Chapter XVIII. The Prince with the tramps.
The troop of vagabonds turned out at early dawn, and set
forward on their march. There was a lowering sky overhead,
sloppy ground under foot, and a winter chill in the air.
All gaiety was gone from the company; some were sullen and
silent, some were irritable and petulant, none were
gentle-humoured, all were thirsty.
The Ruffler put 'Jack' in Hugo's charge, with some brief
instructions, and commanded John Canty to keep away from him
and let him alone; he also warned Hugo not to be too rough
with the lad.
After a while the weather grew milder, and the clouds lifted somewhat.
The troop ceased to shiver, and their spirits began to
improve. They grew more and more cheerful, and finally
began to chaff each other and insult passengers along the
highway. This showed that they were awaking to an
appreciation of life and its joys once more. The dread in
which their sort was held was apparent in the fact that
everybody gave them the road, and took their ribald
insolences meekly, without venturing to talk back. They
snatched linen from the hedges, occasionally in full view of
the owners, who made no protest, but only seemed grateful
that they did not take the hedges, too.
By-and-by they invaded a small farmhouse and made themselves at home
while the trembling farmer and his people swept the larder
clean to furnish a breakfast for them. They chucked the
housewife and her daughters under the chin whilst receiving
the food from their hands, and made coarse jests about them,
accompanied with insulting epithets and bursts of
horse-laughter. They threw bones and vegetables at the
farmer and his sons, kept them dodging all the time, and
applauded uproariously when a good hit was made. They ended
by buttering the head of one of the daughters who resented
some of their familiarities. When they took their leave
they threatened to come back and burn the house over the
heads of the family if any report of their doings got to the
ears of the authorities.
About noon, after a long and weary tramp, the gang came
to a halt behind a hedge on the outskirts of a considerable
village. An hour was allowed for rest, then the crew
scattered themselves abroad to enter the village at
different points to ply their various trades—'Jack' was sent
with Hugo. They wandered hither and thither for some time,
Hugo watching for opportunities to do a stroke of business,
but finding none—so he finally said—
"I see nought to steal; it is a paltry place. Wherefore
we will beg."
"WE, forsooth! Follow thy trade—it befits thee. But _I_
will not beg."
"Thou'lt not beg!" exclaimed Hugo, eyeing the King with
surprise. "Prithee, since when hast thou reformed?"
"What dost thou mean?"
"Mean? Hast thou not begged the streets of London all
thy life?"
"I? Thou idiot!"
"Spare thy compliments—thy stock will last the longer.
Thy father says thou hast begged all thy days. Mayhap he
lied. Peradventure you will even make so bold as to SAY he
lied," scoffed Hugo.
"Him YOU call my father? Yes, he lied."
"Come, play not thy merry game of madman so far, mate;
use it for thy amusement, not thy hurt. An' I tell him
this, he will scorch thee finely for it."
"Save thyself the trouble. I will tell him."
"I like thy spirit, I do in truth; but I do not admire
thy judgment. Bone-rackings and bastings be plenty enow in
this life, without going out of one's way to invite them.
But a truce to these matters; _I_ believe your father. I
doubt not he can lie; I doubt not he DOTH lie, upon
occasion, for the best of us do that; but there is no
occasion here. A wise man does not waste so good a
commodity as lying for nought. But come; sith it is thy
humour to give over begging, wherewithal shall we busy
ourselves? With robbing kitchens?"
The King said, impatiently—
"Have done with this folly—you weary me!"
Hugo replied, with temper—
"Now harkee, mate; you will not beg, you will not rob; so
be it. But I will tell you what you WILL do. You will play
decoy whilst _I_ beg. Refuse, an' you think you may
venture!"
The King was about to reply contemptuously, when Hugo
said, interrupting—
"Peace! Here comes one with a kindly face. Now will I
fall down in a fit. When the stranger runs to me, set you
up a wail, and fall upon your knees, seeming to weep; then
cry out as all the devils of misery were in your belly, and
say, 'Oh, sir, it is my poor afflicted brother, and we be
friendless; o' God's name cast through your merciful eyes
one pitiful look upon a sick, forsaken, and most miserable
wretch; bestow one little penny out of thy riches upon one
smitten of God and ready to perish!'—and mind you, keep you
ON wailing, and abate not till we bilk him of his penny,
else shall you rue it."
Then immediately Hugo began to moan, and groan, and roll
his eyes, and reel and totter about; and when the stranger
was close at hand, down he sprawled before him, with a
shriek, and began to writhe and wallow in the dirt, in
seeming agony.
"O, dear, O dear!" cried the benevolent stranger, "O poor soul, poor
soul, how he doth suffer! There—let me help thee up."
"O noble sir, forbear, and God love you for a princely
gentleman—but it giveth me cruel pain to touch me when I am
taken so. My brother there will tell your worship how I am
racked with anguish when these fits be upon me. A penny,
dear sir, a penny, to buy a little food; then leave me to my
sorrows."
