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

waved them

off and said—

 

“Back! Whoso touches him perils his life!”

 

The Lord Protector was perplexed in the last degree. He said to the Lord

St. John—

 

“Searched you well?—but it boots not to ask that. It doth seem passing

strange. Little things, trifles, slip out of one’s ken, and one does not

think it matter for surprise; but how so bulky a thing as the Seal of

England can vanish away and no man be able to get track of it again—a

massy golden disk—”

 

Tom Canty, with beaming eyes, sprang forward and shouted—

 

“Hold, that is enough! Was it round?—and thick?—and had it letters and

devices graved upon it?—yes? Oh, NOW I know what this Great Seal is

that there’s been such worry and pother about. An’ ye had described it to

me, ye could have had it three weeks ago. Right well I know where it

lies; but it was not I that put it there—first.”

 

“Who, then, my liege?” asked the Lord Protector.

 

“He that stands there—the rightful King of England. And he shall tell

you himself where it lies—then you will believe he knew it of his own

knowledge. Bethink thee, my King—spur thy memory—it was the last, the

very LAST thing thou didst that day before thou didst rush forth from the

palace, clothed in my rags, to punish the soldier that insulted me.”

 

A silence ensued, undisturbed by a movement or a whisper, and all eyes

were fixed upon the new-comer, who stood, with bent head and corrugated

brow, groping in his memory among a thronging multitude of valueless

recollections for one single little elusive fact, which, found, would

seat him upon a throne—unfound, would leave him as he was, for good and

all—a pauper and an outcast. Moment after moment passed—the moments

built themselves into minutes—still the boy struggled silently on, and

gave no sign. But at last he heaved a sigh, shook his head slowly, and

said, with a trembling lip and in a despondent voice—

 

“I call the scene back—all of it—but the Seal hath no place in it.” He

paused, then looked up, and said with gentle dignity, “My lords and

gentlemen, if ye will rob your rightful sovereign of his own for lack of

this evidence which he is not able to furnish, I may not stay ye, being

powerless. But—”

 

“Oh, folly, oh, madness, my King!” cried Tom Canty, in a panic, “wait!—

think! Do not give up!—the cause is not lost! Nor SHALL be, neither!

List to what I say—follow every word—I am going to bring that morning

back again, every hap just as it happened. We talked—I told you of my

sisters, Nan and Bet—ah, yes, you remember that; and about mine old

grandam—and the rough games of the lads of Offal Court—yes, you

remember these things also; very well, follow me still, you shall recall

everything. You gave me food and drink, and did with princely courtesy

send away the servants, so that my low breeding might not shame me before

them—ah, yes, this also you remember.”

 

As Tom checked off his details, and the other boy nodded his head in

recognition of them, the great audience and the officials stared in

puzzled wonderment; the tale sounded like true history, yet how could

this impossible conjunction between a prince and a beggar-boy have come

about? Never was a company of people so perplexed, so interested, and so

stupefied, before.

 

“For a jest, my prince, we did exchange garments. Then we stood before a

mirror; and so alike were we that both said it seemed as if there had

been no change made—yes, you remember that. Then you noticed that the

soldier had hurt my hand—look! here it is, I cannot yet even write with

it, the fingers are so stiff. At this your Highness sprang up, vowing

vengeance upon that soldier, and ran towards the door—you passed a

table—that thing you call the Seal lay on that table—you snatched it up

and looked eagerly about, as if for a place to hide it—your eye caught

sight of—”

 

“There, ‘tis sufficient!—and the good God be thanked!” exclaimed the

ragged claimant, in a mighty excitement. “Go, my good St. John—in an

arm-piece of the Milanese armour that hangs on the wall, thou’lt find the

Seal!”

 

“Right, my King! right!” cried Tom Canty; “NOW the sceptre of England is

thine own; and it were better for him that would dispute it that he had

been born dumb! Go, my Lord St. John, give thy feet wings!”

 

The whole assemblage was on its feet now, and well-nigh out of its mind

with uneasiness, apprehension, and consuming excitement. On the floor

and on the platform a deafening buzz of frantic conversation burst forth,

and for some time nobody knew anything or heard anything or was

interested in anything but what his neighbour was shouting into his ear,

or he was shouting into his neighbour’s ear. Time—nobody knew how much

of it—swept by unheeded and unnoted. At last a sudden hush fell upon

the house, and in the same moment St. John appeared upon the platform,

and held the Great Seal aloft in his hand. Then such a shout went up—

 

“Long live the true King!”

 

For five minutes the air quaked with shouts and the crash of musical

instruments, and was white with a storm of waving handkerchiefs; and

through it all a ragged lad, the most conspicuous figure in England,

stood, flushed and happy and proud, in the centre of the spacious

platform, with the great vassals of the kingdom kneeling around him.

