thou limb of Satan, or thy time is come!” roared the man of war, and made so savage a spring toward the waiter that this latter could not find his tongue, for the instant, for fright and surprise. “Where is the boy?”
In disjointed and trembling syllables the man gave the information desired.
“You were hardly gone from the place, your worship, when a youth came running and said it was your worship’s will that the boy come to you straight, at the bridge-end on the Southwark side. I brought him hither; and when he woke the lad and gave his message, the lad did grumble some little for being disturbed ‘so early,’ as he called it, but straightway trussed on his rags and went with the youth, only saying it had been better manners that your worship came yourself, not sent a stranger – and so—”
“And so thou’rt a fool! – a fool and easily cozened – hang all thy breed! Yet mayhap no hurt is done. Possibly no harm is meant the boy. I will go fetch him. Make the table ready. Stay! the coverings of the bed were disposed as if one lay beneath them – happened that by accident?”
“I know not, good your worship. I saw the youth meddle with them – he that came for the boy.”
“Thousand deaths! ’Twas done to deceive me – ’tis plain ’twas done to gain time. Hark ye! Was that youth alone?”
“All alone, your worship.”
“Art sure?”
“Sure, your worship.”
“Collect thy scattered wits – bethink thee – take time, man.”
After a moment’s thought, the servant said—
“When he came, none came with him; but now I remember me that as the two stepped into the throng of the Bridge, a ruffian-looking man plunged out from some near place; and just as he was joining them—”
“What then? – out with it!” thundered the impatient Hendon, interrupting.
“Just then the crowd lapped them up and closed them in, and I saw no more, being called by my master, who was in a rage because a joint that the scrivener had ordered was forgot, though I take all the saints to witness that to blame me for that miscarriage were like holding the unborn babe to judgment for sins com—”
“Out of my sight, idiot! Thy prating drives me mad! Hold! Whither art flying? Canst not bide still an instant? Went they toward Southwark?”
“Even so, your worship – for, as I said before, as to that detestable joint, the babe unborn is no whit more blameless than—”
“Art here yet! And prating still! Vanish, lest I throttle thee!” The servitor vanished. Hendon followed after him, passed him, and plunged down the stairs two steps at a stride, muttering, “’Tis that scurvy villain that claimed he was his son. I have lost thee, my poor little mad master – it is a bitter thought – and I had come to love thee so! No! by book and bell, not lost! Not lost, for I will ransack the land till I find thee again. Poor child, yonder is his breakfast – and mine, but I have no hunger now; so, let the rats have it – speed, speed! that is the word!” As he wormed his swift way through the noisy multitudes upon the Bridge he several times said to himself – clinging to the thought as if it were a particularly pleasing one – “He grumbled, but he went – he went, yes, because he thought Miles Hendon asked it, sweet lad – he would ne’er have done it for another, I know it well.”
Chapter XIV.
“Le Roi est mort – vive le Roi”
Toward daylight of the same morning, Tom Canty stirred out of a heavy sleep and opened his eyes in the dark. He lay silent a few moments, trying to analyse his confused thoughts and impressions, and get some sort of meaning out of them; then suddenly he burst out in a rapturous but guarded voice—
“I see it all, I see it all! Now God be thanked, I am indeed awake at last! Come, joy! vanish, sorrow! Ho, Nan! Bet! kick off your straw and hie ye hither to my side, till I do pour into your unbelieving ears the wildest madcap dream that ever the spirits of night did conjure up to astonish the soul of man withal! . . . Ho, Nan, I say! Bet!”
A dim form appeared at his side, and a voice said—
“Wilt deign to deliver thy commands?”
“Commands? . . . O, woe is me, I know thy voice! Speak thou – who am I?”
“Thou? In sooth, yesternight wert thou the Prince of Wales; to-day art thou my most gracious liege, Edward, King of England.”
Tom buried his head among his pillows, murmuring plaintively—
“Alack, it was no dream! Go to thy rest, sweet sir – leave me to my sorrows.”
Tom slept again, and after a time he had this pleasant dream. He thought it was summer, and he was playing, all alone, in the fair meadow called Goodman’s Fields, when a dwarf only a foot high, with long red whiskers and a humped back, appeared to him suddenly and said, “Dig by that stump.” He did so, and found twelve bright new pennies – wonderful riches! Yet this was not the best of it; for the dwarf said—
“I know thee. Thou art a good lad, and a deserving; thy distresses shall end, for the day of thy reward is come. Dig here every seventh day, and thou shalt find always the same treasure, twelve bright new pennies. Tell none – keep the secret.”
Then the dwarf vanished, and Tom flew to Offal Court with his prize, saying to himself, “Every night will I give my father a penny; he will think I begged it, it will glad his heart, and I shall no more be beaten. One penny every week the good priest that teacheth me shall have; mother, Nan, and Bet the other four. We be done with hunger and rags, now, done with fears and frets and savage usage.”
In his dream he reached his sordid home all out of breath, but with eyes dancing with grateful enthusiasm; cast four of his pennies into his mother’s lap and cried out—
“They are for thee! – all of them, every one! – for thee and Nan and Bet – and honestly come by, not begged nor stolen!”
The happy and astonished mother strained him to her breast and exclaimed—
“It waxeth late – may it please your Majesty to rise?”
Ah! that was not the answer he was expecting. The dream had snapped asunder – he was awake.
He opened his eyes – the richly clad First Lord of the Bedchamber was kneeling by his couch. The gladness of the lying dream faded away – the poor boy recognised that he was still a captive and a king. The room was filled with courtiers clothed in purple mantles – the mourning colour – and with noble
