moment; then he rallied, and said with forced lightness —
“‘Tis making a mighty matter, indeed, out of a jest; I but plagued the woman for mine amusement.”
“Kept you the woman’s pig for amusement?”
The man answered sharply —
“Nought else, good sir — I tell thee ‘twas but a jest.”
“I do begin to believe thee,” said Hendon, with a perplexing mixture of mockery and half-conviction in his tone; “but tarry thou here a moment whilst I run and ask his worship — for nathless, he being a man experienced in law, in jests, in — ”
He was moving away, still talking; the constable hesitated, fidgeted, spat out an oath or two, then cried out —
“Hold, hold, good sir — prithee wait a little — the judge! Why, man, he hath no more sympathy with a jest than hath a dead corpse! — come, and we will speak further. Ods body! I seem to be in evil case — and all for an innocent and thoughtless pleasantry. I am a man of family; and my wife and little ones — List to reason, good your worship: what wouldst thou of me?”
“Only that thou be blind and dumb and paralytic whilst one may count a hundred thousand — counting slowly,” said Hendon, with the expression of a man who asks but a reasonable favour, and that a very little one.
“It is my destruction!” said the constable despairingly. ”Ah, be reasonable, good sir; only look at this matter, on all its sides, and see how mere a jest it is — how manifestly and how plainly it is so. And even if one granted it were not a jest, it is a fault so small that e’en the grimmest penalty it could call forth would be but a rebuke and warning from the judge’s lips.”
Hendon replied with a solemnity which chilled the air about him —
“This jest of thine hath a name, in law, — wot you what it is?”
“I knew it not! Peradventure I have been unwise. I never dreamed it had a name — ah, sweet heaven, I thought it was original.”
“Yes, it hath a name. In the law this crime is called Non compos mentis lex talionis sic transit gloria mundi.”
“Ah, my God!”
“And the penalty is death!”
“God be merciful to me a sinner!”
“By advantage taken of one in fault, in dire peril, and at thy mercy, thou hast seized goods worth above thirteenpence ha’penny, paying but a trifle for the same; and this, in the eye of the law, is constructive barratry, misprision of treason, malfeasance in office, ad hominem expurgatis in statu quo — and the penalty is death by the halter, without ransom, commutation, or benefit of clergy.”
“Bear me up, bear me up, sweet sir, my legs do fail me! Be thou merciful — spare me this doom, and I will turn my back and see nought that shall happen.”
“Good! now thou’rt wise and reasonable. And thou’lt restore the pig?”
“I will, I will indeed — nor ever touch another, though heaven send it and an archangel fetch it. Go — I am blind for thy sake — I see nothing. I will say thou didst break in and wrest the prisoner from my hands by force. It is but a crazy, ancient door — I will batter it down myself betwixt midnight and the morning.”
“Do it, good soul, no harm will come of it; the judge hath a loving charity for this poor lad, and will shed no tears and break no jailer’s bones for his escape.”
Chapter XXV. Hendon Hall.
As soon as Hendon and the King were out of sight of the constable, his Majesty was instructed to hurry to a certain place outside the town, and wait there, whilst Hendon should go to the inn and settle his account. Half an hour later the two friends were blithely jogging eastward on Hendon’s sorry steeds. The King was warm and comfortable, now, for he had cast his rags and clothed himself in the secondhand suit which Hendon had bought on London Bridge.
Hendon wished to guard against over-fatiguing the boy; he judged that hard journeys, irregular meals, and illiberal measures of sleep would be bad for his crazed mind; whilst rest, regularity, and moderate exercise would be pretty sure to hasten its cure; he longed to see the stricken intellect made well again and its diseased visions driven out of the tormented little head; therefore he resolved to move by easy stages toward the home whence he had so long been banished, instead of obeying the impulse of his impatience and hurrying along night and day.
When he and the King had journeyed about ten miles, they reached a considerable village, and halted there for the night, at a good inn. The former relations were resumed; Hendon stood behind the King’s chair, while he dined, and waited upon him; undressed him when he was ready for bed; then took the floor for his own quarters, and slept athwart the door, rolled up in a blanket.
The next day, and the day after, they jogged lazily along talking over the adventures they had met since their separation, and mightily enjoying each other’s narratives. Hendon detailed all his wide wanderings in search of the King, and described how the archangel had led him a fool’s journey all over the forest, and taken him back to the hut, finally, when he found he could not get rid of him. Then — he said — the old man went into the bedchamber and came staggering back looking brokenhearted, and saying he had expected to find that the boy had returned and laid down in there to rest, but it was not so. Hendon had waited at the hut all day; hope of the King’s return died out, then, and he departed upon the quest again.
“And old Sanctum Sanctorum WAS truly sorry your highness came not back,” said Hendon; “I saw it in his face.”
“Marry I will never doubt THAT!” said the King — and then told his own story; after which, Hendon was sorry he had not destroyed the archangel.
During the last day of the trip, Hendon’s spirits were soaring. His tongue ran constantly. He talked about his old father, and his brother Arthur, and told of many things which illustrated their high and generous characters; he went into loving frenzies over his Edith, and was so gladhearted that he was even able to say some gentle and brotherly things about Hugh. He dwelt a deal on the coming meeting at Hendon Hall; what a surprise it would be to everybody, and what an outburst of thanksgiving and delight there would be.
It was a fair region, dotted with cottages and orchards, and the road led through broad pasture lands whose receding expanses, marked with gentle elevations and depressions, suggested the swelling and subsiding undulations of the sea. In the afternoon the returning prodigal made constant deflections from his course to see if by ascending some hillock he might not pierce the distance and catch a glimpse of his home. At last he was successful, and cried out excitedly —
“There is the village, my Prince, and there is the Hall close by! You may see the towers from here; and that wood there — that is my father’s park. Ah, NOW thou’lt know what state and grandeur be! A house with seventy rooms — think of that! — and seven and twenty servants! A brave lodging for such as we, is it not so? Come, let us speed — my impatience will not brook further delay.”
