As soon as Miles Hendon and the little prince were clear of the mob, they struck down through back lanes and alleys toward the river. Their way was unobstructed until they approached London Bridge; then they ploughed into the multitude again, Hendon keeping a fast grip upon the Prince’s—no, the King’s—wrist. The tremendous news was already abroad, and the boy learned it from a thousand voices at once—“The King is dead!” The tidings struck a chill to the heart of the poor little waif, and sent a shudder through his frame. He realised the greatness of his loss, and was filled with a bitter grief; for the grim tyrant who had been such a terror to others had always been gentle with him. The tears sprang to his eyes and blurred all objects. For an instant he felt himself the most forlorn, outcast, and forsaken of God’s creatures—then another cry shook the night with its far-reaching thunders: "Long live King Edward the Sixth!” and this made his eyes kindle, and thrilled him with pride to his fingers’ ends.

“Ah,” he thought, “how grand and strange it seems—I am King!”
Our friends threaded their way slowly through the throngs upon the bridge. This structure, which had stood for six hundred years, and had been a noisy and populous thoroughfare all that time, was a curious affair, for a closely packed rank of stores and shops, with family quarters overhead, stretched along both sides of it, from one bank of the river to the other. The Bridge was a sort of town to itself; it had its inn, its beer-houses, its bakeries, its haberdasheries, its food markets, its manufacturing industries, and even its church. It looked upon the two neighbours which it linked together—London and Southwark—as being well enough as suburbs, but not otherwise particularly important. It was a close corporation, so to speak; it was a narrow town, of a single street a fifth of a mile long, its population was but a village population and everybody in it knew all his fellow-townsmen intimately, and had known their fathers and mothers before them—and all their little family affairs into the bargain.

It had its aristocracy, of course—its fine old families of butchers, and bakers, and what-not, who had occupied the same old premises for five or six hundred years, and knew the great history of the Bridge from beginning to end, and all its strange legends; and who always talked bridgy talk, and thought bridgy thoughts, and lied in a long, level, direct, substantial bridgy way. It was just the sort of population to be narrow and ignorant and self-conceited. Children were born on the Bridge, were reared there, grew to old age, and finally died without ever having set a foot upon any part of the world but London Bridge alone. Such people would naturally imagine that the mighty and interminable procession which moved through its street night and day, with its confused roar of shouts and cries, its neighings and bellowing and bleatings and its muffled thunder-tramp, was the one great thing in this world, and themselves somehow the proprietors of it.

And so they were, in effect—at least they could exhibit it from their windows, and did—for a consideration—whenever a returning king or hero gave it a fleeting splendour, for there was no place like it for affording a long, straight, uninterrupted view of marching columns.

Men born and reared upon the Bridge found life unendurably dull and inane elsewhere. History tells of one of these who left the Bridge at the age of seventy-one and retired to the country. But he could only fret and toss in his bed; he could not go to sleep, the deep stillness was so painful, so awful, so oppressive.

When he was worn out with it, at last, he fled back to his old home, a lean and haggard spectre, and fell peacefully to rest and pleasant dreams under the lulling music of the lashing waters and the boom and crash and thunder of London Bridge.
In the times of which we are writing, the Bridge furnished ‘object lessons’ in English history for its children—namely, the livid and decaying heads of renowned men impaled upon iron spikes atop of its gateways. But we digress.

