whilst the flames licked upward toward her face and catched her thin locks and crackled about her old gray head — cursing them! why an’ thou should’st live a thousand years thoud’st never hear so masterful a cursing. Alack, her art died with her. There be base and weakling imitations left, but no true blasphemy.”
The Ruffler sighed; the listeners sighed in sympathy; a general depression fell upon the company for a moment, for even hardened outcasts like these are not wholly dead to sentiment, but are able to feel a fleeting sense of loss and affliction at wide intervals and under peculiarly favouring circumstances — as in cases like to this, for instance, when genius and culture depart and leave no heir. However, a deep drink all round soon restored the spirits of the mourners.
“Have any others of our friends fared hardly?” asked Hobbs.
“Some — yes. Particularly new comers — such as small husbandmen turned shiftless and hungry upon the world because their farms were taken from them to be changed to sheep ranges. They begged, and were whipped at the cart’s tail, naked from the girdle up, till the blood ran; then set in the stocks to be pelted; they begged again, were whipped again, and deprived of an ear; they begged a third time — poor devils, what else could they do? — and were branded on the cheek with a red-hot iron, then sold for slaves; they ran away, were hunted down, and hanged. ’Tis a brief tale, and quickly told. Others of us have fared less hardly. Stand forth, Yokel, Burns, and Hodge — show your adornments!”
These stood up and stripped away some of their rags, exposing their backs, crisscrossed with ropy old welts left by the lash; one turned up his hair and showed the place where a left ear had once been; another showed a brand upon his shoulder — the letter V — and a mutilated ear; the third said —
“I am Yokel, once a farmer and prosperous, with loving wife and kids — now am I somewhat different in estate and calling; and the wife and kids are gone; mayhap they are in heaven, mayhap in — in the other place — but the kindly God be thanked, they bide no more in ENGLAND! My good old blameless mother strove to earn bread by nursing the sick; one of these died, the doctors knew not how, so my mother was burnt for a witch, whilst my babes looked on and wailed. English law! — up, all, with your cups! — now all together and with a cheer! — drink to the merciful English law that delivered HER from the English hell! Thank you, mates, one and all. I begged, from house to house — I and the wife — bearing with us the hungry kids — but it was crime to be hungry in England — so they stripped us and lashed us through three towns. Drink ye all again to the merciful English law! — for its lash drank deep of my Mary’s blood and its blessed deliverance came quick. She lies there, in the potter’s field, safe from all harms. And the kids — well, whilst the law lashed me from town to town, they starved. Drink, lads — only a drop — a drop to the poor kids, that never did any creature harm. I begged again — begged, for a crust, and got the stocks and lost an ear — see, here bides the stump; I begged again, and here is the stump of the other to keep me minded of it. And still I begged again, and was sold for a slave — here on my cheek under this stain, if I washed it off, ye might see the red S the branding-iron left there! A SLAVE! Do you understand that word? An English SLAVE! — that is he that stands before ye. I have run from my master, and when I am found — the heavy curse of heaven fall on the law of the land that hath commanded it! — I shall hang!”
A ringing voice came through the murky air —
“Thou shalt NOT! — and this day the end of that law is come!”
All turned, and saw the fantastic figure of the little King approaching hurriedly; as it emerged into the light and was clearly revealed, a general explosion of inquiries broke out —
“Who is it? WHAT is it? Who art thou, manikin?”
The boy stood unconfused in the midst of all those surprised and questioning eyes, and answered with princely dignity —
“I am Edward, King of England.”
A wild burst of laughter followed, partly of derision and partly of delight in the excellence of the joke. The King was stung. He said sharply —
“Ye mannerless vagrants, is this your recognition of the royal boon I have promised?”
He said more, with angry voice and excited gesture, but it was lost in a whirlwind of laughter and mocking exclamations. ’John Hobbs’ made several attempts to make himself heard above the din, and at last succeeded — saying —
“Mates, he is my son, a dreamer, a fool, and stark mad — mind him not — he thinketh he IS the King.”
“I AM the King,” said Edward, turning toward him, “as thou shalt know to thy cost, in good time. Thou hast confessed a murder — thou shalt swing for it.”
“THOU’LT betray me? — THOU? An’ I get my hands upon thee — ”
“Tut-tut!” said the burley Ruffler, interposing in time to save the King, and emphasising this service by knocking Hobbs down with his fist, “hast respect for neither Kings NOR Rufflers? An’ thou insult my presence so again, I’ll hang thee up myself.” Then he said to his Majesty, “Thou must make no threats against thy mates, lad; and thou must guard thy tongue from saying evil of them elsewhere. BE King, if it please thy mad humour, but be not harmful in it. Sink the title thou hast uttered — ’tis treason; we be bad men in some few trifling ways, but none among us is so base as to be traitor to his King; we be loving and loyal hearts, in that regard. Note if I speak truth. Now — all together: ’Long live Edward, King of England!’“
“LONG LIVE EDWARD, KING OF ENGLAND!”
The response came with such a thundergust from the motley crew that the crazy building vibrated to the sound. The little King’s face lighted with pleasure for an instant, and he slightly inclined his head, and said with grave simplicity —
“I thank you, my good people.”
This unexpected result threw the company into convulsions of merriment. When something like quiet was presently come again, the Ruffler said, firmly, but with an accent of good nature —
“Drop it, boy, ‘tis not wise, nor well. Humour thy fancy, if thou must, but choose some other title.”
A tinker shrieked out a suggestion —
“Foo-foo the First, King of the Mooncalves!”
The title ‘took,’ at once, every throat responded, and a roaring shout went up, of —
“Long live Foo-foo the First, King of the Mooncalves!” followed by hootings, catcalls, and peals of laughter.
“Hale him forth, and crown him!”
“Robe him!”
“Sceptre him!”
“Throne him!”
These and twenty other cries broke out at once! and almost before the poor little victim could draw a breath he was crowned with a tin basin, robed in a tattered blanket, throned upon a barrel, and sceptred with the tinker’s soldering-iron. Then all flung themselves upon their knees about him and sent up a chorus of ironical wailings, and mocking supplications, whilst they swabbed their eyes with their soiled and ragged sleeves and aprons —
“Be gracious
