The Prince and the Pauper
his sensations and experiences, as he moved through the solemn gloom
and the empty vastness of the night, were new and strange to him. At
intervals he heard voices approach, pass by, and fade into silence; and
as he saw nothing more of the bodies they belonged to than a sort of
formless drifting blur, there was something spectral and uncanny about
it all that made him shudder. Occasionally he caught the twinkle of a
light--always far away, apparently--almost in another world; if he heard
the tinkle of a sheep’s bell, it was vague, distant, indistinct;
the muffled lowing of the herds floated to him on the night wind in
vanishing cadences, a mournful sound; now and then came the complaining
howl of a dog over viewless expanses of field and forest; all sounds
were remote; they made the little King feel that all life and activity
were far removed from him, and that he stood solitary, companionless, in
the centre of a measureless solitude.
He stumbled along, through the gruesome fascinations of this new
experience, startled occasionally by the soft rustling of the dry leaves
overhead, so like human whispers they seemed to sound; and by-and-by he
came suddenly upon the freckled light of a tin lantern near at hand. He
stepped back into the shadows and waited. The lantern stood by the
open door of a barn. The King waited some time--there was no sound,
and nobody stirring. He got so cold, standing still, and the hospitable
barn looked so enticing, that at last he resolved to risk everything and
enter. He started swiftly and stealthily, and just as he was crossing
the threshold he heard voices behind him. He darted behind a cask,
within the barn, and stooped down. Two farm-labourers came in, bringing
the lantern with them, and fell to work, talking meanwhile. Whilst they
moved about with the light, the King made good use of his eyes and took
the bearings of what seemed to be a good-sized stall at the further end
of the place, purposing to grope his way to it when he should be left to
himself. He also noted the position of a pile of horse blankets, midway
of the route, with the intent to levy upon them for the service of the
crown of England for one night.
By-and-by the men finished and went away, fastening the door behind
them and taking the lantern with them. The shivering King made for the
blankets, with as good speed as the darkness would allow; gathered them
up, and then groped his way safely to the stall. Of two of the blankets
he made a bed, then covered himself with the remaining two. He was a
glad monarch, now, though the blankets were old and thin, and not quite
warm enough; and besides gave out a pungent horsey odour that was almost
suffocatingly powerful.
Although the King was hungry and chilly, he was also so tired and so
drowsy that these latter influences soon began to get the advantage
of the former, and he presently dozed off into a state of
semi-consciousness. Then, just as he was on the point of losing himself
wholly, he distinctly felt something touch him! He was broad awake in
a moment, and gasping for breath. The cold horror of that mysterious
touch in the dark almost made his heart stand still. He lay motionless,
and listened, scarcely breathing. But nothing stirred, and there was
no sound. He continued to listen, and wait, during what seemed a long
time, but still nothing stirred, and there was no sound. So he began
to drop into a drowse once more, at last; and all at once he felt that
mysterious touch again! It was a grisly thing, this light touch from
this noiseless and invisible presence; it made the boy sick with ghostly
fears. What should he do? That was the question; but he did not know
how to answer it. Should he leave these reasonably comfortable quarters
and fly from this inscrutable horror? But fly whither? He could
not get out of the barn; and the idea of scurrying blindly hither and
thither in the dark, within the captivity of the four walls, with this
phantom gliding after him, and visiting him with that soft hideous touch
upon cheek or shoulder at every turn, was intolerable. But to stay
where he was, and endure this living death all night--was that better?
No. What, then, was there left to do? Ah, there was but one course;
he knew it well--he must put out his hand and find that thing!
It was easy to think this; but it was hard to brace himself up to try
it. Three times he stretched his hand a little way out into the dark,
gingerly; and snatched it suddenly back, with a gasp--not because it
had encountered anything, but because he had felt so sure it was just
_going_ to. But the fourth time, he groped a little further, and his
hand lightly swept against something soft and warm. This petrified him,
nearly, with fright; his mind was in such a state that he could imagine
the thing to be nothing else than a corpse, newly dead and still warm.
He thought he would rather die than touch it again. But he thought this
false thought because he did not know the immortal strength of
human curiosity. In no long time his hand was tremblingly groping
again--against his judgment, and without his consent--but groping
persistently on, just the same. It encountered a bunch of long hair; he
shuddered, but followed up the hair and found what seemed to be a warm
rope; followed up the rope and found an innocent calf!--for the rope was
not a rope at all, but the calf’s tail.
The King was cordially ashamed of himself for having gotten all that
fright and misery out of so paltry a matter as a slumbering calf; but he
need not have felt so about it, for it was not the calf that frightened
him, but a dreadful non-existent something which the calf stood for; and
any other boy, in those old superstitious times, would have acted and
suffered just as he had done.
