The Prince and the Pauper, Mark Twain [fantasy novels to read .TXT] 📗

and

poured the history of his own recent misfortunes into the ears of his

astonished listener. When he had finished, Miles said to himself—

 

“Lo, what an imagination he hath! Verily, this is no common mind; else,

crazed or sane, it could not weave so straight and gaudy a tale as this

out of the airy nothings wherewith it hath wrought this curious romaunt.

Poor ruined little head, it shall not lack friend or shelter whilst I

bide with the living. He shall never leave my side; he shall be my pet,

my little comrade. And he shall be cured!—ay, made whole and sound—

then will he make himself a name—and proud shall I be to say, ‘Yes, he

is mine—I took him, a homeless little ragamuffin, but I saw what was in

him, and I said his name would be heard some day—behold him, observe

him—was I right?’”

 

The King spoke—in a thoughtful, measured voice—

 

“Thou didst save me injury and shame, perchance my life, and so my crown.

Such service demandeth rich reward. Name thy desire, and so it be within

the compass of my royal power, it is thine.”

 

This fantastic suggestion startled Hendon out of his reverie. He was

about to thank the King and put the matter aside with saying he had only

done his duty and desired no reward, but a wiser thought came into his

head, and he asked leave to be silent a few moments and consider the

gracious offer—an idea which the King gravely approved, remarking that

it was best to be not too hasty with a thing of such great import.

 

Miles reflected during some moments, then said to himself, “Yes, that is

the thing to do—by any other means it were impossible to get at it—and

certes, this hour’s experience has taught me ‘twould be most wearing and

inconvenient to continue it as it is. Yes, I will propose it; ‘twas a

happy accident that I did not throw the chance away.” Then he dropped

upon one knee and said—

 

“My poor service went not beyond the limit of a subject’s simple duty,

and therefore hath no merit; but since your Majesty is pleased to hold it

worthy some reward, I take heart of grace to make petition to this

effect. Near four hundred years ago, as your grace knoweth, there being

ill blood betwixt John, King of England, and the King of France, it was

decreed that two champions should fight together in the lists, and so

settle the dispute by what is called the arbitrament of God. These two

kings, and the Spanish king, being assembled to witness and judge the

conflict, the French champion appeared; but so redoubtable was he, that

our English knights refused to measure weapons with him. So the matter,

which was a weighty one, was like to go against the English monarch by

default. Now in the Tower lay the Lord de Courcy, the mightiest arm in

England, stripped of his honours and possessions, and wasting with long

captivity. Appeal was made to him; he gave assent, and came forth

arrayed for battle; but no sooner did the Frenchman glimpse his huge

frame and hear his famous name but he fled away, and the French king’s

cause was lost. King John restored De Courcy’s titles and possessions,

and said, ‘Name thy wish and thou shalt have it, though it cost me half

my kingdom;’ whereat De Courcy, kneeling, as I do now, made answer,

‘This, then, I ask, my liege; that I and my successors may have and hold

the privilege of remaining covered in the presence of the kings of

England, henceforth while the throne shall last.’ The boon was granted,

as your Majesty knoweth; and there hath been no time, these four hundred

years, that that line has failed of an heir; and so, even unto this day,

the head of that ancient house still weareth his hat or helm before the

King’s Majesty, without let or hindrance, and this none other may do. {3}

Invoking this precedent in aid of my prayer, I beseech the King to grant

to me but this one grace and privilege—to my more than sufficient

reward—and none other, to wit: that I and my heirs, for ever, may SIT

in the presence of the Majesty of England!”

 

“Rise, Sir Miles Hendon, Knight,” said the King, gravely—giving the

accolade with Hendon’s sword—“rise, and seat thyself. Thy petition is

granted. Whilst England remains, and the crown continues, the privilege

shall not lapse.”

 

His Majesty walked apart, musing, and Hendon dropped into a chair at

table, observing to himself, “‘Twas a brave thought, and hath wrought me

a mighty deliverance; my legs are grievously wearied. An I had not

thought of that, I must have had to stand for weeks, till my poor lad’s

wits are cured.” After a little, he went on, “And so I am become a

knight of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows! A most odd and strange

position, truly, for one so matter-of-fact as I. I will not laugh—no,

God forbid, for this thing which is so substanceless to me is REAL to

him. And to me, also, in one way, it is not a falsity, for it reflects

with truth the sweet and generous spirit that is in him.” After a pause:

“Ah, what if he should call me by my fine title before folk!—there’d be

a merry contrast betwixt my glory and my raiment! But no matter, let him

call me what he will, so it please him; I shall be content.”

