The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain (i can read with my eyes shut txt) 📕

the king’s chair, while he dined, and waited upon him; undressed him when he was ready for bed; then took the floor for his own quarters, and slept athwart the door, rolled up in a blanket.

The next day, and the day after, they jogged lazily along talking over the adventures they had met since their separation, and mightily enjoying each other’s narratives. Hendon detailed all his wide wanderings in search of the king, and described how the archangel had led him a fool’s journey all over the forest, and taken him back to the hut, finally, when he found he could not get rid of him. Then⁠—he said⁠—the old man went into the bedchamber and came staggering back looking brokenhearted, and saying he had expected to find that the boy had returned and laid down in there to rest, but it was not so. Hendon had waited at the hut all day; hope of the king’s return died out, then, and he departed upon the quest again.

“And old Sanctum Sanctorum was truly sorry your highness came not back,” said Hendon; “I saw it in his face.”

“Marry I will never doubt that!” said the king⁠—and then told his own story; after which, Hendon was sorry he had not destroyed the archangel.

During the last day of the trip, Hendon’s spirits were soaring. His tongue ran constantly. He talked about his old father, and his brother Arthur, and told of many things which illustrated their high and generous characters; he went into loving frenzies over his Edith, and was so glad-hearted that he was even able to say some gentle and brotherly things about Hugh. He dwelt a deal on the coming meeting at Hendon Hall; what a surprise it would be to everybody, and what an outburst of thanksgiving and delight there would be.

It was a fair region, dotted with cottages and orchards, and the road led through broad pasture lands whose receding expanses, marked with gentle elevations and depressions, suggested the swelling and subsiding undulations of the sea. In the afternoon the returning prodigal made constant deflections from his course to see if by ascending some hillock he might not pierce the distance and catch a glimpse of his home. At last he was successful, and cried out excitedly⁠—

“There is the village, my Prince, and there is the Hall close by! You may see the towers from here; and that wood there⁠—that is my father’s park. Ah, now thou’lt know what state and grandeur be! A house with seventy rooms⁠—think of that!⁠—and seven and twenty servants! A brave lodging for such as we, is it not so? Come, let us speed⁠—my impatience will not brook further delay.”

All possible hurry was made; still, it was after three o’clock before the village was reached. The travellers scampered through it, Hendon’s tongue going all the time. “Here is the church⁠—covered with the same ivy⁠—none gone, none added.” “Yonder is the inn, the old Red Lion⁠—and yonder is the marketplace.” “Here is the Maypole, and here the pump⁠—nothing is altered; nothing but the people, at any rate; ten years make a change in people; some of these I seem to know, but none know me.” So his chat ran on. The end of the village was soon reached; then the travellers struck into a crooked, narrow road, walled in with tall hedges, and hurried briskly along it for half a mile, then passed into a vast flower garden through an imposing gateway, whose huge stone pillars bore sculptured armorial devices. A noble mansion was before them.

“Welcome to Hendon Hall, my king!” exclaimed Miles. “Ah, ’tis a great day! My father and my brother, and the Lady Edith will be so mad with joy that they will have eyes and tongue for none but me in the first transports of the meeting, and so thou’lt seem but coldly welcomed⁠—but mind it not; ’twill soon seem otherwise; for when I say thou art my ward, and tell them how costly is my love for thee, thou’lt see them take thee to their breasts for Miles Hendon’s sake, and make their house and hearts thy home forever after!”

The next moment Hendon sprang to the ground before the great door, helped the king down, then took him by the hand and rushed within. A few steps brought him to a spacious apartment; he entered, seated the king with more hurry than ceremony, then ran toward a young man who sat at a writing-table in front of a generous fire of logs.

“Embrace me, Hugh,” he cried, “and say thou’rt glad I am come again! and call our father, for home is not home till I shall touch his hand, and see his face, and hear his voice once more!”

But Hugh only drew back, after betraying a momentary surprise, and bent a grave stare upon the intruder⁠—a stare which indicated somewhat of offended dignity, at first, then changed, in response to some inward thought or purpose, to an expression of marvelling curiosity, mixed with a real or assumed compassion. Presently he said, in a mild voice⁠—

“Thy wits seem touched, poor stranger; doubtless thou hast suffered privations and rude buffetings at the world’s hands; thy looks and dress betoken it. Whom dost thou take me to be?”

“Take thee? Prithee for whom else than whom thou art? I take thee to be Hugh Hendon,” said Miles, sharply.

The other continued, in the same soft tone⁠—

“And whom dost thou imagine thyself to be?”

“Imagination hath nought to do with it! Dost thou pretend thou knowest me not for thy brother Miles Hendon?”

An expression of pleased surprise flitted across Hugh’s face, and he exclaimed⁠—

“What! thou art not jesting? can the dead come to life? God be praised if it be so! Our poor lost boy restored to our arms after all these cruel years! Ah, it seems too good to be true, it is too good to be true⁠—I charge thee, have pity, do not trifle with me! Quick⁠—come to the light⁠—let me scan thee well!”

He seized