The King was not only delighted to find that the creature was only a
calf, but delighted to have the calf’s company; for he had been feeling
so lonesome and friendless that the company and comradeship of even
this humble animal were welcome. And he had been so buffeted, so rudely
entreated by his own kind, that it was a real comfort to him to feel
that he was at last in the society of a fellow-creature that had at
least a soft heart and a gentle spirit, whatever loftier attributes
might be lacking. So he resolved to waive rank and make friends with
the calf.
While stroking its sleek warm back--for it lay near him and within easy
reach--it occurred to him that this calf might be utilised in more ways
than one. Whereupon he re-arranged his bed, spreading it down close to
the calf; then he cuddled himself up to the calf’s back, drew the covers
up over himself and his friend, and in a minute or two was as warm and
comfortable as he had ever been in the downy couches of the regal palace
of Westminster.
Pleasant thoughts came at once; life took on a cheerfuller seeming. He
was free of the bonds of servitude and crime, free of the companionship
of base and brutal outlaws; he was warm; he was sheltered; in a word, he
was happy. The night wind was rising; it swept by in fitful gusts
that made the old barn quake and rattle, then its forces died down
at intervals, and went moaning and wailing around corners and
projections--but it was all music to the King, now that he was snug and
comfortable: let it blow and rage, let it batter and bang, let it moan
and wail, he minded it not, he only enjoyed it. He merely snuggled
the closer to his friend, in a luxury of warm contentment, and drifted
blissfully out of consciousness into a deep and dreamless sleep that
was full of serenity and peace. The distant dogs howled, the melancholy
kine complained, and the winds went on raging, whilst furious sheets
of rain drove along the roof; but the Majesty of England slept on,
undisturbed, and the calf did the same, it being a simple creature, and
not easily troubled by storms or embarrassed by sleeping with a king.
CHAPTER XIX. The Prince with the peasants.
When the King awoke in the early morning, he found that a wet but
thoughtful rat had crept into the place during the night and made a cosy
bed for itself in his bosom. Being disturbed now, it scampered away.
The boy smiled, and said, “Poor fool, why so fearful? I am as forlorn
as thou. ‘Twould be a sham in me to hurt the helpless, who am myself so
helpless. Moreover, I owe you thanks for a good omen; for when a king
has fallen so low that the very rats do make a bed of him, it surely
meaneth that his fortunes be upon the turn, since it is plain he can no
lower go.”
He got up and stepped out of the stall, and just then he heard the sound
of children’s voices. The barn door opened and a couple of little girls
came in. As soon as they saw him their talking and laughing ceased, and
they stopped and stood still, gazing at him with strong curiosity; they
presently began to whisper together, then they approached nearer, and
stopped again to gaze and whisper. By-and-by they gathered courage and
began to discuss him aloud. One said--
“He hath a comely face.”
The other added--
“And pretty hair.”
“But is ill clothed enow.”
“And how starved he looketh.”
They came still nearer, sidling shyly around and about him, examining
him minutely from all points, as if he were some strange new kind of
animal, but warily and watchfully the while, as if they half feared he
might be a sort of animal that would bite, upon occasion. Finally they
halted before him, holding each other’s hands for protection, and took a
good satisfying stare with their innocent eyes; then one of them plucked
up all her courage and inquired with honest directness--
“Who art thou, boy?”
“I am the King,” was the grave answer.
The children gave a little start, and their eyes spread themselves wide
open and remained so during a speechless half minute. Then curiosity
broke the silence--
“The _King_? What King?”
“The King of England.”
The children looked at each other--then at him--then at each other
again--wonderingly, perplexedly; then one said--
“Didst hear him, Margery?--he said he is the King. Can that be true?”
“How can it be else but true, Prissy? Would he say a lie? For look
you, Prissy, an’ it were not true, it _would_ be a lie. It surely would
be. Now think on’t. For all things that be not true, be lies--thou
canst make nought else out of it.”
It was a good tight argument, without a leak in it anywhere; and it left
Prissy’s half-doubts not a leg to stand on. She considered a moment,
then put the King upon his honour with the simple remark--
“If thou art truly the King, then I believe thee.”
“I am truly the King.”
This settled the matter. His Majesty’s royalty was accepted without
further question or discussion, and the two little girls began at once
to inquire into how he came to be where he was, and how he came to be so
unroyally clad, and whither he was bound, and all about his affairs. It
was a mighty relief to him to pour out his troubles where they would not
be scoffed at or doubted; so he told his tale with feeling, forgetting
even his hunger for the time; and it was received with the deepest and
tenderest sympathy by the gentle little maids. But when he got down
to his latest experiences and they learned how long he had been without
food, they cut him short and hurried him away to the farmhouse to find a
breakfast for him.
The King was cheerful and happy now, and said to himself, “When I
am come to mine own again, I will always honour little children,
remembering how that these trusted me and believed in me in my time
of trouble; whilst they that were older, and thought themselves wiser,
mocked at me and held me for a liar.”
The children’s mother received the King kindly, and was full of pity;