Hendon’s lodgings were in the little inn on the Bridge. As he neared the door with his small friend, a rough voice said—
“So, thou’rt come at last! Thou’lt not escape again, I warrant thee; and if pounding thy bones to a pudding can teach thee somewhat, thou’lt not keep us waiting another time, mayhap,”—and John Canty put out his hand to seize the boy.
Miles Hendon stepped in the way and said—
“Not too fast, friend. Thou art needlessly rough, methinks. What is the lad to thee?”
“If it be any business of thine to make and meddle in others’ affairs, he is my son.”
“‘Tis a lie!” cried the little King, hotly.
“Boldly said, and I believe thee, whether thy small headpiece be sound or cracked, my boy. But whether this scurvy ruffian be thy father or no, ‘tis all one, he shall not have thee to beat thee and abuse, according to his threat, so thou prefer to bide with me.”
“I do, I do—I know him not, I loathe him, and will die before I will go with him.”
“Then ‘tis settled, and there is nought more to say.”
“We will see, as to that!” exclaimed John Canty, striding past Hendon to get at the boy; “by force shall he—”
“If thou do but touch him, thou animated offal, I will spit thee like a goose!” said Hendon, barring the way and laying his hand upon his sword hilt. Canty drew back. "Now mark ye,” continued Hendon, “I took this lad under my protection when a mob of such as thou would have mishandled him, mayhap killed him; dost imagine I will desert him now to a worser fate?—for whether thou art his father or no—and sooth to say, I think it is a lie—a decent swift death were better for such a lad than life in such brute hands as thine. So go thy ways, and set quick about it, for I like not much bandying of words, being not over-patient in my nature.”
John Canty moved off, muttering threats and curses, and was swallowed from sight in the crowd. Hendon ascended three flights of stairs to his room, with his charge, after ordering a meal to be sent thither. It was a poor apartment, with a shabby bed and some odds and ends of old furniture in it, and was vaguely lighted by a couple of sickly candles. The little King dragged himself to the bed and lay down upon it, almost exhausted with hunger and fatigue. He had been on his feet a good part of a day and a night (for it was now two or three o’clock in the morning), and had eaten nothing meantime. He murmured drowsily—
“Prithee call me when the table is spread,” and sank into a deep sleep immediately.
A smile twinkled in Hendon’s eye, and he said to himself—
“By the mass, the little beggar takes to one’s quarters and usurps one’s bed with as natural and easy a grace as if he owned them—with never a by-your-leave or so-please-it-you, or anything of the sort. In his diseased ravings he called himself the Prince of Wales, and bravely doth he keep up the character. Poor little friendless rat, doubtless his mind has been disordered with ill-usage. Well, I will be his friend; I have saved him, and it draweth me strongly to him; already I love the bold-tongued little rascal. How soldier-like he faced the smutty rabble and flung back his high defiance! And what a comely, sweet and gentle face he hath, now that sleep hath conjured away its troubles and its griefs. I will teach him; I will cure his malady; yea, I will be his elder brother, and care for him and watch over him; and whoso would shame him or do him hurt may order his shroud, for though I be burnt for it he shall need it!”
He bent over the boy and contemplated him with kind and pitying interest, tapping the young cheek tenderly and smoothing back the tangled curls with his great brown hand. A slight shiver ed over the boy’s form. Hendon muttered—
“See, now, how like a man it was to let him lie here uncovered and fill his body with deadly rheums. Now what shall I do? ‘twill wake him to take him up and put him within the bed, and he sorely needeth sleep.”

He looked about for extra covering, but finding none, doffed his doublet and wrapped the lad in it, saying, “I am used to nipping air and scant apparel, ‘tis little I shall mind the cold!”—then walked up and down the room, to keep his blood in motion, soliloquising as before.

“His injured mind persuades him he is Prince of Wales; ‘twill be odd to have a Prince of Wales still with us, now that he that was the prince is prince no more, but king—for this poor mind is set upon the one fantasy, and will not reason out that now it should cast by the prince and call itself the king. . . If my father liveth still, after these seven years that I have heard nought from home in my foreign dungeon, he will welcome the poor lad and give him generous shelter for my sake; so will my good elder brother, Arthur; my other brother, Hugh—but I will crack his crown an he interfere, the fox-hearted, ill-conditioned animal! Yes, thither will we fare—and straightway, too.”

