The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain (novel24 txt) 📕

Let us privileged ones hurry to the great banqueting-room and have a

glance at matters there whilst Tom is being made ready for the imposing

occasion. It is a spacious apartment, with gilded pillars and pilasters,

and pictured walls and ceilings. At the door stand tall guards, as rigid

as statues, dressed in rich and picturesque costumes, and bearing

halberds. In a high gallery which runs all around the place is a band of

musicians and a packed company of citizens of both sexes, in brilliant

attire. In the centre of the room, upon a raised platform, is Tom’s

table. Now let the ancient chronicler speak:

“A gentleman enters the room bearing a rod, and along with him another

bearing a tablecloth, which, after they have both kneeled three times

with the utmost veneration, he spreads upon the table, and after kneeling

again they both retire; then come two others, one with the rod again, the

other with a salt-cellar, a plate, and bread; when they have kneeled as

the others had done, and placed what was brought upon the table, they too

retire with the same ceremonies performed by the first; at last come two

nobles, richly clothed, one bearing a tasting-knife, who, after

prostrating themselves three times in the most graceful manner, approach

and rub the table with bread and salt, with as much awe as if the King

had been present.” {6}

So end the solemn preliminaries. Now, far down the echoing corridors we

hear a bugle-blast, and the indistinct cry, “Place for the King! Way for

the King’s most excellent majesty!” These sounds are momently repeated—

they grow nearer and nearer—and presently, almost in our faces, the

martial note peals and the cry rings out, “Way for the King!” At this

instant the shining pageant appears, and files in at the door, with a

measured march. Let the chronicler speak again:—

“First come Gentlemen, Barons, Earls, Knights of the Garter, all richly

dressed and bareheaded; next comes the Chancellor, between two, one of

which carries the royal sceptre, the other the Sword of State in a red

scabbard, studded with golden fleurs-de-lis, the point upwards; next

comes the King himself—whom, upon his appearing, twelve trumpets and

many drums salute with a great burst of welcome, whilst all in the

galleries rise in their places, crying ‘God save the King!’ After him

come nobles attached to his person, and on his right and left march his

guard of honour, his fifty Gentlemen Pensioners, with gilt battle-axes.”

This was all fine and pleasant. Tom’s pulse beat high, and a glad light

was in his eye. He bore himself right gracefully, and all the more so

because he was not thinking of how he was doing it, his mind being

charmed and occupied with the blithe sights and sounds about him—and

besides, nobody can be very ungraceful in nicely-fitting beautiful

clothes after he has grown a little used to them—especially if he is for

the moment unconscious of them. Tom remembered his instructions, and

acknowledged his greeting with a slight inclination of his plumed head,

and a courteous “I thank ye, my good people.”

He seated himself at table, without removing his cap; and did it without

the least embarrassment; for to eat with one’s cap on was the one

solitary royal custom upon which the kings and the Cantys met upon common

ground, neither party having any advantage over the other in the matter

of old familiarity with it. The pageant broke up and grouped itself

picturesquely, and remained bareheaded.

Now to the sound of gay music the Yeomen of the Guard entered,—“the

tallest and mightiest men in England, they being carefully selected in

this regard”—but we will let the chronicler tell about it:—

“The Yeomen of the Guard entered, bareheaded, clothed in scarlet, with

golden roses upon their backs; and these went and came, bringing in each

turn a course of dishes, served in plate. These dishes were received by

a gentleman in the same order they were brought, and placed upon the

table, while the taster gave to each guard a mouthful to eat of the

particular dish he had brought, for fear of any poison.”

Tom made a good dinner, notwithstanding he was conscious that hundreds of

eyes followed each morsel to his mouth and watched him eat it with an

interest which could not have been more intense if it had been a deadly

explosive and was expected to blow him up and scatter him all about the

place. He was careful not to hurry, and equally careful not to do

anything whatever for himself, but wait till the proper official knelt

down and did it for him. He got through without a mistake—flawless and

precious triumph.

When the meal was over at last and he marched away in the midst of his

bright pageant, with the happy noises in his ears of blaring bugles,

rolling drums, and thundering acclamations, he felt that if he had seen

the worst of dining in public it was an ordeal which he would be glad to

endure several times a day if by that means he could but buy himself free

from some of the more formidable requirements of his royal office.

Chapter XVII. Foo-foo the First.

Miles Hendon hurried along toward the Southwark end of the bridge,

keeping a sharp look-out for the persons he sought, and hoping and

expecting to overtake them presently. He was disappointed in this,

however. By asking questions, he was enabled to track them part of the

way through Southwark; then all traces ceased, and he was perplexed as to

how to proceed. Still, he continued his efforts as best he could during

the rest of the day. Nightfall found him leg-weary, half-famished, and

his desire as far from accomplishment as ever; so he supped at the Tabard

Inn and went to bed, resolved to make an early start in the morning, and

give the town an exhaustive search. As he lay thinking and planning, he

presently began to reason thus: The boy would escape from the ruffian,

his reputed father, if possible; would he go back to London and seek his

former haunts? No, he would not do that, he would avoid recapture.

