King’s chair, while he dined, and waited upon him; undressed him
when he was ready for bed; then took the floor for his own
quarters, and slept athwart the door, rolled up in a blanket.
The next day, and the day after, they jogged lazily along talking
over the adventures they had met since their separation, and
mightily enjoying each other’s narratives. Hendon detailed all
his wide wanderings in search of the King, and described how the
archangel had led him a fool’s journey all over the forest, and
taken him back to the hut, finally, when he found he could not get
rid of him. Then–he said–the old man went into the bedchamber
and came staggering back looking broken-hearted, and saying he had
expected to find that the boy had returned and laid down in there
to rest, but it was not so. Hendon had waited at the hut all day;
hope of the King’s return died out, then, and he departed upon the
quest again.
“And old Sanctum Sanctorum WAS truly sorry your highness came not
back,” said Hendon; “I saw it in his face.”
“Marry I will never doubt THAT!” said the King–and then told his
own story; after which, Hendon was sorry he had not destroyed the
archangel.
During the last day of the trip, Hendon’s spirits were soaring.
His tongue ran constantly. He talked about his old father, and
his brother Arthur, and told of many things which illustrated
their high and generous characters; he went into loving frenzies
over his Edith, and was so glad-hearted that he was even able to
say some gentle and brotherly things about Hugh. He dwelt a deal
on the coming meeting at Hendon Hall; what a surprise it would be
to everybody, and what an outburst of thanksgiving and delight
there would be.
It was a fair region, dotted with cottages and orchards, and the
road led through broad pasture lands whose receding expanses,
marked with gentle elevations and depressions, suggested the
swelling and subsiding undulations of the sea. In the afternoon
the returning prodigal made constant deflections from his course
to see if by ascending some hillock he might not pierce the
distance and catch a glimpse of his home. At last he was
successful, and cried out excitedly–
“There is the village, my Prince, and there is the Hall close by!
You may see the towers from here; and that wood there–that is my
father’s park. Ah, NOW thou’lt know what state and grandeur be!
A house with seventy rooms–think of that!–and seven and twenty
servants! A brave lodging for such as we, is it not so? Come,
let us speed–my impatience will not brook further delay.”
All possible hurry was made; still, it was after three o’clock
before the village was reached. The travellers scampered through
it, Hendon’s tongue going all the time. “Here is the church–
covered with the same ivy–none gone, none added.” “Yonder is the
inn, the old Red Lion,–and yonder is the market-place.” “Here is
the Maypole, and here the pump–nothing is altered; nothing but
the people, at any rate; ten years make a change in people; some
of these I seem to know, but none know me.” So his chat ran on.
The end of the village was soon reached; then the travellers
struck into a crooked, narrow road, walled in with tall hedges,
and hurried briskly along it for half a mile, then passed into a
vast flower garden through an imposing gateway, whose huge stone
pillars bore sculptured armorial devices. A noble mansion was
before them.
“Welcome to Hendon Hall, my King!” exclaimed Miles. “Ah, ’tis a
great day! My father and my brother, and the Lady Edith will be
so mad with joy that they will have eyes and tongue for none but
me in the first transports of the meeting, and so thou’lt seem but
coldly welcomed–but mind it not; ’twill soon seem otherwise; for
when I say thou art my ward, and tell them how costly is my love
for thee, thou’lt see them take thee to their breasts for Miles
Hendon’s sake, and make their house and hearts thy home for ever
after!”
The next moment Hendon sprang to the ground before the great door,