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

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

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