The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain (desktop ebook reader TXT) 📖

and

now he was on his way to the gallows. There was a tradesman’s apprentice

whose case particularly distressed the King; this youth said he found a

hawk, one evening, that had escaped from its owner, and he took it home

with him, imagining himself entitled to it; but the court convicted him

of stealing it, and sentenced him to death.

 

The King was furious over these inhumanities, and wanted Hendon to break

jail and fly with him to Westminster, so that he could mount his throne

and hold out his sceptre in mercy over these unfortunate people and save

their lives. “Poor child,” sighed Hendon, “these woeful tales have

brought his malady upon him again; alack, but for this evil hap, he would

have been well in a little time.”

 

Among these prisoners was an old lawyer—a man with a strong face and a

dauntless mien. Three years past, he had written a pamphlet against the

Lord Chancellor, accusing him of injustice, and had been punished for it

by the loss of his ears in the pillory, and degradation from the bar, and

in addition had been fined 3,000 pounds and sentenced to imprisonment for

life. Lately he had repeated his offence; and in consequence was now

under sentence to lose WHAT REMAINED OF HIS EARS, pay a fine of 5,000

pounds, be branded on both cheeks, and remain in prison for life.

 

“These be honourable scars,” he said, and turned back his grey hair and

showed the mutilated stubs of what had once been his ears.

 

The King’s eye burned with passion. He said—

 

“None believe in me—neither wilt thou. But no matter—within the

compass of a month thou shalt be free; and more, the laws that have

dishonoured thee, and shamed the English name, shall be swept from the

statute books. The world is made wrong; kings should go to school to

their own laws, at times, and so learn mercy.” {1}

 

Chapter XXVIII. The sacrifice.

 

Meantime Miles was growing sufficiently tired of confinement and

inaction. But now his trial came on, to his great gratification, and he

thought he could welcome any sentence provided a further imprisonment

should not be a part of it. But he was mistaken about that. He was in a

fine fury when he found himself described as a ‘sturdy vagabond’ and

sentenced to sit two hours in the stocks for bearing that character and

for assaulting the master of Hendon Hall. His pretensions as to

brothership with his prosecutor, and rightful heirship to the Hendon

honours and estates, were left contemptuously unnoticed, as being not

even worth examination.

 

He raged and threatened on his way to punishment, but it did no good; he

was snatched roughly along by the officers, and got an occasional cuff,

besides, for his irreverent conduct.

 

The King could not pierce through the rabble that swarmed behind; so he

was obliged to follow in the rear, remote from his good friend and

servant. The King had been nearly condemned to the stocks himself for

being in such bad company, but had been let off with a lecture and a

warning, in consideration of his youth. When the crowd at last halted,

he flitted feverishly from point to point around its outer rim, hunting a

place to get through; and at last, after a deal of difficulty and delay,

succeeded. There sat his poor henchman in the degrading stocks, the

sport and butt of a dirty mob—he, the body servant of the King of

England! Edward had heard the sentence pronounced, but he had not

realised the half that it meant. His anger began to rise as the sense of

this new indignity which had been put upon him sank home; it jumped to

summer heat, the next moment, when he saw an egg sail through the air and

crush itself against Hendon’s cheek, and heard the crowd roar its

enjoyment of the episode. He sprang across the open circle and

confronted the officer in charge, crying—

 

“For shame! This is my servant—set him free! I am the—”

 

“Oh, peace!” exclaimed Hendon, in a panic, “thou’lt destroy thyself.

Mind him not, officer, he is mad.”

 

“Give thyself no trouble as to the matter of minding him, good man, I

have small mind to mind him; but as to teaching him somewhat, to that I

am well inclined.” He turned to a subordinate and said, “Give the little

fool a taste or two of the lash, to mend his manners.”

 

“Half a dozen will better serve his turn,” suggested Sir Hugh, who had

ridden up, a moment before, to take a passing glance at the proceedings.

 

The King was seized. He did not even struggle, so paralysed was he with

the mere thought of the monstrous outrage that was proposed to be

inflicted upon his sacred person. History was already defiled with the

record of the scourging of an English king with whips—it was an

intolerable reflection that he must furnish a duplicate of that shameful

page. He was in the toils, there was no help for him; he must either

take this punishment or beg for its remission. Hard conditions; he would

take the stripes—a king might do that, but a king could not beg.

 

But meantime, Miles Hendon was resolving the difficulty. “Let the child

go,” said he; “ye heartless dogs, do ye not see how young and frail he

is? Let him go—I will take his lashes.”

 

“Marry, a good thought—and thanks for it,” said Sir Hugh, his face

lighting with a sardonic satisfaction. “Let the little beggar go, and

give this fellow a dozen in his place—an honest dozen, well laid on.”

The King was in the act of entering a fierce protest, but Sir Hugh

silenced him with the potent remark, “Yes, speak up, do, and free thy

mind—only, mark ye, that for each word you utter he shall get six

strokes the more.”

