Then he smiled inwardly at the thought, “‘Tis not for nought I
have dwelt but among princes in my reading, and taught my tongue
some slight trick of their broidered and gracious speech withal!”
When the illustrious maidens were gone, Tom turned wearily to his
keepers and said–
“May it please your lordships to grant me leave to go into some
corner and rest me?”
Lord Hertford said–
“So please your highness, it is for you to command, it is for us
to obey. That thou should’st rest is indeed a needful thing,
since thou must journey to the city presently.”
He touched a bell, and a page appeared, who was ordered to desire
the presence of Sir William Herbert. This gentleman came
straightway, and conducted Tom to an inner apartment. Tom’s first
movement there was to reach for a cup of water; but a silk-and-
velvet servitor seized it, dropped upon one knee, and offered it
to him on a golden salver.
Next the tired captive sat down and was going to take off his
buskins, timidly asking leave with his eye, but another silk-and-
velvet discomforter went down upon his knees and took the office
from him. He made two or three further efforts to help himself,
but being promptly forestalled each time, he finally gave up, with
a sigh of resignation and a murmured “Beshrew me, but I marvel
they do not require to breathe for me also!” Slippered, and
wrapped in a sumptuous robe, he laid himself down at last to rest,
but not to sleep, for his head was too full of thoughts and the
room too full of people. He could not dismiss the former, so they
stayed; he did not know enough to dismiss the latter, so they
stayed also, to his vast regret–and theirs.
Tom’s departure had left his two noble guardians alone. They
mused a while, with much head-shaking and walking the floor, then
Lord St. John said–
“Plainly, what dost thou think?”
“Plainly, then, this. The King is near his end; my nephew is mad-
-mad will mount the throne, and mad remain. God protect England,
since she will need it!”
“Verily it promiseth so, indeed. But . . . have you no misgivings
as to . . . as to . . .”
The speaker hesitated, and finally stopped. He evidently felt
that he was upon delicate ground. Lord Hertford stopped before
him, looked into his face with a clear, frank eye, and said–
“Speak on–there is none to hear but me. Misgivings as to what?”
“I am full loth to word the thing that is in my mind, and thou so
near to him in blood, my lord. But craving pardon if I do offend,
seemeth it not strange that madness could so change his port and
manner?–not but that his port and speech are princely still, but
that they DIFFER, in one unweighty trifle or another, from what
his custom was aforetime. Seemeth it not strange that madness
should filch from his memory his father’s very lineaments; the
customs and observances that are his due from such as be about
him; and, leaving him his Latin, strip him of his Greek and
French? My lord, be not offended, but ease my mind of its
disquiet and receive my grateful thanks. It haunteth me, his
saying he was not the prince, and so–”
“Peace, my lord, thou utterest treason! Hast forgot the King’s
command? Remember I am party to thy crime if I but listen.”
St. John paled, and hastened to say–
“I was in fault, I do confess it. Betray me not, grant me this
grace out of thy courtesy, and I will neither think nor speak of
this thing more. Deal not hardly with me, sir, else am I ruined.”
“I am content, my lord. So thou offend not again, here or in the
ears of others, it shall be as though thou hadst not spoken. But
thou need’st not have misgivings. He is my sister’s son; are not
his voice, his face, his form, familiar to me from his cradle?
Madness can do all the odd conflicting things thou seest in him,
and more. Dost not recall how that the old Baron Marley, being