"A penny! thou shalt have three, thou hapless
creature,"—and he fumbled in his pocket with nervous haste
and got them out. "There, poor lad, take them and most
welcome. Now come hither, my boy, and help me carry thy
stricken brother to yon house, where—"
"I am not his brother," said the King, interrupting.
"What! not his brother?"
"Oh, hear him!" groaned Hugo, then privately ground his
teeth. "He denies his own brother—and he with one foot in
the grave!"
"Boy, thou art indeed hard of heart, if this is thy
brother. For shame!—and he scarce able to move hand or
foot. If he is not thy brother, who is he, then?"
"A beggar and a thief! He has got your money and has picked your
pocket likewise. An' thou would'st do a healing miracle,
lay thy staff over his shoulders and trust Providence for
the rest."
But Hugo did not tarry for the miracle. In a moment he
was up and off like the wind, the gentleman following after
and raising the hue and cry lustily as he went. The King,
breathing deep gratitude to Heaven for his own release, fled
in the opposite direction, and did not slacken his pace
until he was out of harm's reach. He took the first road
that offered, and soon put the village behind him. He
hurried along, as briskly as he could, during several hours,
keeping a nervous watch over his shoulder for pursuit; but
his fears left him at last, and a grateful sense of security
took their place. He recognised, now, that he was hungry,
and also very tired. So he halted at a farmhouse; but when
he was about to speak, he was cut short and driven rudely
away. His clothes were against him.
He wandered on, wounded and indignant, and was resolved
to put himself in the way of like treatment no more. But
hunger is pride's master; so, as the evening drew near, he
made an attempt at another farmhouse; but here he fared
worse than before; for he was called hard names and was
promised arrest as a vagrant except he moved on promptly.
The night came on, chilly and overcast; and still the
footsore monarch laboured slowly on. He was obliged to keep
moving, for every time he sat down to rest he was soon
penetrated to the bone with the cold. All his sensations
and experiences, as he moved through the solemn gloom and
the empty vastness of the night, were new and strange to
him. At intervals he heard voices approach, pass by, and
fade into silence; and as he saw nothing more of the bodies
they belonged to than a sort of formless drifting blur,
there was something spectral and uncanny about it all that
made him shudder. Occasionally he caught the twinkle of a
light—always far away, apparently—almost in another world;
if he heard the tinkle of a sheep's bell, it was vague,
distant, indistinct; the muffled lowing of the herds floated
to him on the night wind in vanishing cadences, a mournful
sound; now and then came the complaining howl of a dog over
viewless expanses of field and forest; all sounds were
remote; they made the little King feel that all life and
activity were far removed from him, and that he stood
solitary, companionless, in the centre of a measureless
solitude.
He stumbled along, through the gruesome fascinations of this new
experience, startled occasionally by the soft rustling of
the dry leaves overhead, so like human whispers they seemed
to sound; and by-and-by he came suddenly upon the freckled
light of a tin lantern near at hand. He stepped back into
the shadows and waited. The lantern stood by the open door
of a barn. The King waited some time—there was no sound,
and nobody stirring. He got so cold, standing still, and
the hospitable barn looked so enticing, that at last he
resolved to risk everything and enter. He started swiftly
and stealthily, and just as he was crossing the threshold he
heard voices behind him. He darted behind a cask, within
the barn, and stooped down. Two farm-labourers came in,
bringing the lantern with them, and fell to work, talking
meanwhile. Whilst they moved about with the light, the King
made good use of his eyes and took the bearings of what
seemed to be a good-sized stall at the further end of the
place, purposing to grope his way to it when he should be
left to himself. He also noted the position of a pile of
horse blankets, midway of the route, with the intent to levy
upon them for the service of the crown of England for one
night.
By-and-by the men finished and went away, fastening the
door behind them and taking the lantern with them. The
shivering King made for the blankets, with as good speed as
the darkness would allow; gathered them up, and then groped
his way safely to the stall. Of two of the blankets he made
a bed, then covered himself with the remaining two. He was
a glad monarch, now, though the blankets were old and thin,
and not quite warm enough; and besides gave out a pungent
horsey odour that was almost suffocatingly powerful.
Although the King was hungry and chilly, he was also so
tired and so drowsy that these latter influences soon began
to get the advantage of the former, and he presently dozed
off into a state of semi-consciousness. Then, just as he
was on the point of losing himself wholly, he distinctly
felt something touch him! He was broad awake in a moment,
and gasping for breath. The cold horror of that mysterious
touch in the dark almost made his heart stand still. He lay
motionless, and listened, scarcely breathing. But nothing
stirred, and there was no sound. He continued to listen,
and wait, during what seemed a long time, but still nothing
stirred, and there was no sound. So he began to drop into a
drowse once more, at last; and all at once he felt that
mysterious touch again! It was a grisly thing, this light
touch from this noiseless and invisible presence; it made
the boy sick with ghostly fears. What should he do? That
was the question; but he did not know how to answer it.