 

Hendon was removed from the stocks, and his back laid bare; and whilst

the lash was applied the poor little King turned away his face and

allowed unroyal tears to channel his cheeks unchecked. “Ah, brave good

heart,” he said to himself, “this loyal deed shall never perish out of my

memory. I will not forget it—and neither shall THEY!” he added, with

passion. Whilst he mused, his appreciation of Hendon’s magnanimous

conduct grew to greater and still greater dimensions in his mind, and so

also did his gratefulness for it. Presently he said to himself, “Who

saves his prince from wounds and possible death—and this he did for me—

performs high service; but it is little—it is nothing—oh, less than

nothing!—when ‘tis weighed against the act of him who saves his prince

from SHAME!”

 

Hendon made no outcry under the scourge, but bore the heavy blows with

soldierly fortitude. This, together with his redeeming the boy by taking

his stripes for him, compelled the respect of even that forlorn and

degraded mob that was gathered there; and its gibes and hootings died

away, and no sound remained but the sound of the falling blows. The

stillness that pervaded the place, when Hendon found himself once more in

the stocks, was in strong contrast with the insulting clamour which had

prevailed there so little a while before. The King came softly to

Hendon’s side, and whispered in his ear—

 

“Kings cannot ennoble thee, thou good, great soul, for One who is higher

than kings hath done that for thee; but a king can confirm thy nobility

to men.” He picked up the scourge from the ground, touched Hendon’s

bleeding shoulders lightly with it, and whispered, “Edward of England

dubs thee Earl!”

 

Hendon was touched. The water welled to his eyes, yet at the same time

the grisly humour of the situation and circumstances so undermined his

gravity that it was all he could do to keep some sign of his inward mirth

from showing outside. To be suddenly hoisted, naked and gory, from the

common stocks to the Alpine altitude and splendour of an Earldom, seemed

to him the last possibility in the line of the grotesque. He said to

himself, “Now am I finely tinselled, indeed! The spectre-knight of the

Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows is become a spectre-earl—a dizzy flight

for a callow wing! An’ this go on, I shall presently be hung like a very

maypole with fantastic gauds and make-believe honours. But I shall value

them, all valueless as they are, for the love that doth bestow them.

Better these poor mock dignities of mine, that come unasked, from a clean

hand and a right spirit, than real ones bought by servility from grudging

and interested power.”

 

The dreaded Sir Hugh wheeled his horse about, and as he spurred away, the

living wall divided silently to let him pass, and as silently closed

together again. And so remained; nobody went so far as to venture a

remark in favour of the prisoner, or in compliment to him; but no matter

—the absence of abuse was a sufficient homage in itself. A late comer

who was not posted as to the present circumstances, and who delivered a

sneer at the ‘impostor,’ and was in the act of following it with a dead

cat, was promptly knocked down and kicked out, without any words, and

then the deep quiet resumed sway once more.

 

Chapter XXIX. To London.

 

When Hendon’s term of service in the stocks was finished, he was released

and ordered to quit the region and come back no more. His sword was

restored to him, and also his mule and his donkey. He mounted and rode

off, followed by the King, the crowd opening with quiet respectfulness to

let them pass, and then dispersing when they were gone.

 

Hendon was soon absorbed in thought. There were questions of high import

to be answered. What should he do? Whither should he go? Powerful help

must be found somewhere, or he must relinquish his inheritance and remain

under the imputation of being an impostor besides. Where could he hope

to find this powerful help? Where, indeed! It was a knotty question.

By-and-by a thought occurred to him which pointed to a possibility—the

slenderest of slender possibilities, certainly, but still worth

considering, for lack of any other that promised anything at all. He

remembered what old Andrews had said about the young King’s goodness and

his generous championship of the wronged and unfortunate. Why not go and

try to get speech of him and beg for justice? Ah, yes, but could so

fantastic a pauper get admission to the august presence of a monarch?

Never mind—let that matter take care of itself; it was a bridge that

would not need to be crossed till he should come to it. He was an old

campaigner, and used to inventing shifts and expedients: no doubt he

would be able to find a way. Yes, he would strike for the capital.

Maybe his father’s old friend Sir Humphrey Marlow would help him—‘good

old Sir Humphrey, Head Lieutenant of the late King’s kitchen, or stables,

or something’—Miles could not remember just what or which. Now that he

had something to turn his energies to, a distinctly defined object to

accomplish, the fog of humiliation and depression which had settled down

upon his spirits lifted and blew away, and he raised his head and looked

about him. He was surprised to see how far he had come; the village was

away behind him. The King was jogging along in his wake, with his head

bowed; for he, too, was deep in plans and thinkings. A sorrowful

misgiving clouded Hendon’s new-born cheerfulness: would the boy be

willing to go again to a city where, during all his brief life, he had

never known anything but ill-usage and pinching want? But the