 

Chapter XIII. The disappearance of the Prince.

 

A heavy drowsiness presently fell upon the two comrades. The King said—

 

“Remove these rags”—meaning his clothing.

 

Hendon disapparelled the boy without dissent or remark, tucked him up in

bed, then glanced about the room, saying to himself, ruefully, “He hath

taken my bed again, as before—marry, what shall I do?” The little

King observed his perplexity, and dissipated it with a word. He said,

sleepily—

 

“Thou wilt sleep athwart the door, and guard it.” In a moment more he

was out of his troubles, in a deep slumber.

 

“Dear heart, he should have been born a king!” muttered Hendon,

admiringly; “he playeth the part to a marvel.”

 

Then he stretched himself across the door, on the floor, saying

contentedly—

 

“I have lodged worse for seven years; ‘twould be but ill gratitude to Him

above to find fault with this.”

 

He dropped asleep as the dawn appeared. Toward noon he rose, uncovered

his unconscious ward—a section at a time—and took his measure with a

string. The King awoke, just as he had completed his work, complained of

the cold, and asked what he was doing.

 

“‘Tis done, now, my liege,” said Hendon; “I have a bit of business

outside, but will presently return; sleep thou again—thou needest it.

There—let me cover thy head also—thou’lt be warm the sooner.”

 

The King was back in dreamland before this speech was ended. Miles

slipped softly out, and slipped as softly in again, in the course of

thirty or forty minutes, with a complete second-hand suit of boy’s

clothing, of cheap material, and showing signs of wear; but tidy, and

suited to the season of the year. He seated himself, and began to

overhaul his purchase, mumbling to himself—

 

“A longer purse would have got a better sort, but when one has not the

long purse one must be content with what a short one may do—

 

“‘There was a woman in our town, In our town did dwell—’

 

“He stirred, methinks—I must sing in a less thunderous key; ‘tis not

good to mar his sleep, with this journey before him, and he so wearied

out, poor chap … This garment—‘tis well enough—a stitch here and

another one there will set it aright. This other is better, albeit a

stitch or two will not come amiss in it, likewise … THESE be very

good and sound, and will keep his small feet warm and dry—an odd new

thing to him, belike, since he has doubtless been used to foot it bare,

winters and summers the same … Would thread were bread, seeing one

getteth a year’s sufficiency for a farthing, and such a brave big needle

without cost, for mere love. Now shall I have the demon’s own time to

thread it!”

 

And so he had. He did as men have always done, and probably always will

do, to the end of time—held the needle still, and tried to thrust the

thread through the eye, which is the opposite of a woman’s way. Time and

time again the thread missed the mark, going sometimes on one side of the

needle, sometimes on the other, sometimes doubling up against the shaft;

but he was patient, having been through these experiences before, when he

was soldiering. He succeeded at last, and took up the garment that had

lain waiting, meantime, across his lap, and began his work.

 

“The inn is paid—the breakfast that is to come, included—and there is

wherewithal left to buy a couple of donkeys and meet our little costs for

the two or three days betwixt this and the plenty that awaits us at

Hendon Hall—

 

“‘She loved her hus—’

 

“Body o’ me! I have driven the needle under my nail! … It matters

little—‘tis not a novelty—yet ‘tis not a convenience, neither …We

shall be merry there, little one, never doubt it! Thy troubles will

vanish there, and likewise thy sad distemper—

 

“‘She loved her husband dearilee, But another man—’

 

“These be noble large stitches!”—holding the garment up and viewing it

admiringly—“they have a grandeur and a majesty that do cause these small

stingy ones of the tailor-man to look mightily paltry and plebeian—

 

“‘She loved her husband dearilee, But another man he loved she,—’

 

“Marry, ‘tis done—a goodly piece of work, too, and wrought with

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

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

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

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

deaf to speech. What!”

 

He threw back the covers—the boy was gone!

 

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

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

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

servant entered with the breakfast.

 

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

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

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

the boy?”

 

In disjointed and trembling syllables the man gave the information

desired.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

so—”

 

“And so thou’rt a fool!—a fool and easily cozened—hang all thy breed!

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

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

disposed as if one lay beneath them—happened that by accident?”

 

“I