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

Thy old eyes are sound yet. An’ I were Sir Hugh, I would take the shabby carle and⁠—”

The jailer finished by lifting himself a-tip-toe with an imaginary halter, at the same time making a gurgling noise in his throat suggestive of suffocation. The old man said, vindictively⁠—

“Let him bless God an’ he fare no worse. An’ I had the handling o’ the villain he should roast, or I am no true man!”

The jailer laughed a pleasant hyena laugh, and said⁠—

“Give him a piece of thy mind, old man⁠—they all do it. Thou’lt find it good diversion.”

Then he sauntered toward his anteroom and disappeared. The old man dropped upon his knees and whispered⁠—

“God be thanked, thou’rt come again, my master! I believed thou wert dead these seven years, and lo, here thou art alive! I knew thee the moment I saw thee; and main hard work it was to keep a stony countenance and seem to see none here but tuppenny knaves and rubbish o’ the streets. I am old and poor, Sir Miles; but say the word and I will go forth and proclaim the truth though I be strangled for it.”

“No,” said Hendon; “thou shalt not. It would ruin thee, and yet help but little in my cause. But I thank thee, for thou hast given me back somewhat of my lost faith in my kind.”

The old servant became very valuable to Hendon and the king; for he dropped in several times a day to “abuse” the former, and always smuggled in a few delicacies to help out the prison bill of fare; he also furnished the current news. Hendon reserved the dainties for the king; without them his Majesty might not have survived, for he was not able to eat the coarse and wretched food provided by the jailer. Andrews was obliged to confine himself to brief visits, in order to avoid suspicion; but he managed to impart a fair degree of information each time⁠—information delivered in a low voice, for Hendon’s benefit, and interlarded with insulting epithets delivered in a louder voice for the benefit of other hearers.

So, little by little, the story of the family came out. Arthur had been dead six years. This loss, with the absence of news from Hendon, impaired the father’s health; he believed he was going to die, and he wished to see Hugh and Edith settled in life before he passed away; but Edith begged hard for delay, hoping for Miles’s return; then the letter came which brought the news of Miles’s death; the shock prostrated Sir Richard; he believed his end was very near, and he and Hugh insisted upon the marriage; Edith begged for and obtained a month’s respite, then another, and finally a third; the marriage then took place by the deathbed of Sir Richard. It had not proved a happy one. It was whispered about the country that shortly after the nuptials the bride found among her husband’s papers several rough and incomplete drafts of the fatal letter, and had accused him of precipitating the marriage⁠—and Sir Richard’s death, too⁠—by a wicked forgery. Tales of cruelty to the Lady Edith and the servants were to be heard on all hands; and since the father’s death Sir Hugh had thrown off all soft disguises and become a pitiless master toward all who in any way depended upon him and his domains for bread.

There was a bit of Andrew’s gossip which the king listened to with a lively interest⁠—

“There is rumor that the king is mad. But in charity forbear to say I mentioned it, for ’tis death to speak of it, they say.”

His Majesty glared at the old man and said⁠—

“The king is not mad, good man⁠—and thou’lt find it to thy advantage to busy thyself with matters that nearer concern thee than this seditious prattle.”

“What doth the lad mean?” said Andrews, surprised at this brisk assault from such an unexpected quarter. Hendon gave him a sign, and he did not pursue his question, but went on with his budget⁠—

“The late king is to be buried at Windsor in a day or two⁠—the 16th of the month⁠—and the new king will be crowned at Westminster the 20th.”

“Methinks they must needs find him first,” muttered his Majesty; then added, confidently, “but they will look to that⁠—and so also shall I.”

“In the name of⁠—”

But the old man got no further⁠—a warning sign from Hendon checked his remark. He resumed the thread of his gossip⁠—

“Sir Hugh goeth to the coronation⁠—and with grand hopes. He confidently looketh to come back a peer, for he is high in favor with the Lord Protector.”

“What Lord Protector?” asked his Majesty.

“His Grace the Duke of Somerset.”

“What Duke of Somerset?”

“Marry, there is but one⁠—Seymour, Earl of Hertford.”

The king asked sharply⁠—

“Since when is he a duke, and Lord Protector?”

“Since the last day of January.”

“And prithee who made him so?”

“Himself and the Great Council⁠—with help of the king.”

His Majesty started violently. “The king!” he cried. “What king, good sir?”

“What king, indeed! (God-a-mercy, what aileth the boy?) Sith we have but one, ’tis not difficult to answer⁠—his most sacred Majesty King Edward the Sixth⁠—whom God preserve! Yea, and a dear and gracious little urchin is he, too; and whether he be mad or no⁠—and they say he mendeth daily⁠—his praises are on all men’s lips; and all bless him, likewise, and offer prayers that he may be spared to reign long in England; for he began humanely with saving the old Duke of Norfolk’s life, and now is he bent on destroying the cruellest of the laws that harry and oppress the people.”

This news struck his Majesty dumb with amazement, and plunged him into so deep and dismal a reverie that he heard no more of the old man’s gossip. He wondered if the “little urchin” was the beggar-boy whom he left dressed in his own garments in the palace. It did not seem possible that this could be, for surely his manners and speech would betray him if