Should he leave these reasonably comfortable quarters and
fly from this inscrutable horror? But fly whither? He
could not get out of the barn; and the idea of scurrying
blindly hither and thither in the dark, within the captivity
of the four walls, with this phantom gliding after him, and
visiting him with that soft hideous touch upon cheek or
shoulder at every turn, was intolerable. But to stay where
he was, and endure this living death all night—was that
better? No. What, then, was there left to do? Ah, there
was but one course; he knew it well—he must put out his hand
and find that thing!
It was easy to think this; but it was hard to brace
himself up to try it. Three times he stretched his hand a
little way out into the dark, gingerly; and snatched it
suddenly back, with a gasp—not because it had encountered
anything, but because he had felt so sure it was just GOING
to. But the fourth time, he groped a little further, and
his hand lightly swept against something soft and warm.
This petrified him, nearly, with fright; his mind was in
such a state that he could imagine the thing to be nothing
else than a corpse, newly dead and still warm. He thought he
would rather die than touch it again. But he thought this
false thought because he did not know the immortal strength
of human curiosity. In no long time his hand was tremblingly
groping again—against his judgment, and without his
consent—but groping persistently on, just the same. It
encountered a bunch of long hair; he shuddered, but followed
up the hair and found what seemed to be a warm rope;
followed up the rope and found an innocent calf!—for the
rope was not a rope at all, but the calf's tail.
The King was cordially ashamed of himself for having gotten all that
fright and misery out of so paltry a matter as a slumbering
calf; but he need not have felt so about it, for it was not
the calf that frightened him, but a dreadful non-existent
something which the calf stood for; and any other boy, in
those old superstitious times, would have acted and suffered
just as he had done.
The King was not only delighted to find that the creature was only a
calf, but delighted to have the calf's company; for he had
been feeling so lonesome and friendless that the company and
comradeship of even this humble animal were welcome. And he
had been so buffeted, so rudely entreated by his own kind,
that it was a real comfort to him to feel that he was at
last in the society of a fellow-creature that had at least a
soft heart and a gentle spirit, whatever loftier attributes
might be lacking. So he resolved to waive rank and make
friends with the calf.
While stroking its sleek warm back—for it lay near him
and within easy reach—it occurred to him that this calf
might be utilised in more ways than one. Whereupon he
re-arranged his bed, spreading it down close to the calf;
then he cuddled himself up to the calf's back, drew the
covers up over himself and his friend, and in a minute or
two was as warm and comfortable as he had ever been in the
downy couches of the regal palace of Westminster.
Pleasant thoughts came at once; life took on a
cheerfuller seeming. He was free of the bonds of servitude
and crime, free of the companionship of base and brutal
outlaws; he was warm; he was sheltered; in a word, he was
happy. The night wind was rising; it swept by in fitful
gusts that made the old barn quake and rattle, then its
forces died down at intervals, and went moaning and wailing
around corners and projections—but it was all music to the
King, now that he was snug and comfortable: let it blow and
rage, let it batter and bang, let it moan and wail, he
minded it not, he only enjoyed it. He merely snuggled the
closer to his friend, in a luxury of warm contentment, and
drifted blissfully out of consciousness into a deep and
dreamless sleep that was full of serenity and peace. The
distant dogs howled, the melancholy kine complained, and the
winds went on raging, whilst furious sheets of rain drove
along the roof; but the Majesty of England slept on,
undisturbed, and the calf did the same, it being a simple
creature, and not easily troubled by storms or embarrassed
by sleeping with a king.
Chapter XIX. The Prince with the peasants.
When the King awoke in the early morning, he found that a
wet but thoughtful rat had crept into the place during the
night and made a cosy bed for itself in his bosom. Being
disturbed now, it scampered away. The boy smiled, and said,
"Poor fool, why so fearful? I am as forlorn as thou.
'Twould be a sham in me to hurt the helpless, who am myself
so helpless. Moreover, I owe you thanks for a good omen;
for when a king has fallen so low that the very rats do make
a bed of him, it surely meaneth that his fortunes be upon
the turn, since it is plain he can no lower go."
He got up and stepped out of the stall, and just then he
heard the sound of children's voices. The barn door opened
and a couple of little girls came in. As soon as they saw
him their talking and laughing ceased, and they stopped and
stood still, gazing at him with strong curiosity; they
presently began to whisper together, then they approached
nearer, and stopped again to gaze and whisper. By-and-by
they gathered courage and began to discuss him aloud. One
said—
"He hath a comely face."
The other added—
"And pretty hair."
"But is ill clothed enow."
"And how starved he looketh."
They came still nearer, sidling shyly around and about
him, examining him minutely from all points, as if he were
some strange new kind of animal, but warily and watchfully
the while, as if they half feared he might be a sort of
animal that would bite, upon occasion. Finally they halted
before him, holding each other's hands for protection, and
took a good satisfying stare with their innocent eyes; then
one of them plucked up all her courage and inquired with
honest directness—
"Who art thou, boy?"
"I am the King," was the grave answer.
The children gave a little start, and their eyes spread themselves wide
open and remained so during a speechless half minute. Then
curiosity broke the silence—
"The KING? What King?"
"The King of England."
