thinking, and trying to contrive some way to better his plan of
campaign. By-and-by, when he came to himself out of his musings,
he discovered that the town was far behind him and that the day
was growing old. He was near the river, and in the country; it
was a region of fine rural seats–not the sort of district to
welcome clothes like his.
It was not at all cold; so he stretched himself on the ground in
the lee of a hedge to rest and think. Drowsiness presently began
to settle upon his senses; the faint and far-off boom of cannon
was wafted to his ear, and he said to himself, “The new King is
crowned,” and straightway fell asleep. He had not slept or
rested, before, for more than thirty hours. He did not wake again
until near the middle of the next morning.
He got up, lame, stiff, and half famished, washed himself in the
river, stayed his stomach with a pint or two of water, and trudged
off toward Westminster, grumbling at himself for having wasted so
much time. Hunger helped him to a new plan, now; he would try to
get speech with old Sir Humphrey Marlow and borrow a few marks,
and–but that was enough of a plan for the present; it would be
time enough to enlarge it when this first stage should be
accomplished.
Toward eleven o’clock he approached the palace; and although a
host of showy people were about him, moving in the same direction,
he was not inconspicuous–his costume took care of that. He
watched these people’s faces narrowly, hoping to find a charitable
one whose possessor might be willing to carry his name to the old
lieutenant–as to trying to get into the palace himself, that was
simply out of the question.
Presently our whipping-boy passed him, then wheeled about and
scanned his figure well, saying to himself, “An’ that is not the
very vagabond his Majesty is in such a worry about, then am I an
ass–though belike I was that before. He answereth the
description to a rag–that God should make two such would be to
cheapen miracles by wasteful repetition. I would I could contrive
an excuse to speak with him.”
Miles Hendon saved him the trouble; for he turned about, then, as
a man generally will when somebody mesmerises him by gazing hard
at him from behind; and observing a strong interest in the boy’s
eyes, he stepped toward him and said–
“You have just come out from the palace; do you belong there?”
“Yes, your worship.”
“Know you Sir Humphrey Marlow?”
The boy started, and said to himself, “Lord! mine old departed
father!” Then he answered aloud, “Right well, your worship.”
“Good–is he within?”
“Yes,” said the boy; and added, to himself, “within his grave.”
“Might I crave your favour to carry my name to him, and say I beg
to say a word in his ear?”
“I will despatch the business right willingly, fair sir.”
“Then say Miles Hendon, son of Sir Richard, is here without–I
shall be greatly bounden to you, my good lad.”
The boy looked disappointed. “The King did not name him so,” he
said to himself; “but it mattereth not, this is his twin brother,
and can give his Majesty news of t’other Sir-Odds-and-Ends, I
warrant.” So he said to Miles, “Step in there a moment, good sir,
and wait till I bring you word.”
Hendon retired to the place indicated–it was a recess sunk in the
palace wall, with a stone bench in it–a shelter for sentinels in
bad weather. He had hardly seated himself when some halberdiers,
in charge of an officer, passed by. The officer saw him, halted
his men, and commanded Hendon to come forth. He obeyed, and was
promptly arrested as a suspicious character prowling within the
precincts of the palace. Things began to look ugly. Poor Miles
was going to explain, but the officer roughly silenced him, and
ordered his men to disarm him and search him.
“God of his mercy grant that they find somewhat,” said poor Miles;
“I have searched enow, and failed, yet is my need greater than
theirs.”
Nothing was found but a document. The officer tore it open, and