ages,–an obscene and noisy gang. The King chafed bitterly over
the stupendous indignity thus put upon his royalty, but Hendon was
moody and taciturn. He was pretty thoroughly bewildered; he had
come home, a jubilant prodigal, expecting to find everybody wild
with joy over his return; and instead had got the cold shoulder
and a jail. The promise and the fulfilment differed so widely
that the effect was stunning; he could not decide whether it was
most tragic or most grotesque. He felt much as a man might who
had danced blithely out to enjoy a rainbow, and got struck by
lightning.
But gradually his confused and tormenting thoughts settled down
into some sort of order, and then his mind centred itself upon
Edith. He turned her conduct over, and examined it in all lights,
but he could not make anything satisfactory out of it. Did she
know him–or didn’t she know him? It was a perplexing puzzle, and
occupied him a long time; but he ended, finally, with the
conviction that she did know him, and had repudiated him for
interested reasons. He wanted to load her name with curses now;
but this name had so long been sacred to him that he found he
could not bring his tongue to profane it.
Wrapped in prison blankets of a soiled and tattered condition,
Hendon and the King passed a troubled night. For a bribe the
jailer had furnished liquor to some of the prisoners; singing of
ribald songs, fighting, shouting, and carousing was the natural
consequence. At last, a while after midnight, a man attacked a
woman and nearly killed her by beating her over the head with his
manacles before the jailer could come to the rescue. The jailer
restored peace by giving the man a sound clubbing about the head
and shoulders–then the carousing ceased; and after that, all had
an opportunity to sleep who did not mind the annoyance of the
moanings and groanings of the two wounded people.
During the ensuing week, the days and nights were of a monotonous
sameness as to events; men whose faces Hendon remembered more or
less distinctly, came, by day, to gaze at the ‘impostor’ and
repudiate and insult him; and by night the carousing and brawling
went on with symmetrical regularity. However, there was a change
of incident at last. The jailer brought in an old man, and said
to him–
“The villain is in this room–cast thy old eyes about and see if
thou canst say which is he.”
Hendon glanced up, and experienced a pleasant sensation for the
first time since he had been in the jail. He said to himself,
“This is Blake Andrews, a servant all his life in my father’s
family–a good honest soul, with a right heart in his breast.
That is, formerly. But none are true now; all are liars. This
man will know me–and will deny me, too, like the rest.”
The old man gazed around the room, glanced at each face in turn,
and finally said–
“I see none here but paltry knaves, scum o’ the streets. Which is
he?”
The jailer laughed.
“Here,” he said; “scan this big animal, and grant me an opinion.”
The old man approached, and looked Hendon over, long and
earnestly, then shook his head and said–
“Marry, THIS is no Hendon–nor ever was!”
“Right! Thy old eyes are sound yet. An’ I were Sir Hugh, I would
take the shabby carle and–”
The jailer finished by lifting himself a-tip-toe with an imaginary
halter, at the same time making a gurgling noise in his throat
suggestive of suffocation. The old man said, vindictively–
“Let him bless God an’ he fare no worse. An’ _I_ had the handling
o’ the villain he should roast, or I am no true man!”
The jailer laughed a pleasant hyena laugh, and said–
“Give him a piece of thy mind, old man–they all do it. Thou’lt
find it good diversion.”
Then he sauntered toward his ante-room and disappeared. The old
man dropped upon his knees and whispered–
“God be thanked, thou’rt come again, my master! I believed thou
wert dead these seven years, and lo, here thou art alive! I knew