What, then, would he do? Never having had a friend in the world, or a

protector, until he met Miles Hendon, he would naturally try to find that

friend again, provided the effort did not require him to go toward London

and danger. He would strike for Hendon Hall, that is what he would do,

for he knew Hendon was homeward bound and there he might expect to find

him. Yes, the case was plain to Hendon—he must lose no more time in

Southwark, but move at once through Kent, toward Monk’s Holm, searching

the wood and inquiring as he went. Let us return to the vanished little

King now.

The ruffian whom the waiter at the inn on the bridge saw ‘about to join’

the youth and the King did not exactly join them, but fell in close

behind them and followed their steps. He said nothing. His left arm was

in a sling, and he wore a large green patch over his left eye; he limped

slightly, and used an oaken staff as a support. The youth led the King a

crooked course through Southwark, and by-and-by struck into the high road

beyond. The King was irritated, now, and said he would stop here—it was

Hendon’s place to come to him, not his to go to Hendon. He would not

endure such insolence; he would stop where he was. The youth said—

“Thou’lt tarry here, and thy friend lying wounded in the wood yonder? So

be it, then.”

The King’s manner changed at once. He cried out—

“Wounded? And who hath dared to do it? But that is apart; lead on, lead

on! Faster, sirrah! Art shod with lead? Wounded, is he? Now though

the doer of it be a duke’s son he shall rue it!”

It was some distance to the wood, but the space was speedily traversed.

The youth looked about him, discovered a bough sticking in the ground,

with a small bit of rag tied to it, then led the way into the forest,

watching for similar boughs and finding them at intervals; they were

evidently guides to the point he was aiming at. By-and-by an open place

was reached, where were the charred remains of a farmhouse, and near

them a barn which was falling to ruin and decay. There was no sign of

life anywhere, and utter silence prevailed. The youth entered the barn,

the King following eagerly upon his heels. No one there! The King shot a

surprised and suspicious glance at the youth, and asked—

“Where is he?”

A mocking laugh was his answer. The King was in a rage in a moment; he

seized a billet of wood and was in the act of charging upon the youth

when another mocking laugh fell upon his ear. It was from the lame

ruffian who had been following at a distance. The King turned and said

angrily—

“Who art thou? What is thy business here?”

“Leave thy foolery,” said the man, “and quiet thyself. My disguise is

none so good that thou canst pretend thou knowest not thy father through

it.”

“Thou art not my father. I know thee not. I am the King. If thou hast

hid my servant, find him for me, or thou shalt sup sorrow for what thou

hast done.”

John Canty replied, in a stern and measured voice—

“It is plain thou art mad, and I am loath to punish thee; but if thou

provoke me, I must. Thy prating doth no harm here, where there are no

ears that need to mind thy follies; yet it is well to practise thy tongue

to wary speech, that it may do no hurt when our quarters change. I have

done a murder, and may not tarry at home—neither shalt thou, seeing I

need thy service. My name is changed, for wise reasons; it is Hobbs—

John Hobbs; thine is Jack—charge thy memory accordingly. Now, then,

speak. Where is thy mother? Where are thy sisters? They came not to

the place appointed—knowest thou whither they went?”

The King answered sullenly—

“Trouble me not with these riddles. My mother is dead; my sisters are in

the palace.”

The youth near by burst into a derisive laugh, and the King would have

assaulted him, but Canty—or Hobbs, as he now called himself—prevented

him, and said—

“Peace, Hugo, vex him not; his mind is astray, and thy ways fret him.

Sit thee down, Jack, and quiet thyself; thou shalt have a morsel to eat,

anon.”

Hobbs and Hugo fell to talking together, in low voices, and the King

removed himself as far as he could from their disagreeable company. He

withdrew into the twilight of the farther end of the barn, where he found

the earthen floor bedded a foot deep with straw. He lay down here, drew

straw over himself in lieu of blankets, and was soon absorbed in

thinking. He had many griefs, but the minor ones were swept almost into

forgetfulness by the supreme one, the loss of his father. To the rest of

the world the name of Henry VIII. brought a shiver, and suggested an ogre

whose nostrils breathed destruction and whose hand dealt scourgings and

death; but to this boy the name brought only sensations of pleasure; the

figure it invoked wore a countenance that was all gentleness and

affection. He called to mind a long succession of loving passages

between his father and himself, and dwelt fondly upon them, his unstinted

tears attesting how deep and real was the grief that