The children looked at each other—then at him—then at
each other again—wonderingly, perplexedly; then one said—
"Didst hear him, Margery?—he said he is the King. Can
that be true?"
"How can it be else but true, Prissy? Would he say a
lie? For look you, Prissy, an' it were not true, it WOULD
be a lie. It surely would be. Now think on't. For all
things that be not true, be lies—thou canst make nought else
out of it."
It was a good tight argument, without a leak in it
anywhere; and it left Prissy's half-doubts not a leg to
stand on. She considered a moment, then put the King upon
his honour with the simple remark—
"If thou art truly the King, then I believe thee."
"I am truly the King."
This settled the matter. His Majesty's royalty was
accepted without further question or discussion, and the two
little girls began at once to inquire into how he came to be
where he was, and how he came to be so unroyally clad, and
whither he was bound, and all about his affairs. It was a
mighty relief to him to pour out his troubles where they
would not be scoffed at or doubted; so he told his tale with
feeling, forgetting even his hunger for the time; and it was
received with the deepest and tenderest sympathy by the
gentle little maids. But when he got down to his latest
experiences and they learned how long he had been without
food, they cut him short and hurried him away to the
farmhouse to find a breakfast for him.
The King was cheerful and happy now, and said to himself,
"When I am come to mine own again, I will always honour
little children, remembering how that these trusted me and
believed in me in my time of trouble; whilst they that were
older, and thought themselves wiser, mocked at me and held
me for a liar."
The children's mother received the King kindly, and was full of pity;
for his forlorn condition and apparently crazed intellect
touched her womanly heart. She was a widow, and rather
poor; consequently she had seen trouble enough to enable her
to feel for the unfortunate. She imagined that the demented
boy had wandered away from his friends or keepers; so she
tried to find out whence he had come, in order that she
might take measures to return him; but all her references to
neighbouring towns and villages, and all her inquiries in
the same line went for nothing—the boy's face, and his
answers, too, showed that the things she was talking of were
not familiar to him. He spoke earnestly and simply about
court matters, and broke down, more than once, when speaking
of the late King 'his father'; but whenever the conversation
changed to baser topics, he lost interest and became silent.
The woman was mightily puzzled; but she did not give up.
As she proceeded with her cooking, she set herself to
contriving devices to surprise the boy into betraying his
real secret. She talked about cattle—he showed no concern;
then about sheep—the same result: so her guess that he had
been a shepherd boy was an error; she talked about mills;
and about weavers, tinkers, smiths, trades and tradesmen of
all sorts; and about Bedlam, and jails, and charitable
retreats: but no matter, she was baffled at all points.
Not altogether, either; for she argued that she had
narrowed the thing down to domestic service. Yes, she was
sure she was on the right track, now; he must have been a
house servant. So she led up to that. But the result was
discouraging. The subject of sweeping appeared to weary him;
fire-building failed to stir him; scrubbing and scouring
awoke no enthusiasm. The goodwife touched, with a perishing
hope, and rather as a matter of form, upon the subject of
cooking. To her surprise, and her vast delight, the King's
face lighted at once! Ah, she had hunted him down at last,
she thought; and she was right proud, too, of the devious
shrewdness and tact which had accomplished it.
Her tired tongue got a chance to rest, now; for the
King's, inspired by gnawing hunger and the fragrant smells
that came from the sputtering pots and pans, turned itself
loose and delivered itself up to such an eloquent
dissertation upon certain toothsome dishes, that within
three minutes the woman said to herself, "Of a truth I was
right—he hath holpen in a kitchen!" Then he broadened his
bill of fare, and discussed it with such appreciation and
animation, that the goodwife said to herself, "Good lack!
how can he know so many dishes, and so fine ones withal?
For these belong only upon the tables of the rich and
great. Ah, now I see! ragged outcast as he is, he must have
served in the palace before his reason went astray; yes, he
must have helped in the very kitchen of the King himself! I
will test him."
Full of eagerness to prove her sagacity, she told the
King to mind the cooking a moment—hinting that he might
manufacture and add a dish or two, if he chose; then she
went out of the room and gave her children a sign to follow
after. The King muttered—
"Another English king had a commission like to this, in a
bygone time—it is nothing against my dignity to undertake an
office which the great Alfred stooped to assume. But I will
try to better serve my trust than he; for he let the cakes
burn."
The intent was good, but the performance was not
answerable to it, for this King, like the other one, soon
fell into deep thinkings concerning his vast affairs, and
the same calamity resulted—the cookery got burned. The woman
returned in time to save the breakfast from entire
destruction; and she promptly brought the King out of his
dreams with a brisk and cordial tongue-lashing. Then, seeing
how troubled he was over his violated trust, she softened at
once, and was all goodness and gentleness toward him.
The boy made a hearty and satisfying meal, and was greatly refreshed
and gladdened by it. It was a meal which was distinguished
by this curious feature, that rank was waived on both sides;
yet neither recipient of the favour was aware that it had
been extended. The goodwife had intended to feed this young
tramp with broken victuals in a corner, like any other tramp
or like a dog; but she was so remorseful for the scolding
she had given him, that she did what she could to atone for
it by allowing him to sit at the family table and eat with
his betters, on ostensible terms of equality with them; and
the King, on his side, was so remorseful for having broken
his trust, after the family had been so kind to him, that he
forced himself to atone for it by humbling himself to the
family level, instead of requiring the woman and her
children to stand and wait upon him, while he occupied their
table in the solitary state due to his birth and dignity.
