the splendour of God!  Warn my Parliament to bring me Norfolk’s doom before the sun rise again, else shall they answer for it grievously!” {1}

Lord Hertford said—

“The King’s will is law;” and, rising, returned to his former place.

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