Chapter XII. The Prince and his deliverer.

by Mark Twain

　　As soon as Miles Hendon and the little prince were clear of themob, they struck down through back lanes and alleys toward theriver. Their way was unobstructed until they approached LondonBridge; then they ploughed into the multitude again, Hendonkeeping a fast grip upon the Prince's--no, the King's--wrist. Thetremendous news was already abroad, and the boy learned it from athousand voices at once--"The King is dead!" The tidings struck achill to the heart of the poor little waif, and sent a shudderthrough his frame. He realised the greatness of his loss, and wasfilled with a bitter grief; for the grim tyrant who had been sucha terror to others had always been gentle with him. The tearssprang to his eyes and blurred all objects. For an instant hefelt himself the most forlorn, outcast, and forsaken of God'screatures--then another cry shook the night with its far-reachingthunders: "Long live King Edward the Sixth!" and this made hiseyes 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 thebridge. This structure, which had stood for six hundred years,and had been a noisy and populous thoroughfare all that time, wasa 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 oftown to itself; it had its inn, its beer-houses, its bakeries, itshaberdasheries, its food markets, its manufacturing industries,and even its church. It looked upon the two neighbours which itlinked together--London and Southwark--as being well enough assuburbs, but not otherwise particularly important. It was a closecorporation, so to speak; it was a narrow town, of a single streeta fifth of a mile long, its population was but a villagepopulation and everybody in it knew all his fellow-townsmenintimately, and had known their fathers and mothers before them--and all their little family affairs into the bargain. It had itsaristocracy, of course--its fine old families of butchers, andbakers, and what-not, who had occupied the same old premises forfive or six hundred years, and knew the great history of theBridge from beginning to end, and all its strange legends; and whoalways talked bridgy talk, and thought bridgy thoughts, and liedin a long, level, direct, substantial bridgy way. It was just thesort of population to be narrow and ignorant and self-conceited.Children were born on the Bridge, were reared there, grew to oldage, and finally died without ever having set a foot upon any partof the world but London Bridge alone. Such people would naturallyimagine that the mighty and interminable procession which movedthrough its street night and day, with its confused roar of shoutsand cries, its neighings and bellowing and bleatings and itsmuffled thunder-tramp, was the one great thing in this world, andthemselves somehow the proprietors of it. And so they were, ineffect--at least they could exhibit it from their windows, anddid--for a consideration--whenever a returning king or hero gaveit a fleeting splendour, for there was no place like it foraffording a long, straight, uninterrupted view of marchingcolumns.Men born and reared upon the Bridge found life unendurably dulland inane elsewhere. History tells of one of these who left theBridge at the age of seventy-one and retired to the country. Buthe could only fret and toss in his bed; he could not go to sleep,the deep stillness was so painful, so awful, so oppressive. Whenhe was worn out with it, at last, he fled back to his old home, alean and haggard spectre, and fell peacefully to rest and pleasantdreams under the lulling music of the lashing waters and the boomand crash and thunder of London Bridge.In the times of which we are writing, the Bridge furnished 'objectlessons' in English history for its children--namely, the lividand decaying heads of renowned men impaled upon iron spikes atopof its gateways. But we digress.Hendon's lodgings were in the little inn on the Bridge. As heneared the door with his small friend, a rough voice said--"So, thou'rt come at last! Thou'lt not escape again, I warrantthee; and if pounding thy bones to a pudding can teach theesomewhat, thou'lt not keep us waiting another time, mayhap"--andJohn 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. Whatis 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 headpiece besound or cracked, my boy. But whether this scurvy ruffian be thyfather or no, 'tis all one, he shall not have thee to beat theeand abuse, according to his threat, so thou prefer to bide withme.""I do, I do--I know him not, I loathe him, and will die before Iwill go with him.""Then 'tis settled, and there is nought more to say.""We will see, as to that!" exclaimed John Canty, striding pastHendon to get at the boy; "by force shall he--""If thou do but touch him, thou animated offal, I will spit theelike a goose!" said Hendon, barring the way and laying his handupon his sword hilt. Canty drew back. "Now mark ye," continuedHendon, "I took this lad under my protection when a mob of such asthou would have mishandled him, mayhap killed him; dost imagine Iwill desert him now to a worser fate?