It does us all good to unbend sometimes. This good woman
was made happy all the day long by the applauses which she
got out of herself for her magnanimous condescension to a
tramp; and the King was just as self-complacent over his
gracious humility toward a humble peasant woman.
When breakfast was over, the housewife told the King to
wash up the dishes. This command was a staggerer, for a
moment, and the King came near rebelling; but then he said
to himself, "Alfred the Great watched the cakes; doubtless
he would have washed the dishes too—therefore will I essay
it."
He made a sufficiently poor job of it; and to his
surprise too, for the cleaning of wooden spoons and
trenchers had seemed an easy thing to do. It was a tedious
and troublesome piece of work, but he finished it at last.
He was becoming impatient to get away on his journey now;
however, he was not to lose this thrifty dame's society so
easily. She furnished him some little odds and ends of
employment, which he got through with after a fair fashion
and with some credit. Then she set him and the little girls
to paring some winter apples; but he was so awkward at this
service that she retired him from it and gave him a butcher
knife to grind.
Afterwards she kept him carding wool until he began to think he had
laid the good King Alfred about far enough in the shade for
the present in the matter of showy menial heroisms that
would read picturesquely in story-books and histories, and
so he was half-minded to resign. And when, just after the
noonday dinner, the goodwife gave him a basket of kittens to
drown, he did resign. At least he was just going to
resign—for he felt that he must draw the line somewhere, and
it seemed to him that to draw it at kitten-drowning was
about the right thing—when there was an interruption. The
interruption was John Canty—with a peddler's pack on his
back—and Hugo.
The King discovered these rascals approaching the front
gate before they had had a chance to see him; so he said
nothing about drawing the line, but took up his basket of
kittens and stepped quietly out the back way, without a
word. He left the creatures in an out-house, and hurried
on, into a narrow lane at the rear.
Chapter XX. The Prince and the hermit.
The high hedge hid him from the house, now; and so, under
the impulse of a deadly fright, he let out all his forces
and sped toward a wood in the distance. He never looked
back until he had almost gained the shelter of the forest;
then he turned and descried two figures in the distance.
That was sufficient; he did not wait to scan them
critically, but hurried on, and never abated his pace till
he was far within the twilight depths of the wood. Then he
stopped; being persuaded that he was now tolerably safe. He
listened intently, but the stillness was profound and
solemn—awful, even, and depressing to the spirits. At wide
intervals his straining ear did detect sounds, but they were
so remote, and hollow, and mysterious, that they seemed not
to be real sounds, but only the moaning and complaining
ghosts of departed ones. So the sounds were yet more dreary
than the silence which they interrupted.
It was his purpose, in the beginning, to stay where he
was the rest of the day; but a chill soon invaded his
perspiring body, and he was at last obliged to resume
movement in order to get warm. He struck straight through
the forest, hoping to pierce to a road presently, but he was
disappointed in this. He travelled on and on; but the
farther he went, the denser the wood became, apparently.
The gloom began to thicken, by-and-by, and the King
realised that the night was coming on. It made him shudder
to think of spending it in such an uncanny place; so he
tried to hurry faster, but he only made the less speed, for
he could not now see well enough to choose his steps
judiciously; consequently he kept tripping over roots and
tangling himself in vines and briers.
And how glad he was when at last he caught the glimmer of a light! He
approached it warily, stopping often to look about him and
listen. It came from an unglazed window-opening in a shabby
little hut. He heard a voice, now, and felt a disposition
to run and hide; but he changed his mind at once, for this
voice was praying, evidently. He glided to the one window
of the hut, raised himself on tiptoe, and stole a glance
within. The room was small; its floor was the natural
earth, beaten hard by use; in a corner was a bed of rushes
and a ragged blanket or two; near it was a pail, a cup, a
basin, and two or three pots and pans; there was a short
bench and a three-legged stool; on the hearth the remains of
a faggot fire were smouldering; before a shrine, which was
lighted by a single candle, knelt an aged man, and on an old
wooden box at his side lay an open book and a human skull.
The man was of large, bony frame; his hair and whiskers
were very long and snowy white; he was clothed in a robe of
sheepskins which reached from his neck to his heels.
"A holy hermit!" said the King to himself; "now am I indeed fortunate."
The hermit rose from his knees; the King knocked. A deep
voice responded—
"Enter!—but leave sin behind, for the ground whereon thou
shalt stand is holy!"
The King entered, and paused. The hermit turned a pair
of gleaming, unrestful eyes upon him, and said—
"Who art thou?"
"I am the King," came the answer, with placid simplicity.
"Welcome, King!" cried the hermit, with enthusiasm.