A servant entered with a smoking meal, disposed it upon a small deal table, placed the chairs, and took his departure, leaving such cheap lodgers as these to wait upon themselves. The door slammed after him, and the noise woke the boy, who sprang to a sitting posture, and shot a glad glance about him; then a grieved look came into his face and he murmured to himself, with a deep sigh, “Alack, it was but a dream, woe is me!” Next he noticed Miles Hendon’s doublet—glanced from that to Hendon, comprehended the sacrifice that had been made for him, and said, gently—
“Thou art good to me, yes, thou art very good to me. Take it and put it on—I shall not need it more.”
Then he got up and walked to the washstand in the corner and stood there, waiting. Hendon said in a cheery voice—
“We’ll have a right hearty sup and bite, now, for everything is savoury and smoking hot, and that and thy nap together will make thee a little man again, never fear!”
The boy made no answer, but bent a steady look, that was filled with grave surprise, and also somewhat touched with impatience, upon the tall knight of the sword. Hendon was puzzled, and said—
“What’s amiss?”
“Good sir, I would wash me.”
“Oh, is that all? Ask no permission of Miles Hendon for aught thou cravest. Make thyself perfectly free here, and welcome, with all that are his belongings.”
Still the boy stood, and moved not; more, he tapped the floor once or twice with his small impatient foot. Hendon was wholly perplexed. Said he—
“Bless us, what is it?”
“Prithee pour the water, and make not so many words!”
Hendon, suppressing a horse-laugh, and saying to himself, “By all the saints, but this is irable!” stepped briskly forward and did the small insolent’s bidding; then stood by, in a sort of stupefaction, until the command, “Come—the towel!” woke him sharply up. He took up a towel, from under the boy’s nose, and handed it to him without comment. He now proceeded to comfort his own face with a wash, and while he was at it his adopted child seated himself at the table and prepared to fall to. Hendon despatched his ablutions with alacrity, then drew back the other chair and was about to place himself at table, when the boy said, indignantly—
“Forbear! Wouldst sit in the presence of the King?”
This blow staggered Hendon to his foundations. He muttered to himself, “Lo, the poor thing’s madness is up with the time! It hath changed with the great change that is come to the realm, and now in fancy is he king! Good lack, I must humour the conceit, too—there is no other way—faith, he would order me to the Tower, else!”
And pleased with this jest, he removed the chair from the table, took his stand behind the King, and proceeded to wait upon him in the courtliest way he was capable of.
While the King ate, the rigour of his royal dignity relaxed a little, and with his growing contentment came a desire to talk. He said—“I think thou callest thyself Miles Hendon, if I heard thee aright?”
“Yes, Sire,” Miles replied; then observed to himself, “If I must humour the poor lad’s madness, I must ‘Sire’ him, I must ‘Majesty’ him, I must not go by halves, I must stick at nothing that belongeth to the part I play, else shall I play it ill and work evil to this charitable and kindly cause.”
The King warmed his heart with a second glass of wine, and said—“I would know thee—tell me thy story. Thou hast a gallant way with thee, and a noble—art nobly born?”
“We are of the tail of the nobility, good your Majesty. My father is a baronet—one of the smaller lords by knight service {2}—Sir Richard Hendon of Hendon Hall, by Monk’s Holm in Kent.”
“The name has escaped my memory. Go on—tell me thy story.”
“‘Tis not much, your Majesty, yet perchance it may beguile a short half-hour for want of a better. My father, Sir Richard, is very rich, and of a most generous nature. My mother died whilst I was yet a boy. I have two brothers: Arthur, my elder, with a soul like to his father’s; and Hugh, younger than I, a mean spirit, covetous, treacherous, vicious, underhanded—a reptile. Such was he from the cradle; such was he ten years past, when I last saw him—a ripe rascal at nineteen, I being twenty then, and Arthur twenty-two. There is none other of us but the Lady Edith, my cousin—she was sixteen then—beautiful, gentle, good, the daughter of an earl, the last of her race, heiress of a great fortune and a lapsed title. My father was her guardian. I loved her and she loved me; but she was betrothed to Arthur from the cradle, and Sir Richard would not suffer the contract to be broken. Arthur loved another maid, and bade us be of good cheer and hold fast to the hope that delay and luck together would some day give success to our several causes. Hugh loved the Lady Edith’s fortune, though in truth he said it was herself he loved—but then ‘twas his way, alway, to say the one thing and mean the other. But he lost his arts upon the girl; he could deceive my father, but none else. My father loved him best of us all, and trusted and believed him; for he was the youngest child, and others hated him—these qualities being in all ages sufficient to win a parent’s dearest love; and he had a smooth persuasive tongue, with an irable gift of lying—and these be qualities which do mightily assist a blind affection to cozen itself. I was wild—in troth I might go yet farther and say very wild, though ‘twas a wildness of an innocent sort, since it hurt none but me, brought shame to none, nor loss, nor had in it any taint of crime or baseness, or what might not beseem mine honourable degree.
“Yet did my brother Hugh turn these faults to good —he seeing that our brother Arthur’s health was but indifferent, and hoping the worst might work him profit were I swept out of the path—so—but ‘twere a long tale, good my liege, and little worth the telling. Briefly, then, this brother did deftly magnify my faults and make them crimes; ending his base work with finding a silken ladder in mine apartments—conveyed thither by his own means—and did convince my father by this, and suborned evidence of servants and other lying knaves, that I was minded to carry off my Edith and marry with her in rank defiance of his will.
“Three years of banishment from home and England might make a soldier and a man of me, my father said, and teach me some degree of wisdom. I fought out my long probation in the continental wars, tasting sumptuously of hard knocks, privation, and adventure; but in my last battle I was taken captive, and during the seven years that have waxed and waned since then, a foreign dungeon hath harboured me.