 

Then all rose, and Tom Canty cried out—

 

“Now, O my King, take these regal garments back, and give poor Tom, thy

servant, his shreds and remnants again.”

 

The Lord Protector spoke up—

 

“Let the small varlet be stripped and flung into the Tower.”

 

But the new King, the true King, said—

 

“I will not have it so. But for him I had not got my crown again—none

shall lay a hand upon him to harm him. And as for thee, my good uncle,

my Lord Protector, this conduct of thine is not grateful toward this poor

lad, for I hear he hath made thee a duke”—the Protector blushed—“yet he

was not a king; wherefore what is thy fine title worth now? Tomorrow

you shall sue to me, THROUGH HIM, for its confirmation, else no duke, but

a simple earl, shalt thou remain.”

 

Under this rebuke, his Grace the Duke of Somerset retired a little from

the front for the moment. The King turned to Tom, and said kindly—“My

poor boy, how was it that you could remember where I hid the Seal when I

could not remember it myself?”

 

“Ah, my King, that was easy, since I used it divers days.”

 

“Used it—yet could not explain where it was?”

 

“I did not know it was THAT they wanted. They did not describe it, your

Majesty.”

 

“Then how used you it?”

 

The red blood began to steal up into Tom’s cheeks, and he dropped his

eyes and was silent.

 

“Speak up, good lad, and fear nothing,” said the King. “How used you the

Great Seal of England?”

 

Tom stammered a moment, in a pathetic confusion, then got it out—

 

“To crack nuts with!”

 

Poor child, the avalanche of laughter that greeted this nearly swept him

off his feet. But if a doubt remained in any mind that Tom Canty was not

the King of England and familiar with the august appurtenances of

royalty, this reply disposed of it utterly.

 

Meantime the sumptuous robe of state had been removed from Tom’s

shoulders to the King’s, whose rags were effectually hidden from sight

under it. Then the coronation ceremonies were resumed; the true King was

anointed and the crown set upon his head, whilst cannon thundered the

news to the city, and all London seemed to rock with applause.

 

Chapter XXXIII. Edward as King.

 

Miles Hendon was picturesque enough before he got into the riot on London

Bridge—he was more so when he got out of it. He had but little money

when he got in, none at all when he got out. The pickpockets had

stripped him of his last farthing.

 

But no matter, so he found his boy. Being a soldier, he did not go at

his task in a random way, but set to work, first of all, to arrange his

campaign.

 

What would the boy naturally do? Where would he naturally go? Well—

argued Miles—he would naturally go to his former haunts, for that is the

instinct of unsound minds, when homeless and forsaken, as well as of

sound ones. Whereabouts were his former haunts? His rags, taken

together with the low villain who seemed to know him and who even claimed

to be his father, indicated that his home was in one or another of the

poorest and meanest districts of London. Would the search for him be

difficult, or long? No, it was likely to be easy and brief. He would

not hunt for the boy, he would hunt for a crowd; in the centre of a big

crowd or a little one, sooner or later, he should find his poor little

friend, sure; and the mangy mob would be entertaining itself with

pestering and aggravating the boy, who would be proclaiming himself King,

as usual. Then Miles Hendon would cripple some of those people, and

carry off his little ward, and comfort and cheer him with loving words,

and the two would never be separated any more.

 

So Miles started on his quest. Hour after hour he tramped through back

alleys and squalid streets, seeking groups and crowds, and finding no end

of them, but never any sign of the boy. This greatly surprised him, but

did not discourage him. To his notion, there was nothing the matter with

his plan of campaign; the only miscalculation about it was that the

campaign was becoming a lengthy one, whereas he had expected it to be

short.

 

When daylight arrived, at last, he had made many a mile, and canvassed

many a crowd, but the only result was that he was tolerably tired, rather

hungry and very sleepy. He wanted some breakfast, but there was no way

to get it. To beg for it did not occur to him; as to pawning his sword,

he would as soon have thought of parting with his honour; he could spare

some of his clothes—yes, but one could as easily find a customer for a

disease as for such clothes.

 

At noon he was still tramping—among the rabble which followed after the

royal procession, now; for he argued that this regal display would

attract his little lunatic powerfully. He followed the pageant through

all its devious windings about London, and all the way to Westminster and

the Abbey. He drifted here and there amongst the multitudes that were

massed in the vicinity for a weary long time, baffled and perplexed, and

finally wandered off, thinking, and trying to contrive some way to better

his plan of campaign. By-and-by, when he came to himself out of his

musings, he discovered that the town was far behind him and that the day

was growing old. He was near the river, and in the country; it was a

region of fine rural seats—not the sort of district to welcome clothes

like his.

 

It was not at all cold; so he stretched himself on the ground in the lee

of a hedge to rest and think. Drowsiness presently began to settle upon

his senses; the faint and far-off boom of cannon was wafted to his ear,

and he said to himself, “The new King is crowned,”