Then, bustling about with feverish activity, and constantly
saying, "Welcome, welcome," he arranged his bench, seated
the King on it, by the hearth, threw some faggots on the
fire, and finally fell to pacing the floor with a nervous
stride.
"Welcome! Many have sought sanctuary here, but they were
not worthy, and were turned away. But a King who casts his
crown away, and despises the vain splendours of his office,
and clothes his body in rags, to devote his life to holiness
and the mortification of the flesh—he is worthy, he is
welcome!—here shall he abide all his days till death come."
The King hastened to interrupt and explain, but the hermit
paid no attention to him—did not even hear him, apparently,
but went right on with his talk, with a raised voice and a
growing energy. "And thou shalt be at peace here. None
shall find out thy refuge to disquiet thee with
supplications to return to that empty and foolish life which
God hath moved thee to abandon. Thou shalt pray here; thou
shalt study the Book; thou shalt meditate upon the follies
and delusions of this world, and upon the sublimities of the
world to come; thou shalt feed upon crusts and herbs, and
scourge thy body with whips, daily, to the purifying of thy
soul. Thou shalt wear a hair shirt next thy skin; thou shalt
drink water only; and thou shalt be at peace; yes, wholly at
peace; for whoso comes to seek thee shall go his way again,
baffled; he shall not find thee, he shall not molest thee."
The old man, still pacing back and forth, ceased to speak
aloud, and began to mutter. The King seized this
opportunity to state his case; and he did it with an
eloquence inspired by uneasiness and apprehension. But the
hermit went on muttering, and gave no heed. And still
muttering, he approached the King and said impressively—
"'Sh! I will tell you a secret!" He bent down to impart
it, but checked himself, and assumed a listening attitude.
After a moment or two he went on tiptoe to the
window-opening, put his head out, and peered around in the
gloaming, then came tiptoeing back again, put his face close
down to the King's, and whispered—
"I am an archangel!"
The King started violently, and said to himself, "Would God I were with
the outlaws again; for lo, now am I the prisoner of a
madman!" His apprehensions were heightened, and they showed
plainly in his face. In a low excited voice the hermit
continued—
"I see you feel my atmosphere! There's awe in your face!
None may be in this atmosphere and not be thus affected;
for it is the very atmosphere of heaven. I go thither and
return, in the twinkling of an eye. I was made an archangel
on this very spot, it is five years ago, by angels sent from
heaven to confer that awful dignity. Their presence filled
this place with an intolerable brightness. And they knelt
to me, King! yes, they knelt to me! for I was greater than
they. I have walked in the courts of heaven, and held
speech with the patriarchs. Touch my hand—be not
afraid—touch it. There—now thou hast touched a hand which
has been clasped by Abraham and Isaac and Jacob! For I have
walked in the golden courts; I have seen the Deity face to
face!" He paused, to give this speech effect; then his face
suddenly changed, and he started to his feet again saying,
with angry energy, "Yes, I am an archangel; A MERE
ARCHANGEL!—I that might have been pope! It is verily true.
I was told it from heaven in a dream, twenty years ago; ah,
yes, I was to be pope!—and I SHOULD have been pope, for
Heaven had said it—but the King dissolved my religious
house, and I, poor obscure unfriended monk, was cast
homeless upon the world, robbed of my mighty destiny!" Here
he began to mumble again, and beat his forehead in futile
rage, with his fist; now and then articulating a venomous
curse, and now and then a pathetic "Wherefore I am nought
but an archangel—I that should have been pope!"
So he went on, for an hour, whilst the poor little King
sat and suffered. Then all at once the old man's frenzy
departed, and he became all gentleness. His voice softened,
he came down out of his clouds, and fell to prattling along
so simply and so humanly, that he soon won the King's heart
completely. The old devotee moved the boy nearer to the
fire and made him comfortable; doctored his small bruises
and abrasions with a deft and tender hand; and then set
about preparing and cooking a supper—chatting pleasantly all
the time, and occasionally stroking the lad's cheek or
patting his head, in such a gently caressing way that in a
little while all the fear and repulsion inspired by the
archangel were changed to reverence and affection for the
man.
This happy state of things continued while the two ate the supper;
then, after a prayer before the shrine, the hermit put the
boy to bed, in a small adjoining room, tucking him in as
snugly and lovingly as a mother might; and so, with a
parting caress, left him and sat down by the fire, and began
to poke the brands about in an absent and aimless way.
Presently he paused; then tapped his forehead several times
with his fingers, as if trying to recall some thought which
had escaped from his mind. Apparently he was unsuccessful.
Now he started quickly up, and entered his guest's room,
and said—
"Thou art King?"
"Yes," was the response, drowsily uttered.
"What King?"
"Of England."
"Of England? Then Henry is gone!"
"Alack, it is so. I am his son."
A black frown settled down upon the hermit's face, and he
clenched his bony hands with a vindictive energy. He stood
a few moments, breathing fast and swallowing repeatedly,
then said in a husky voice—
"Dost know it was he that turned us out into the world
houseless and homeless?"