--for whether thou art hisfather or no--and sooth to say, I think it is a lie--a decentswift death were better for such a lad than life in such brutehands as thine. So go thy ways, and set quick about it, for Ilike not much bandying of words, being not over-patient in mynature."John Canty moved off, muttering threats and curses, and wasswallowed from sight in the crowd. Hendon ascended three flightsof stairs to his room, with his charge, after ordering a meal tobe sent thither. It was a poor apartment, with a shabby bed andsome odds and ends of old furniture in it, and was vaguely lightedby a couple of sickly candles. The little King dragged himself tothe bed and lay down upon it, almost exhausted with hunger andfatigue. 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 hadeaten nothing meantime. He murmured drowsily--"Prithee call me when the table is spread," and sank into a deepsleep 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 usurpsone'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 thesort. In his diseased ravings he called himself the Prince ofWales, and bravely doth he keep up the character. Poor littlefriendless rat, doubtless his mind has been disordered with ill-usage. Well, I will be his friend; I have saved him, and itdraweth me strongly to him; already I love the bold-tongued littlerascal. How soldier-like he faced the smutty rabble and flungback his high defiance! And what a comely, sweet and gentle facehe hath, now that sleep hath conjured away its troubles and itsgriefs. I will teach him; I will cure his malady; yea, I will behis elder brother, and care for him and watch over him; and whosowould shame him or do him hurt may order his shroud, for though Ibe burnt for it he shall need it!"He bent over the boy and contemplated him with kind and pityinginterest, tapping the young cheek tenderly and smoothing back thetangled curls with his great brown hand. A slight shiver passedover the boy's form. Hendon muttered--"See, now, how like a man it was to let him lie here uncovered andfill his body with deadly rheums. Now what shall I do? 'twillwake him to take him up and put him within the bed, and he sorelyneedeth sleep."He looked about for extra covering, but finding none, doffed hisdoublet and wrapped the lad in it, saying, "I am used to nippingair and scant apparel, 'tis little I shall mind the cold!"--thenwalked up and down the room, to keep his blood in motion,soliloquising as before."His injured mind persuades him he is Prince of Wales; 'twill beodd to have a Prince of Wales still with us, now that he that wasthe prince is prince no more, but king--for this poor mind is setupon the one fantasy, and will not reason out that now it shouldcast by the prince and call itself the king. . . If my fatherliveth still, after these seven years that I have heard noughtfrom home in my foreign dungeon, he will welcome the poor lad andgive him generous shelter for my sake; so will my good elderbrother, Arthur; my other brother, Hugh--but I will crack hiscrown 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 smalldeal table, placed the chairs, and took his departure, leavingsuch cheap lodgers as these to wait upon themselves. The doorslammed after him, and the noise woke the boy, who sprang to asitting posture, and shot a glad glance about him; then a grievedlook came into his face and he murmured to himself, with a deepsigh, "Alack, it was but a dream, woe is me!" Next he noticedMiles Hendon's doublet--glanced from that to Hendon, comprehendedthe sacrifice that had been made for him, and said, gently--"Thou art good to me, yes, thou art very good to me. Take it andput it on--I shall not need it more."Then he got up and walked to the washstand in the corner and stoodthere, waiting. Hendon said in a cheery voice--"We'll have a right hearty sup and bite, now, for everything issavoury and smoking hot, and that and thy nap together will makethee a little man again, never fear!"The boy made no answer, but bent a steady look, that was filledwith 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 aughtthou cravest. Make thyself perfectly free here, and welcome, withall that are his belongings."Still the boy stood, and moved not; more, he tapped the floor onceor twice with his small impatient foot. Hendon was whollyperplexed. 