Hendon’s lodgings were in the little inn on the Bridge. As he
neared the door with his small friend, a rough voice said–
“So, thou’rt come at last! Thou’lt not escape again, I warrant
thee; and if pounding thy bones to a pudding can teach thee
somewhat, thou’lt not keep us waiting another time, mayhap”–and
John 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. What
is 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 be
sound or cracked, my boy. But whether this scurvy ruffian be thy
father or no, ’tis all one, he shall not have thee to beat thee
and abuse, according to his threat, so thou prefer to bide with
me.”
“I do, I do–I know him not, I loathe him, and will die before I
will go with him.”
“Then ’tis settled, and there is nought more to say.”
“We will see, as to that!” exclaimed John Canty, striding past
Hendon to get at the boy; “by force shall he–”
“If thou do but touch him, thou animated offal, I will spit thee
like a goose!” said Hendon, barring the way and laying his hand
upon his sword hilt. Canty drew back. “Now mark ye,” continued
Hendon, “I took this lad under my protection when a mob of such as
thou would have mishandled him, mayhap killed him; dost imagine I
will desert him now to a worser fate?–for whether thou art his
father or no–and sooth to say, I think it is a lie–a decent
swift death were better for such a lad than life in such brute
hands as thine. So go thy ways, and set quick about it, for I
like not much bandying of words, being not over-patient in my
nature.”
John Canty moved off, muttering threats and curses, and was
swallowed from sight in the crowd. Hendon ascended three flights
of stairs to his room, with his charge, after ordering a meal to
be sent thither. It was a poor apartment, with a shabby bed and
some odds and ends of old furniture in it, and was vaguely lighted
by a couple of sickly candles. The little King dragged himself to
the bed and lay down upon it, almost exhausted with hunger and
fatigue. 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 had
eaten nothing meantime. He murmured drowsily–
“Prithee call me when the table is spread,” and sank into a deep
sleep 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 usurps
one’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 the
sort. In his diseased ravings he called himself the Prince of
Wales, and bravely doth he keep up the character. Poor little
friendless rat, doubtless his mind has been disordered with ill-
usage. Well, I will be his friend; I have saved him, and it
draweth me strongly to him; already I love the bold-tongued little
rascal. How soldier-like he faced the smutty rabble and flung
back his high defiance! And what a comely, sweet and gentle face
he hath, now that sleep hath conjured away its troubles and its
griefs. I will teach him; I will cure his malady; yea, I will be
his elder brother, and care for him and watch over him; and whoso
would shame him or do him hurt may order his shroud, for though I
be burnt for it he shall need it!”
He bent over the boy and contemplated him with kind and pitying
interest, tapping the young cheek tenderly and smoothing back the
tangled curls with his great brown hand. A slight shiver passed
over the boy’s form. Hendon muttered–
“See, now, how like a man it was to let him lie here uncovered and