There was no response. The old man bent down and scanned
the boy's reposeful face and listened to his placid
breathing. "He sleeps—sleeps soundly;" and the frown
vanished away and gave place to an expression of evil
satisfaction. A smile flitted across the dreaming boy's
features. The hermit muttered, "So—his heart is happy;" and
he turned away. He went stealthily about the place, seeking
here and there for something; now and then halting to
listen, now and then jerking his head around and casting a
quick glance toward the bed; and always muttering, always
mumbling to himself. At last he found what he seemed to
want—a rusty old butcher knife and a whetstone. Then he
crept to his place by the fire, sat himself down, and began
to whet the knife softly on the stone, still muttering,
mumbling, ejaculating. The winds sighed around the lonely
place, the mysterious voices of the night floated by out of
the distances. The shining eyes of venturesome mice and
rats peered out at the old man from cracks and coverts, but
he went on with his work, rapt, absorbed, and noted none of
these things.
At long intervals he drew his thumb along the edge of his
knife, and nodded his head with satisfaction. "It grows
sharper," he said; "yes, it grows sharper."
He took no note of the flight of time, but worked
tranquilly on, entertaining himself with his thoughts, which
broke out occasionally in articulate speech—
"His father wrought us evil, he destroyed us—and is gone
down into the eternal fires! Yes, down into the eternal
fires! He escaped us—but it was God's will, yes it was
God's will, we must not repine. But he hath not escaped the
fires! No, he hath not escaped the fires, the consuming,
unpitying, remorseless fires—and THEY are everlasting!"
And so he wrought, and still wrought—mumbling, chuckling
a low rasping chuckle at times—and at times breaking again
into words—
"It was his father that did it all. I am but an
archangel; but for him I should be pope!"
The King stirred. The hermit sprang noiselessly to the bedside, and
went down upon his knees, bending over the prostrate form
with his knife uplifted. The boy stirred again; his eyes
came open for an instant, but there was no speculation in
them, they saw nothing; the next moment his tranquil
breathing showed that his sleep was sound once more.
The hermit watched and listened, for a time, keeping his
position and scarcely breathing; then he slowly lowered his
arms, and presently crept away, saying,—
"It is long past midnight; it is not best that he should
cry out, lest by accident someone be passing."
He glided about his hovel, gathering a rag here, a thong there, and
another one yonder; then he returned, and by careful and
gentle handling he managed to tie the King's ankles together
without waking him. Next he essayed to tie the wrists; he
made several attempts to cross them, but the boy always drew
one hand or the other away, just as the cord was ready to be
applied; but at last, when the archangel was almost ready to
despair, the boy crossed his hands himself, and the next
moment they were bound. Now a bandage was passed under the
sleeper's chin and brought up over his head and tied
fast—and so softly, so gradually, and so deftly were the
knots drawn together and compacted, that the boy slept
peacefully through it all without stirring.
Chapter XXI. Hendon to the rescue.
The old man glided away, stooping, stealthy, cat-like,
and brought the low bench. He seated himself upon it, half
his body in the dim and flickering light, and the other half
in shadow; and so, with his craving eyes bent upon the
slumbering boy, he kept his patient vigil there, heedless of
the drift of time, and softly whetted his knife, and mumbled
and chuckled; and in aspect and attitude he resembled
nothing so much as a grizzly, monstrous spider, gloating
over some hapless insect that lay bound and helpless in his
web.
After a long while, the old man, who was still
gazing,—yet not seeing, his mind having settled into a
dreamy abstraction,—observed, on a sudden, that the boy's
eyes were open! wide open and staring!—staring up in frozen
horror at the knife. The smile of a gratified devil crept
over the old man's face, and he said, without changing his
attitude or his occupation—
"Son of Henry the Eighth, hast thou prayed?"
The boy struggled helplessly in his bonds, and at the
same time forced a smothered sound through his closed jaws,
which the hermit chose to interpret as an affirmative answer
to his question.
"Then pray again. Pray the prayer for the dying!"
A shudder shook the boy's frame, and his face blenched.
Then he struggled again to free himself—turning and
twisting himself this way and that; tugging frantically,
fiercely, desperately—but uselessly—to burst his fetters;
and all the while the old ogre smiled down upon him, and
nodded his head, and placidly whetted his knife; mumbling,
from time to time, "The moments are precious, they are few
and precious—pray the prayer for the dying!"
The boy uttered a despairing groan, and ceased from his
struggles, panting. The tears came, then, and trickled, one
after the other, down his face; but this piteous sight
wrought no softening effect upon the savage old man.
The dawn was coming now; the hermit observed it, and
spoke up sharply, with a touch of nervous apprehension in
his voice—
"I may not indulge this ecstasy longer! The night is
already gone. It seems but a moment—only a moment; would it
had endured a year! Seed of the Church's spoiler, close thy
perishing eyes, an' thou fearest to look upon—"
The rest was lost in inarticulate mutterings. The old
man sank upon his knees, his knife in his hand, and bent
himself over the moaning boy.
