Hendon smiled when he recognised the ‘pot-hooks’ made by his lost
little friend that black day at Hendon Hall. The officer’s face
grew dark as he read the English paragraph, and Miles blenched to
the opposite colour as he listened.
“Another new claimant of the Crown!” cried the officer. “Verily
they breed like rabbits, to-day. Seize the rascal, men, and see
ye keep him fast whilst I convey this precious paper within and
send it to the King.”
He hurried away, leaving the prisoner in the grip of the
halberdiers.
“Now is my evil luck ended at last,” muttered Hendon, “for I shall
dangle at a rope’s end for a certainty, by reason of that bit of
writing. And what will become of my poor lad!–ah, only the good
God knoweth.”
By-and-by he saw the officer coming again, in a great hurry; so he
plucked his courage together, purposing to meet his trouble as
became a man. The officer ordered the men to loose the prisoner
and return his sword to him; then bowed respectfully, and said–
“Please you, sir, to follow me.”
Hendon followed, saying to himself, “An’ I were not travelling to
death and judgment, and so must needs economise in sin, I would
throttle this knave for his mock courtesy.”
The two traversed a populous court, and arrived at the grand
entrance of the palace, where the officer, with another bow,
delivered Hendon into the hands of a gorgeous official, who
received him with profound respect and led him forward through a
great hall, lined on both sides with rows of splendid flunkeys
(who made reverential obeisance as the two passed along, but fell
into death-throes of silent laughter at our stately scarecrow the
moment his back was turned), and up a broad staircase, among
flocks of fine folk, and finally conducted him into a vast room,
clove a passage for him through the assembled nobility of England,
then made a bow, reminded him to take his hat off, and left him
standing in the middle of the room, a mark for all eyes, for
plenty of indignant frowns, and for a sufficiency of amused and
derisive smiles.
Miles Hendon was entirely bewildered. There sat the young King,
under a canopy of state, five steps away, with his head bent down
and aside, speaking with a sort of human bird of paradise–a duke,
maybe. Hendon observed to himself that it was hard enough to be
sentenced to death in the full vigour of life, without having this
peculiarly public humiliation added. He wished the King would
hurry about it–some of the gaudy people near by were becoming
pretty offensive. At this moment the King raised his head
slightly, and Hendon caught a good view of his face. The sight
nearly took his breath away!–He stood gazing at the fair young
face like one transfixed; then presently ejaculated–
“Lo, the Lord of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows on his throne!”
He muttered some broken sentences, still gazing and marvelling;
then turned his eyes around and about, scanning the gorgeous
throng and the splendid saloon, murmuring, “But these are REAL–
verily these are REAL–surely it is not a dream.”
He stared at the King again–and thought, “IS it a dream . . . or
IS he the veritable Sovereign of England, and not the friendless
poor Tom o’ Bedlam I took him for–who shall solve me this
riddle?”
A sudden idea flashed in his eye, and he strode to the wall,
gathered up a chair, brought it back, planted it on the floor, and
sat down in it!
A buzz of indignation broke out, a rough hand was laid upon him
and a voice exclaimed–
“Up, thou mannerless clown! would’st sit in the presence of the
King?”
The disturbance attracted his Majesty’s attention, who stretched
forth his hand and cried out–
“Touch him not, it is his right!”
The throng fell back, stupefied. The King went on–
“Learn ye all, ladies, lords, and gentlemen, that this is my
trusty and well-beloved servant, Miles Hendon, who interposed his
good sword and saved his prince from bodily harm and possible
death–and for this he is a knight, by the King’s voice. Also