A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court by Mark Twain (the red fox clan .TXT) 📕

I didn’t laugh—I am always thankful for that—but the strain ruptured every cartilage in me, and for weeks afterward I could hear my bones clack when I walked.  She never found out her mistake. The first time she heard that form of salute used at the telephone she was surprised, and not pleased; but I told her I had given order for it:  that henceforth and forever the telephone must always be invoked with that reverent formality, in perpetual honor and remembrance of my lost friend and her small namesake.  This was not true.  But it answered.

Well, during two weeks and a half we watched by the crib, and in our deep solicitude we were unconscious of any world outside of that sick-room.  Then our reward came:  the center of the universe turned the corner and began to mend.  Grateful?  It isn’t the term. There isn’t any term for it.  You know that yourself, if you’ve watched your child through the Valley of the Shadow and seen it come back to life and sweep night out of the earth with one all-illuminating smile that you could cover with your hand.

Why, we were back in this world in one instant!  Then we looked the same startled thought into each other’s eyes at the same moment; more than two weeks gone, and that ship not back yet!

In another minute I appeared in the presence of my train.  They had been steeped in troubled bodings all this time—their faces showed it.  I called an escort and we galloped five miles to a hilltop overlooking the sea.  Where was my great commerce that so lately had made these glistening expanses populous and beautiful with its white-winged flocks?  Vanished, every one!  Not a sail, from verge to verge, not a smoke-bank—just a dead and empty solitude, in place of all that brisk and breezy life.

I went swiftly back, saying not a word to anybody.  I told Sandy this ghastly news.  We could imagine no explanation that would begin to explain.  Had there been an invasion? an earthquake? a pestilence?  Had the nation been swept out of existence?  But guessing was profitless.  I must go—at once.  I borrowed the king’s navy—a “ship” no bigger than a steam launch—and was soon ready.

The parting—ah, yes, that was hard.  As I was devouring the child with last kisses, it brisked up and jabbered out its vocabulary!—the first time in more than two weeks, and it made fools of us for joy.  The darling mispronunciations of childhood!—dear me, there’s no music that can touch it; and how one grieves when it wastes away and dissolves into correctness, knowing it will never visit his bereaved ear again.  Well, how good it was to be able to carry that gracious memory away with me!

I approached England the next morning, with the wide highway of salt water all to myself.  There were ships in the harbor, at Dover, but they were naked as to sails, and there was no sign of life about them.  It was Sunday; yet at Canterbury the streets were empty; strangest of all, there was not even a priest in sight, and no stroke of a bell fell upon my ear.  The mournfulness of death was everywhere.  I couldn’t understand it.  At last, in the further edge of that town I saw a small funeral procession—just a family and a few friends following a coffin—no priest; a funeral without bell, book, or candle; there was a church there close at hand, but they passed it by weeping, and did not enter it; I glanced up at the belfry, and there hung the bell, shrouded in black, and its tongue tied back.  Now I knew!  Now I understood the stupendous calamity that had overtaken England.  Invasion? Invasion is a triviality to it.  It was the Interdict!

I asked no questions; I didn’t need to ask any.  The Church had struck; the thing for me to do was to get into a disguise, and go warily.  One of my servants gave me a suit of clothes, and when we were safe beyond the town I put them on, and from that time I traveled alone; I could not risk the embarrassment of company.