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THE troop of vagabonds turned out at early dawn, and set forward
on their march. There was a lowering sky overhead, sloppy ground under
foot, and a winter chill in the air. All gaiety was gone from the
company; some were sullen and silent, some were irritable and
petulant, none were gentle-humored, all were thirsty.
The Ruffler put 'Jack' in Hugo's charge, with some brief
instructions, and commanded John Canty to keep away from him and let
him alone; he also warned Hugo not to be too rough with the lad.
After a while the weather grew milder, and the clouds lifted
somewhat. The troop ceased to shiver, and their spirits began to
improve. They grew more and more cheerful, and finally began to
chaff each other and insult passengers along the highway. This
showed that they were awaking to an appreciation of life and its
joys once more. The dread in which their sort was held was apparent in
the fact that everybody gave them the road, and took their ribald
insolences meekly, without venturing to talk back. They snatched linen
from the hedges, occasionally, in full view of the owners, who made no
protest, but only seemed grateful that they did not take the hedges,
too.
By and by they invaded a small farmhouse and made themselves at
home while the trembling farmer and his people swept the larder
clean to furnish a breakfast for them. They chucked the housewife
and her daughters under the chin while receiving the food from their
hands, and made coarse jests about them, accompanied with insulting
epithets and bursts of horse-laughter. They threw bones and vegetables
at the farmer and his sons, kept them dodging all the time, and
applauded uproariously when a good hit was made. They ended by
buttering the head of one of the daughters who resented some of
their familiarities. When they took their leave they threatened to
come back and burn the house over the heads of the family if any
report of their doings got to the ears of the authorities.
About noon, after a long and weary tramp, the gang came to a
halt behind a hedge on the outskirts of a considerable village. An
hour was allowed for rest, then the crew scattered themselves abroad
to enter the village at different points to ply their various
trades. 'Jack' was sent with Hugo. They wandered hither and thither
for some time, Hugo watching for opportunities to do a stroke of
business but finding none- so he finally said:
'I see naught to steal; it is a paltry place. Wherefore we will
beg.'
'We, forsooth! Follow thy trade- it befits thee. But I will not
beg.'
'Thou'lt not beg!' exclaimed Hugo, eying the king with surprise.
'Prithee, since when hast thou reformed?'
'What dost thou mean?'
'Mean? Hast thou not begged the streets of London all thy life?'
'I? Thou idiot!'
'Spare thy compliments- thy stock will last longer. Thy father
says thou hast begged all thy days. Mayhap he lied. Peradventure you
will even make so bold as to say he lied,' scoffed Hugo.
'Him you call my father? Yes, he lied.'
'Come, play not thy merry game of madman so far, mate; use it
for thy amusement, not thy hurt. An I tell him this, he will scorch
thee finely for it.'
'Save thyself the trouble. I will tell him.'
'I like thy spirit, I do in truth; but I do not admire thy
judgment. Bone-rackings and bastings be plenty enow in this life,
without going out of one's way to invite them. But a truce to these
matters; I believe your father. I doubt not he can lie; I doubt not he
doth lie, upon occasion, for the best of us do that; but there is no
occasion here. A wise man does not waste so good a commodity as
lying for naught. But come; sith it is thy humor to give over begging,
wherewithal shall we busy ourselves? With robbing kitchens?'
The king said, impatiently:
'Have done with this folly- you weary me!'
Hugo replied, with temper:
'Now harkee, mate; you will not beg, you will not rob; so be it.
But I will tell you what you will do. You will play decoy whilst I
beg. Refuse, an you think you may venture!'
The king was about to reply contemptuously, when Hugo said,
interrupting:
'Peace! Here comes one with a kindly face. Now will I fall down in
a fit. When the stranger runs to me, set you up a wail, and fall
upon your knees, seeming to weep; then cry out as if all the devils of
misery were in your belly, and say, "Oh, sir, it is my poor
afflicted brother, and we be friendless; o' God's name cast through
your merciful eyes one pitiful look upon a sick, forsaken, and most
miserable wretch; bestow one little penny out of thy riches upon one
smitten of God and ready to perish!"- and mind you, keep you on
wailing, and abate not till we bilk him of his penny, else shall you
rue it.'
Then immediately Hugo began to moan, and groan, and roll his eyes,
and reel and totter about; and when the stranger was close at hand,
down he sprawled before him, with a shriek, and began to writhe and
wallow in the dirt, in seeming agony.
'O dear, O dear!' cried the benevolent stranger. 'Oh, poor soul,
poor soul, how he doth suffer! There- let me help thee up.'
'O, noble sir, forbear, and God love you for a princely gentleman-
but it giveth me cruel pain to touch me when I am taken so. My brother
there will tell your worship how I am racked with anguish when these
fits be upon me. A penny, dear sir, a penny, to buy a little food;
then leave me to my sorrows.'
'A penny! thou shalt have three, thou hapless creature'- and he
fumbled in his pocket with nervous haste and got them out. 'There,
poor lad, take them, and most welcome. Now come hither, my boy, and
help me carry thy stricken brother to yon house, where-'
'I am not his brother,' said the king, interrupting.
'What! not his brother?'
'Oh, hear him!' groaned Hugo, then privately ground his teeth. 'He
denies his own brother- and he with one foot in the grave!'
'Boy, thou art indeed hard of heart, if this is thy brother. For
shame!- and he scarce able to move hand or foot. If he is not thy
brother, who is he, then?'
'A beggar and a thief! He has got your money and has picked your
pocket likewise. An thou wouldst do a healing miracle, lay thy staff
over his shoulders and trust Providence for the rest.'
But Hugo did not tarry for the miracle. In a moment he was up
and off like the wind, the gentleman following after and raising the
hue and cry lustily as he went. The king, breathing deep gratitude
to Heaven for his own release, fled in the opposite direction and
did not slacken his pace until he was out of harm's reach. He took the
first road that offered, and soon put the village behind him. He
hurried along, as briskly as he could, during several hours, keeping a
nervous watch over his shoulder for pursuit; but his fears left him at
last, and a grateful sense of security took their place. He recognized
now that he was hungry; and also very tired. So he halted at a
farmhouse; but when he was about to speak, he was cut short and driven
rudely away. His clothes were against him.
He wandered on, wounded and indignant, and was resolved to put
himself in the way of light treatment no more. But hunger is pride's
master; so as the evening drew near, he made an attempt at another
farmhouse; but here he fared worse than before; for he was called hard
names and was promised arrest as a vagrant except he moved on
promptly.
The night came on, chilly and overcast; and still the footsore
monarch labored slowly on. He was obliged to keep moving, for every
time he sat down to rest he was soon penetrated to the bone with the
cold. All 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 center 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 laborers
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 horsy odor
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 superstitous 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 was 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 utilized
in more ways than one. Whereupon he rearranged 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 cheerfuler 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.
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