he being a man experienced in law, in jests, in–”
He was moving away, still talking; the constable hesitated,
fidgeted, spat out an oath or two, then cried out–
“Hold, hold, good sir–prithee wait a little–the judge! Why,
man, he hath no more sympathy with a jest than hath a dead
corpse!–come, and we will speak further. Ods body! I seem to be
in evil case–and all for an innocent and thoughtless pleasantry.
I am a man of family; and my wife and little ones– List to
reason, good your worship: what wouldst thou of me?”
“Only that thou be blind and dumb and paralytic whilst one may
count a hundred thousand–counting slowly,” said Hendon, with the
expression of a man who asks but a reasonable favour, and that a
very little one.
“It is my destruction!” said the constable despairingly. “Ah, be
reasonable, good sir; only look at this matter, on all its sides,
and see how mere a jest it is–how manifestly and how plainly it
is so. And even if one granted it were not a jest, it is a fault
so small that e’en the grimmest penalty it could call forth would
be but a rebuke and warning from the judge’s lips.”
Hendon replied with a solemnity which chilled the air about him–
“This jest of thine hath a name, in law,–wot you what it is?”
“I knew it not! Peradventure I have been unwise. I never dreamed
it had a name–ah, sweet heaven, I thought it was original.”
“Yes, it hath a name. In the law this crime is called Non compos
mentis lex talionis sic transit gloria mundi.”
“Ah, my God!”
“And the penalty is death!”
“God be merciful to me a sinner!”
“By advantage taken of one in fault, in dire peril, and at thy
mercy, thou hast seized goods worth above thirteenpence ha’penny,
paying but a trifle for the same; and this, in the eye of the law,
is constructive barratry, misprision of treason, malfeasance in
office, ad hominem expurgatis in statu quo–and the penalty is
death by the halter, without ransom, commutation, or benefit of
clergy.”
“Bear me up, bear me up, sweet sir, my legs do fail me! Be thou
merciful–spare me this doom, and I will turn my back and see
nought that shall happen.”
“Good! now thou’rt wise and reasonable. And thou’lt restore the
pig?”
“I will, I will indeed–nor ever touch another, though heaven send
it and an archangel fetch it. Go–I am blind for thy sake–I see
nothing. I will say thou didst break in and wrest the prisoner
from my hands by force. It is but a crazy, ancient door–I will
batter it down myself betwixt midnight and the morning.”
“Do it, good soul, no harm will come of it; the judge hath a
loving charity for this poor lad, and will shed no tears and break
no jailer’s bones for his escape.”
Chapter XXV. Hendon Hall.
As soon as Hendon and the King were out of sight of the constable,
his Majesty was instructed to hurry to a certain place outside the
town, and wait there, whilst Hendon should go to the inn and
settle his account. Half an hour later the two friends were
blithely jogging eastward on Hendon’s sorry steeds. The King was
warm and comfortable, now, for he had cast his rags and clothed
himself in the second-hand suit which Hendon had bought on London
Bridge.
Hendon wished to guard against over-fatiguing the boy; he judged
that hard journeys, irregular meals, and illiberal measures of
sleep would be bad for his crazed mind; whilst rest, regularity,
and moderate exercise would be pretty sure to hasten its cure; he
longed to see the stricken intellect made well again and its
diseased visions driven out of the tormented little head;
therefore he resolved to move by easy stages toward the home
whence he had so long been banished, instead of obeying the
impulse of his impatience and hurrying along night and day.
When he and the King had journeyed about ten miles, they reached a
considerable village, and halted there for the night, at a good
inn. The former relations were resumed; Hendon stood behind the