“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–
“O my lord, on thy knees?–and to ME!”
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.
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–
“Thou the KING? 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