The Prince and the Pauper

The King sat musing a few moments, then looked up and said—­

“’Tis strange—­most strange.  I cannot account for it.”

“No, it is not strange, my liege.  I know him, and this conduct is but natural.  He was a rascal from his birth.”

“Oh, I spake not of him, Sir Miles.”

“Not of him?  Then of what?  What is it that is strange?”

“That the King is not missed.”

“How?  Which?  I doubt I do not understand.”

“Indeed?  Doth it not strike you as being passing strange that the land is not filled with couriers and proclamations describing my person and making search for me?  Is it no matter for commotion and distress that the Head of the State is gone; that I am vanished away and lost?”

“Most true, my King, I had forgot.”  Then Hendon sighed, and muttered to himself, “Poor ruined mind—­still busy with its pathetic dream.”

“But I have a plan that shall right us both—­I will write a paper, in three tongues—­Latin, Greek and English—­and thou shalt haste away with it to London in the morning.  Give it to none but my uncle, the Lord Hertford; when he shall see it, he will know and say I wrote it.  Then he will send for me.”

“Might it not be best, my Prince, that we wait here until I prove myself and make my rights secure to my domains?  I should be so much the better able then to—­”

The King interrupted him imperiously—­

“Peace!  What are thy paltry domains, thy trivial interests, contrasted with matters which concern the weal of a nation and the integrity of a throne?” Then, he added, in a gentle voice, as if he were sorry for his severity, “Obey, and have no fear; I will right thee, I will make thee whole—­yes, more than whole.  I shall remember, and requite.”

So saying, he took the pen, and set himself to work.  Hendon contemplated him lovingly a while, then said to himself—­

“An’ it were dark, I should think it was a king that spoke; there’s no denying it, when the humour’s upon on him he doth thunder and lighten like your true King; now where got he that trick?  See him scribble and scratch away contentedly at his meaningless pot-hooks, fancying them to be Latin and Greek—­and except my wit shall serve me with a lucky device for diverting him from his purpose, I shall be forced to pretend to post away to-morrow on this wild errand he hath invented for me.”

The next moment Sir Miles’s thoughts had gone back to the recent episode.  So absorbed was he in his musings, that when the King presently handed him the paper which he had been writing, he received it and pocketed it without being conscious of the act.  “How marvellous strange she acted,” he muttered.  “I think she knew me—­and I think she did not know me.  These opinions do conflict, I perceive it plainly; I cannot reconcile them, neither can I, by argument, dismiss either of the two, or even persuade one to outweigh the other.  The matter standeth simply thus:  she must have known my face, my figure, my voice, for how could it be otherwise?  Yet she said she knew me not, and that is proof perfect, for she cannot lie.  But stop—­I think I begin to see.  Peradventure he hath influenced her, commanded her, compelled her to lie.  That is the solution.  The riddle is unriddled.  She seemed dead with fear—­yes, she was under his compulsion.  I will seek her; I will find her; now that he is away, she will speak her true mind.  She will remember the old times when we were little playfellows together, and this will soften her heart, and she will no more betray me, but will confess me.  There is no treacherous blood in her—­no, she was always honest and true.  She has loved me, in those old days—­this is my security; for whom one has loved, one cannot betray.”

He stepped eagerly toward the door; at that moment it opened, and the Lady Edith entered.  She was very pale, but she walked with a firm step, and her carriage was full of grace and gentle dignity.  Her face was as sad as before.

Miles sprang forward, with a happy confidence, to meet her, but she checked him with a hardly perceptible gesture, and he stopped where he was.  She seated herself, and asked him to do likewise.  Thus simply did she take the sense of old comradeship out of him, and transform him into a stranger and a guest.  The surprise of it, the bewildering unexpectedness of it, made him begin to question, for a moment, if he was the person he was pretending to be, after all.  The Lady Edith said—­

“Sir, I have come to warn you.  The mad cannot be persuaded out of their delusions, perchance; but doubtless they may be persuaded to avoid perils.  I think this dream of yours hath the seeming of honest truth to you, and therefore is not criminal—­but do not tarry here with it; for here it is dangerous.”  She looked steadily into Miles’s face a moment, then added, impressively, “It is the more dangerous for that you are much like what our lost lad must have grown to be if he had lived.”

“Heavens, madam, but I am he!”

“I truly think you think it, sir.  I question not your honesty in that; I but warn you, that is all.  My husband is master in this region; his power hath hardly any limit; the people prosper or starve, as he wills.  If you resembled not the man whom you profess to be, my husband might bid you pleasure yourself with your dream in peace; but trust me, I know him well; I know what he will do; he will say to all that you are but a mad impostor, and straightway all will echo him.”  She bent upon Miles that same steady look once more, and added:  “If you were Miles Hendon, and he knew it and all the region knew it—­consider what I am saying, weigh it well—­you would stand in the same peril, your punishment would be no less sure; he would deny you and denounce you, and none would be bold enough to give you countenance.”

“Most truly I believe it,” said Miles, bitterly.  “The power that can command one life-long friend to betray and disown another, and be obeyed, may well look to be obeyed in quarters where bread and life are on the stake and no cobweb ties of loyalty and honour are concerned.”

A faint tinge appeared for a moment in the lady’s cheek, and she dropped her eyes to the floor; but her voice betrayed no emotion when she proceeded—­

“I have warned you—­I must still warn you—­to go hence.  This man will destroy you, else.  He is a tyrant who knows no pity.  I, who am his fettered slave, know this.  Poor Miles, and Arthur, and my dear guardian, Sir Richard, are free of him, and at rest:  better that you were with them than that you bide here in the clutches of this miscreant.  Your pretensions are a menace to his title and possessions; you have assaulted him in his own house:  you are ruined if you stay.  Go—­do not hesitate.  If you lack money, take this purse, I beg of you, and bribe the servants to let you pass.  Oh, be warned, poor soul, and escape while you may.”

Miles declined the purse with a gesture, and rose up and stood before her.

“Grant me one thing,” he said.  “Let your eyes rest upon mine, so that I may see if they be steady.  There—­now answer me.  Am I Miles Hendon?”

“No.  I know you not.”

“Swear it!”

The answer was low, but distinct—­

“I swear.”

“Oh, this passes belief!”

“Fly!  Why will you waste the precious time?  Fly, and save yourself.”

At that moment the officers burst into the room, and a violent struggle began; but Hendon was soon overpowered and dragged away.  The King was taken also, and both were bound and led to prison.