Through wit and courage I won to the free air at last, and fled hither straight; and am but just arrived, right poor in purse and raiment, and poorer still in knowledge of what these dull seven years have wrought at Hendon Hall, its people and belongings. So please you, sir, my meagre tale is told.”

“Thou hast been shamefully abused!” said the little King, with a flashing eye. "But I will right thee—by the cross will I! The King hath said it.”

Then, fired by the story of Miles’s wrongs, he loosed his tongue and poured the history of his own recent misfortunes into the ears of his astonished listener. When he had finished, Miles said to himself—
“Lo, what an imagination he hath! Verily, this is no common mind; else, crazed or sane, it could not weave so straight and gaudy a tale as this out of the airy nothings wherewith it hath wrought this curious romaunt. Poor ruined little head, it shall not lack friend or shelter whilst I bide with the living. He shall never leave my side; he shall be my pet, my little comrade. And he shall be cured!—ay, made whole and sound—then will he make himself a name—and proud shall I be to say, ‘Yes, he is mine—I took him, a homeless little ragamuffin, but I saw what was in him, and I said his name would be heard some day—behold him, observe him—was I right?’”
The King spoke—in a thoughtful, measured voice—
“Thou didst save me injury and shame, perchance my life, and so my crown. Such service demandeth rich reward. Name thy desire, and so it be within the com of my royal power, it is thine.”
This fantastic suggestion startled Hendon out of his reverie. He was about to thank the King and put the matter aside with saying he had only done his duty and desired no reward, but a wiser thought came into his head, and he asked leave to be silent a few moments and consider the gracious offer—an idea which the King gravely approved, remarking that it was best to be not too hasty with a thing of such great import.
Miles reflected during some moments, then said to himself, “Yes, that is the thing to do—by any other means it were impossible to get at it—and certes, this hour’s experience has taught me ‘twould be most wearing and inconvenient to continue it as it is. Yes, I will propose it; ‘twas a happy accident that I did not throw the chance away.” Then he dropped upon one knee and said—
“My poor service went not beyond the limit of a subject’s simple duty, and therefore hath no merit; but since your Majesty is pleased to hold it worthy some reward, I take heart of grace to make petition to this effect. Near four hundred years ago, as your grace knoweth, there being ill blood betwixt John, King of England, and the King of , it was decreed that two champions should fight together in the lists, and so settle the dispute by what is called the arbitrament of God. These two kings, and the Spanish king, being assembled to witness and judge the conflict, the French champion appeared; but so redoubtable was he, that our English knights refused to measure weapons with him. So the matter, which was a weighty one, was like to go against the English monarch by default. Now in the Tower lay the Lord de Courcy, the mightiest arm in England, stripped of his honours and possessions, and wasting with long captivity. Appeal was made to him; he gave assent, and came forth arrayed for battle; but no sooner did the Frenchman glimpse his huge frame and hear his famous name but he fled away, and the French king’s cause was lost. King John restored De Courcy’s titles and possessions, and said, ‘Name thy wish and thou shalt have it, though it cost me half my kingdom;’ whereat De Courcy, kneeling, as I do now, made answer, ‘This, then, I ask, my liege; that I and my successors may have and hold the privilege of remaining covered in the presence of the kings of England, henceforth while the throne shall last.’ The boon was granted, as your Majesty knoweth; and there hath been no time, these four hundred years, that that line has failed of an heir; and so, even unto this day, the head of that ancient house still weareth his hat or helm before the King’s Majesty, without let or hindrance, and this none other may do. Invoking this precedent in aid of my prayer, I beseech the King to grant to me but this one grace and privilege—to my more than sufficient reward—and none other, to wit: that I and my heirs, for ever, may sit in the presence of the Majesty of England!”

“Rise, Sir Miles Hendon, Knight,” said the King, gravely—giving the accolade with Hendon’s sword—“rise, and seat thyself. Thy petition is granted. Whilst England remains, and the crown continues, the privilege shall not lapse.”