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 allthe saints, but this is admirable!" stepped briskly forward anddid the small insolent's bidding; then stood by, in a sort ofstupefaction, until the command, "Come--the towel!" woke himsharply up. He took up a towel, from under the boy's nose, andhanded it to him without comment. He now proceeded to comfort hisown face with a wash, and while he was at it his adopted childseated himself at the table and prepared to fall to. Hendondespatched his ablutions with alacrity, then drew back the otherchair 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 tohimself, "Lo, the poor thing's madness is up with the time! Ithath changed with the great change that is come to the realm, andnow in fancy is he king! Good lack, I must humour 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 inthe courtliest way he was capable of.While the King ate, the rigour of his royal dignity relaxed alittle, and with his growing contentment came a desire to talk.He said--"I think thou callest thyself Miles Hendon, if I heardthee aright?""Yes, Sire," Miles replied; then observed to himself, "If I musthumour the poor lad's madness, I must 'Sire' him, I must 'Majesty'him, I must not go by halves, I must stick at nothing thatbelongeth to the part I play, else shall I play it ill and workevil 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 waywith thee, and a noble--art nobly born?""We are of the tail of the nobility, good your Majesty. My fatheris a baronet--one of the smaller lords by knight service {2}--SirRichard 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 shorthalf-hour for want of a better. My father, Sir Richard, is veryrich, and of a most generous nature. My mother died whilst I wasyet a boy. I have two brothers: Arthur, my elder, with a soullike to his father's; and Hugh, younger than I, a mean spirit,covetous, treacherous, vicious, underhanded--a reptile. Such washe from the cradle; such was he ten years past, when I last sawhim--a ripe rascal at nineteen, I being twenty then, and Arthurtwenty-two. There is none other of us but the Lady Edith, mycousin--she was sixteen then--beautiful, gentle, good, thedaughter of an earl, the last of her race, heiress of a greatfortune and a lapsed title. My father was her guardian. I lovedher and she loved me; but she was betrothed to Arthur from thecradle, and Sir Richard would not suffer the contract to bebroken. Arthur loved another maid, and bade us be of good cheerand hold fast to the hope that delay and luck together would someday give success to our several causes. Hugh loved the LadyEdith's fortune, though in truth he said it was herself he loved--but then 'twas his way, alway, to say the one thing and mean theother. But he lost his arts upon the girl; he could deceive myfather, but none else. My father loved him best of us all, andtrusted and believed him; for he was the youngest child, andothers hated him--these qualities being in all ages sufficient towin a parent's dearest love; and he had a smooth persuasivetongue, with an admirable gift of lying--and these be qualitieswhich do mightily assist a blind affection to cozen itself. I waswild--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 crimeor baseness, or what might not beseem mine honourable degree."Yet did my brother Hugh turn these faults to good account--heseeing that our brother Arthur's health was but indifferent, andhoping the worst might work him profit were I swept out of thepath--so--but 'twere a long tale, good my liege, and little worththe telling. Briefly, then, this brother did deftly magnify myfaults and make them crimes; ending his base work with finding asilken ladder in mine apartments--conveyed thither by his ownmeans--and did convince my father by this, and suborned evidenceof servants and other lying knaves, that I was minded to carry offmy Edith and marry with her in rank defiance of his will."Three years of banishment from home and England might make asoldier and a man of me, my father said, and teach me some degreeof wisdom. I fought out my long probation in the continentalwars, tasting sumptuously of hard knocks, privation, andadventure; but in my last battle I was taken captive, and duringthe seven years that have waxed and waned since then, a foreigndungeon hath harboured me. Through wit and courage I won to thefree air at last, and fled hither straight; and am but justarrived, right poor in purse and raiment, and poorer still inknowledge of what these dull seven years have wrought at HendonHall, its