Hark! There was a sound of voices near the cabin—the knife dropped
from the hermit's hand; he cast a sheepskin over the boy and
started up, trembling. The sounds increased, and presently
the voices became rough and angry; then came blows, and
cries for help; then a clatter of swift footsteps,
retreating. Immediately came a succession of thundering
knocks upon the cabin door, followed by—
"Hullo-o-o! Open! And despatch, in the name of all the
devils!"
Oh, this was the blessedest sound that had ever made
music in the King's ears; for it was Miles Hendon's voice!
The hermit, grinding his teeth in impotent rage, moved
swiftly out of the bedchamber, closing the door behind him;
and straightway the King heard a talk, to this effect,
proceeding from the 'chapel':—
"Homage and greeting, reverend sir! Where is the boy—MY
boy?"
"What boy, friend?"
"What boy! Lie me no lies, sir priest, play me no
deceptions!—I am not in the humour for it. Near to this
place I caught the scoundrels who I judged did steal him
from me, and I made them confess; they said he was at large
again, and they had tracked him to your door. They showed
me his very footprints. Now palter no more; for look you,
holy sir, an' thou produce him not—Where is the boy?"
"O good sir, peradventure you mean the ragged regal
vagrant that tarried here the night. If such as you take an
interest in such as he, know, then, that I have sent him of
an errand. He will be back anon."
"How soon? How soon? Come, waste not the time—cannot I
overtake him? How soon will he be back?"
"Thou need'st not stir; he will return quickly."
"So be it, then. I will try to wait. But stop!—YOU sent
him of an errand?—you! Verily this is a lie—he would not
go. He would pull thy old beard, an' thou didst offer him
such an insolence. Thou hast lied, friend; thou hast surely
lied! He would not go for thee, nor for any man."
"For any MAN—no; haply not. But I am not a man."
"WHAT! Now o' God's name what art thou, then?"
"It is a secret—mark thou reveal it not. I am an
archangel!"
There was a tremendous ejaculation from Miles Hendon—not
altogether unprofane—followed by—
"This doth well and truly account for his complaisance!
Right well I knew he would budge nor hand nor foot in the
menial service of any mortal; but, lord, even a king must
obey when an archangel gives the word o' command! Let
me—'sh! What noise was that?"
All this while the little King had been yonder,
alternately quaking with terror and trembling with hope; and
all the while, too, he had thrown all the strength he could
into his anguished moanings, constantly expecting them to
reach Hendon's ear, but always realising, with bitterness,
that they failed, or at least made no impression. So this
last remark of his servant came as comes a reviving breath
from fresh fields to the dying; and he exerted himself once
more, and with all his energy, just as the hermit was
saying—
"Noise? I heard only the wind."
"Mayhap it was. Yes, doubtless that was it. I have been
hearing it faintly all the—there it is again! It is not the
wind! What an odd sound! Come, we will hunt it out!"
Now the King's joy was nearly insupportable. His tired
lungs did their utmost—and hopefully, too—but the sealed
jaws and the muffling sheepskin sadly crippled the effort.
Then the poor fellow's heart sank, to hear the hermit say—
"Ah, it came from without—I think from the copse yonder.
Come, I will lead the way."
The King heard the two pass out, talking; heard their
footsteps die quickly away—then he was alone with a boding,
brooding, awful silence.
It seemed an age till he heard the steps and voices
approaching again—and this time he heard an added sound,—the
trampling of hoofs, apparently. Then he heard Hendon say—
"I will not wait longer. I CANNOT wait longer. He has
lost his way in this thick wood. Which direction took he?
Quick—point it out to me."
"He—but wait; I will go with thee."
"Good—good! Why, truly thou art better than thy looks.
Marry I do not think there's not another archangel with so
right a heart as thine. Wilt ride? Wilt take the wee
donkey that's for my boy, or wilt thou fork thy holy legs
over this ill-conditioned slave of a mule that I have
provided for myself?—and had been cheated in too, had he
cost but the indifferent sum of a month's usury on a brass
farthing let to a tinker out of work."
"No—ride thy mule, and lead thine ass; I am surer on mine
own feet, and will walk."
"Then prithee mind the little beast for me while I take my life in my
hands and make what success I may toward mounting the big
one."
Then followed a confusion of kicks, cuffs, tramplings and
plungings, accompanied by a thunderous intermingling of
volleyed curses, and finally a bitter apostrophe to the
mule, which must have broken its spirit, for hostilities
seemed to cease from that moment.
With unutterable misery the fettered little King heard
the voices and footsteps fade away and die out. All hope
forsook him, now, for the moment, and a dull despair settled
down upon his heart. "My only friend is deceived and got rid
of," he said; "the hermit will return and—" He finished
with a gasp; and at once fell to struggling so frantically
with his bonds again, that he shook off the smothering
sheepskin.
And now he heard the door open! The sound chilled him to
the marrow—already he seemed to feel the knife at his
throat. Horror made him close his eyes; horror made him
open them again—and before him stood John Canty and Hugo!
He would have said "Thank God!" if his jaws had been free.
A moment or two later his limbs were at liberty, and his
captors, each gripping him by an arm, were hurrying him with
all speed through the forest.