His Majesty walked apart, musing, and Hendon dropped into a chair at table, observing to himself, “‘Twas a brave thought, and hath wrought me a mighty deliverance; my legs are grievously wearied. An I had not thought of that, I must have had to stand for weeks, till my poor lad’s wits are cured.”

After a little, he went on, “And so I am become a knight of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows! A most odd and strange position, truly, for one so matter-of-fact as I. I will not laugh—no, God forbid, for this thing which is so substanceless to me is real to him. And to me, also, in one way, it is not a falsity, for it reflects with truth the sweet and generous spirit that is in him.”

El prncipe y su salvador

Tan pronto Miles Hendon y el prncipe nio se vieron lejos de la turba, se encaminaron hacia el ro por callejuelas y veredas angostas. No hallaron obstculo en su camino hasta que llegaron cerca del Puente de Londres; pero entonces se toparon de nuevo con la muchedumbre, sin haber soltado an Hendon la mueca del prncipe, es decir, del rey. Ya haba trascendido la terrible noticia, que Eduardo supo a un tiempo por miles de voces: "El rey ha muerto." Esta nueva estremeci el corazn del pobre nio abandonado y le hizo temblar de pies a cabeza. Comprendiendo la enormidad de su prdida, se sinti invadido por amargo dolor, porque el inflexible tirano que tanto terror ocasionaba a los dems haba sido siempre dulce con l. Asomaron las lgrimas a sus ojos y le borraron la visin de todos los objetos. Por un instante se sinti la ms infeliz, abandonada y desamparada de las criaturas de Dios. Despus otro grito estremeci la noche en muchas millas a la redonda: "Viva el rey Eduardo VI!", y esto hizo centellear los ojos del nio y le estremeci de orgullo hasta las yemas de los dedos.
"Ah! pens–. Qu grande y qu extrao parece! Soy rey!" Nuestros dos amigos se abrieron lentamente camino por entre la muchedumbre que llenaba el puente. Esta construccin, que tena ms de seiscientos aos de vida sin haber dejado de ser un lugar bullicioso y muy poblado, era curiossima, por que una hilera completa de tiendas y almacenes, con habitaciones para familias encima, se extenda a ambos lados y de, una a otra orilla del ro. El puente era en s mismo una especie de ciudad, que tena sus posadas, cerveceras, panaderas, mercados, industrias manufactureras y hasta su iglesia. Miraba a los dos vecinos que pona en comunicacin –Londres y Southwark–, considerndolos buenos como suburbios, pero por lo dems sin particular importancia. Era una comunidad cerrada, por decirlo as, una ciudad estrecha con una sola calle de un quinto de milla de largo, y su poblacin no era sino la poblacin de una aldea. Todo el mundo en ella conoca ntimamente a sus vecinos, como haba tenido antes conocimiento de sus padres y de sus madres, y conoca adems todos sus pequeos asuntos familiares. Contaba con una aristocracia, por supuesto, con sus distinguidas y viejas famillas de carniceros, de panaderos y otros por el estilo, que venan ocupando las mismas tiendas desde haca quinientos o seiscientos aos, y saban la gran historia del puente desde el principio al fin, con todas sus misteriosas leyendas. Eran familias que hablaban siempre en lenguaje del puente, tenan ideas propias del puente, mentan a boca llena y sin titubear, de una manera emanada de su vida en el puente. Era aquella una clase de poblacin que haba de ser por fuerza mezquina, ignorante y engreda. Los nios nacan en el puente, eran educados en l, en l llegaban a viejos y, finalmente, en l moran sin haber puesto los pies en otra parte del mundo que no fuera el Puente de Londres. Aquella gente tena que pensar, por razn natural, que la copiosa e interminable procesin que circulaba por su calle noche y da, con su confusa algaraba de voces y gritos, sus relinchos, sus balidos y su ahogado patear, era la casa ms extraordinaria del mundo, y ellos mismos, en cierto modo, los propietarios de todo aquello. Y tales eran, en efecto –o por lo menos como tales podan considerarse desde sus ventanas, y as lo hacan mediante su alquiler–, cada vez que un rey o un hroe que volva daba ocasin a algunos festejos, porque no haba sitio como aqul para poder contemplar sin interrupcin las columnas en marcha.