people and belongings. So please you, sir, my meagretale is told.""Thou hast been shamefully abused!" said the little King, with aflashing eye. "But I will right thee--by the cross will I! TheKing hath said it."Then, fired by the story of Miles's wrongs, he loosed his tongueand poured the history of his own recent misfortunes into the earsof his astonished listener. When he had finished, Miles said tohimself--"Lo, what an imagination he hath! Verily, this is no common mind;else, crazed or sane, it could not weave so straight and gaudy atale as this out of the airy nothings wherewith it hath wroughtthis curious romaunt. Poor ruined little head, it shall not lackfriend or shelter whilst I bide with the living. He shall neverleave my side; he shall be my pet, my little comrade. And heshall be curedthen will he makehimself a name--and proud shall I be to say, 'Yes, he is mine--Itook him, a homeless little ragamuffin, but I saw what was in him,and I said his name would be heard some day--behold him, observehim--was I right?'"The King spoke--in a thoughtful, measured voice--"Thou didst save me injury and shame, perchance my life, and so mycrown. Such service demandeth rich reward. Name thy desire, andso it be within the compass of my royal power, it is thine."This fantastic suggestion startled Hendon out of his reverie. Hewas about to thank the King and put the matter aside with sayinghe had only done his duty and desired no reward, but a wiserthought came into his head, and he asked leave to be silent a fewmoments and consider the gracious offer--an idea which the Kinggravely approved, remarking that it was best to be not too hastywith 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 toget 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 notthrow the chance away." Then he dropped upon one knee and said--"My poor service went not beyond the limit of a subject's simpleduty, and therefore hath no merit; but since your Majesty ispleased to hold it worthy some reward, I take heart of grace tomake petition to this effect. Near four hundred years ago, asyour grace knoweth, there being ill blood betwixt John, King ofEngland, and the King of France, it was decreed that two championsshould fight together in the lists, and so settle the dispute bywhat is called the arbitrament of God. These two kings, and theSpanish king, being assembled to witness and judge the conflict,the French champion appeared; but so redoubtable was he, that ourEnglish knights refused to measure weapons with him. So thematter, which was a weighty one, was like to go against theEnglish monarch by default. Now in the Tower lay the Lord deCourcy, the mightiest arm in England, stripped of his honours andpossessions, and wasting with long captivity. Appeal was made tohim; he gave assent, and came forth arrayed for battle; but nosooner did the Frenchman glimpse his huge frame and hear hisfamous name but he fled away, and the French king's cause waslost. King John restored De Courcy's titles and possessions, andsaid, 'Name thy wish and thou shalt have it, though it cost mehalf my kingdom;' whereat De Courcy, kneeling, as I do now, madeanswer, 'This, then, I ask, my liege; that I and my successors mayhave and hold the privilege of remaining covered in the presenceof the kings of England, henceforth while the throne shall last.'The boon was granted, as your Majesty knoweth; and there hath beenno time, these four hundred years, that that line has failed of anheir; and so, even unto this day, the head of that ancient housestill weareth his hat or helm before the King's Majesty, withoutlet or hindrance, and this none other may do. {3} Invoking thisprecedent in aid of my prayer, I beseech the King to grant to mebut this one grace and privilege--to my more than sufficientreward--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--givingthe accolade with Hendon's sword--"rise, and seat thyself. Thypetition is granted. Whilst England remains, and the crowncontinues, the privilege shall not lapse."His Majesty walked apart, musing, and Hendon dropped into a chairat table, observing to himself, "'Twas a brave thought, and hathwrought 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-factas I. I will not laugh--no, God forbid, for this thing which isso substanceless to me is real to him. And to me, also, in oneway, it is not a falsity, for it reflects with truth the sweet andgenerous spirit that is in him." After a pause: "Ah, what if heshould call me by my fine title before folk!--there'd be a merrycontrast betwixt my glory and my raiment! But no matter, let himcall me what he will, so it please him; I shall be content."