touched Hendon’s bleeding shoulders lightly with it, and
whispered, “Edward of England dubs thee Earl!”
Hendon was touched. The water welled to his eyes, yet at the same
time the grisly humour of the situation and circumstances so
undermined his gravity that it was all he could do to keep some
sign of his inward mirth from showing outside. To be suddenly
hoisted, naked and gory, from the common stocks to the Alpine
altitude and splendour of an Earldom, seemed to him the last
possibility in the line of the grotesque. He said to himself,
“Now am I finely tinselled, indeed! The spectre-knight of the
Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows is become a spectre-earl–a dizzy
flight for a callow wing! An’ this go on, I shall presently be
hung like a very maypole with fantastic gauds and make-believe
honours. But I shall value them, all valueless as they are, for
the love that doth bestow them. Better these poor mock dignities
of mine, that come unasked, from a clean hand and a right spirit,
than real ones bought by servility from grudging and interested
power.”
The dreaded Sir Hugh wheeled his horse about, and as he spurred
away, the living wall divided silently to let him pass, and as
silently closed together again. And so remained; nobody went so
far as to venture a remark in favour of the prisoner, or in
compliment to him; but no matter–the absence of abuse was a
sufficient homage in itself. A late comer who was not posted as
to the present circumstances, and who delivered a sneer at the
‘impostor,’ and was in the act of following it with a dead cat,
was promptly knocked down and kicked out, without any words, and
then the deep quiet resumed sway once more.
Chapter XXIX. To London.
When Hendon’s term of service in the stocks was finished, he was
released and ordered to quit the region and come back no more.
His sword was restored to him, and also his mule and his donkey.
He mounted and rode off, followed by the King, the crowd opening
with quiet respectfulness to let them pass, and then dispersing
when they were gone.
Hendon was soon absorbed in thought. There were questions of high
import to be answered. What should he do? Whither should he go?
Powerful help must be found somewhere, or he must relinquish his
inheritance and remain under the imputation of being an impostor
besides. Where could he hope to find this powerful help? Where,
indeed! It was a knotty question. By-and-by a thought occurred
to him which pointed to a possibility–the slenderest of slender
possibilities, certainly, but still worth considering, for lack of
any other that promised anything at all. He remembered what old
Andrews had said about the young King’s goodness and his generous
championship of the wronged and unfortunate. Why not go and try
to get speech of him and beg for justice? Ah, yes, but could so
fantastic a pauper get admission to the august presence of a
monarch? Never mind–let that matter take care of itself; it was
a bridge that would not need to be crossed till he should come to
it. He was an old campaigner, and used to inventing shifts and
expedients: no doubt he would be able to find a way. Yes, he
would strike for the capital. Maybe his father’s old friend Sir
Humphrey Marlow would help him–‘good old Sir Humphrey, Head
Lieutenant of the late King’s kitchen, or stables, or something’–
Miles could not remember just what or which. Now that he had
something to turn his energies to, a distinctly defined object to
accomplish, the fog of humiliation and depression which had
settled down upon his spirits lifted and blew away, and he raised
his head and looked about him. He was surprised to see how far he
had come; the village was away behind him. The King was jogging
along in his wake, with his head bowed; for he, too, was deep in
plans and thinkings. A sorrowful misgiving clouded Hendon’s new-
born cheerfulness: would the boy be willing to go again to a city
where, during all his brief life, he had never known anything but