Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain (portable ebook reader TXT) 📖
- Author: Mark Twain
Book online «The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain (portable ebook reader TXT) 📖». Author Mark Twain
He got up, lame, stiff, and half famished, washed himself in the river, stayed his stomach with a pint or two of water, and trudged off toward Westminster, grumbling at himself for having wasted so much time. Hunger helped him to a new plan, now; he would try to get speech with old Sir Humphrey Marlow and borrow a few marks, and—but that was enough of a plan for the present; it would be time enough to enlarge it when this first stage should be accomplished.
Toward eleven o’clock he approached the palace; and although a host of showy people were about him, moving in the same direction, he was not inconspicuous—his costume took care of that. He watched these people’s faces narrowly, hoping to find a charitable one whose possessor might be willing to carry his name to the old lieutenant—as to trying to get into the palace himself, that was simply out of the question.
Presently our whipping-boy passed him, then wheeled about and scanned his figure well, saying to himself, “An’ that is not the very vagabond his Majesty is in such a worry about, then am I an ass—though belike I was that before. He answereth the description to a rag—that God should make two such would be to cheapen miracles by wasteful repetition. I would I could contrive an excuse to speak with him.”
Miles Hendon saved him the trouble; for he turned about, then, as a man generally will when somebody mesmerises him by gazing hard at him from behind; and observing a strong interest in the boy’s eyes, he stepped toward him and said—
“You have just come out from the palace; do you belong there?”
“Yes, your worship.”
“Know you Sir Humphrey Marlow?”
The boy started, and said to himself, “Lord! mine old departed father!” Then he answered aloud, “Right well, your worship.”
“Good—is he within?”
“Yes,” said the boy; and added, to himself, “within his grave.”
“Might I crave your favour to carry my name to him, and say I beg to say a word in his ear?”
“I will despatch the business right willingly, fair sir.”
“Then say Miles Hendon, son of Sir Richard, is here without—I shall be greatly bounden to you, my good lad.”
The boy looked disappointed. "The King did not name him so,” he said to himself; “but it mattereth not, this is his twin brother, and can give his Majesty news of t’other Sir-Odds-and-Ends, I warrant.” So he said to Miles, “Step in there a moment, good sir, and wait till I bring you word.”
Hendon retired to the place indicated—it was a recess sunk in the palace wall, with a stone bench in it—a shelter for sentinels in bad weather. He had hardly seated himself when some halberdiers, in charge of an officer, passed by. The officer saw him, halted his men, and commanded Hendon to come forth. He obeyed, and was promptly arrested as a suspicious character prowling within the precincts of the palace. Things began to look ugly. Poor Miles was going to explain, but the officer roughly silenced him, and ordered his men to disarm him and search him.
“God of his mercy grant that they find somewhat,” said poor Miles; “I have searched enow, and failed, yet is my need greater than theirs.”
Nothing was found but a document. The officer tore it open, and Hendon smiled when he recognised the ‘pot-hooks’ made by his lost little friend that black day at Hendon Hall. The officer’s face grew dark as he read the English paragraph, and Miles blenched to the opposite colour as he listened.
“Another new claimant of the Crown!” cried the officer. "Verily they breed like rabbits, to-day. Seize the rascal, men, and see ye keep him fast whilst I convey this precious paper within and send it to the King.”
He hurried away, leaving the prisoner in the grip of the halberdiers.
“Now is my evil luck ended at last,” muttered Hendon, “for I shall dangle at a rope’s end for a certainty, by reason of that bit of writing. And what will become of my poor lad!—ah, only the good God knoweth.”
By-and-by he saw the officer coming again, in a great hurry; so he plucked his courage together, purposing to meet his trouble as became a man. The officer ordered the men to loose the prisoner and return his sword to him; then bowed respectfully, and said—
“Please you, sir, to follow me.”
Hendon followed, saying to himself, “An’ I were not travelling to death and judgment, and so must needs economise in sin, I would throttle this knave for his mock courtesy.”
The two traversed a populous court, and arrived at the grand entrance of the palace, where the officer, with another bow, delivered Hendon into the hands of a gorgeous official, who received him with profound respect and led him forward through a great hall, lined on both sides with rows of splendid flunkeys (who made reverential obeisance as the two passed along, but fell into death-throes of silent laughter at our stately scarecrow the moment his back was turned), and up a broad staircase, among flocks of fine folk, and finally conducted him into a vast room, clove a passage for him through the assembled nobility of England, then made a bow, reminded him to take his hat off, and left him standing in the middle of the room, a mark for all eyes, for plenty of indignant frowns, and for a sufficiency of amused and derisive smiles.
Miles Hendon was entirely bewildered. There sat the young King, under a canopy of state, five steps away, with his head bent down and aside, speaking with a sort of human bird of paradise—a duke, maybe. Hendon observed to himself that it was hard enough to be sentenced to death in the full vigour of life, without having this peculiarly public humiliation added. He wished the King would hurry about it—some of the gaudy people near by were becoming pretty offensive. At this moment the King raised his head slightly, and Hendon caught a good view of his face. The sight nearly took his breath away!—He stood gazing at the fair young face like one transfixed; then presently ejaculated—
“Lo, the Lord of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows on his throne!”
He muttered some broken sentences, still gazing and marvelling; then turned his eyes around and about, scanning the gorgeous throng and the splendid saloon, murmuring, “But these are real—verily these are real—surely it is not a dream.”
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