Los hombres nacidos y educados en el puente encontraban la vida de un tedio insoportable en cualquier otro sitio. La historia nos dice de uno de estos hombres que abandon el puente a los sesenta y un aos y se retir al campo; pero no fue ms que para ponerse, nervioso y dar vueltas en la cama; no poda conciliar el sueo, pues la profunda calma rstica era penosa, horrible y opresiva. Cuando por fin se hart de ella, volvi corriendo a su antigua lar, hecho un espectro, demacrado y hurao, y se dio sosegadamente al descanso y a los sueos agradables bajo la adormecedora msica de las agitadas aguas y el estrpito y el bullicio y la algazara del Puente de Londres.
En el tiempo al cual nos referimos, el puente suministraba a sus hijos "lecciones de cosas" en la historia inglesa, a saber, unas lvidas y medio corrompidas cabezas de hombres famosos, clavadas en picas de hierro en el centro del antepecho del puente. Mas dejmonos de digresiones.
La guarida de Hendon estaba en la pequea posada del puente. Al acercarse el caballero a la entrada con su amiguito, dijo una voz bronca:
–Ah! Has aparecido ya? No volvers a escaparte, yo te lo aseguro! Como el machacarte los huesos hasta hacrtelos papilla pueda ensearte algo, no nos hars esperar otra vez.
Al decir esto, John Canty alarg la mano para agarrar al muchacho, mas Miles Hendon se interpuso, diciendo:
–No tan aprisa, amigo. Eres, a fe ma, demasiado brusco. Qu tienes que, ver con este muchacho?
–Por si tu negocio es entrometerte en los ajenos, he de decirte que es mi hijo.
–Eso es mentira! –exclam furioso el reyecito.
–Bien dices, y te creo, hijo mo, tanto si tienes la cabeza sana como si ests loco. Pero sea o no tu padre este rufin despreciable, da lo mismo, no ha de tenerte para pegarte y abusar, como ha amenazado, si prefieres permanecer conmigo.
–S, s! No lo conozco. Lo aborrezco, y morir antes de irme con l.
–Entonces est decidido, no hay ms que decir.
–Eso ya lo veremos! –exclam John Canty, tratando de pasar por el lado de Hendon para agarrar al nio–. Por fuerza...
–Si te atreves a tocarlo, piltrafa con vida, te ensarto como a un pato –dijo Hendon cerrndole el paso y llevando la mano al puo de la espada.
A esto retrocedi Canty, y Hendon sigui:
–Te prevengo que he tomado bajo mi proteccin a este muchacho cuando una chusma de tu calaa quera maltratarlo y acaso lo habra matado. Imaginas que lo voy a entregar ahora a un destino peor? Porque tanto si eres su padre como si no –y a fe ma creo que mientes–, una muerte con decoro y rpida sera mucho mejor para l que la vida en unas manos tan rudas como las tuyas. Sigue, pues, tu camino, y largo, porque no me gusta decir palabras de balde, ya que no me es natural ser paciente con exceso.
John Canty se apart murmurando amenazas y maldiciones, y desapareci de la vista, tragado por la multitud. Handon subi tres tramos de escalera hasta su cuarto en compaa del nio, despus de ordenar que les sirvieran de comer. Era una pobre pieza, con una destartalada cama y algunos muebles viejos, y alumbrada vagamente por dos moribundas velas. El rey nio se arrastr hasta la cama y se tendi en ella, casi exhausto de hambre y de fatiga. Haba estado en pie gran parte del da y de la noche (entonces eran las dos o tres de la maana), y no haba comido nada. Sooliento, bulbuei:
–Rugate que me llames cuando est puesta la mesa. –Y cay inmediatamente en profundo sueo.
Vag una sonrisa por los ojos de Hendon, que dijo para si:
–Por Dios que este arrapiezo se le mete a uno en casa y le usurpa la cama con gracia y soltura tan naturales como si fuera el dueo, sin pedir permiso ni ofrecer excusas ni nada que se le parezca. En sus arrebatos de locura se ha llamado Prncipe de Gales, y lo cierto es que sostiene bravamente su carcter. Pobre ratoncillo sin amigos! Sin duda su mente se ha desequilibrado por los malos tratos. Bien; pues yo ser su amigo. Yo lo he salvado, y algo en l me atrae con harta fuerza. Siento ya cario por este rapaz que sabe hablar tan bien. Con qu marcial actitud ha hecho frente a la srdida ralea y le ha dirigido su reto! Y qu cara tan linda, tan dulce y tan gentil tiene, ahora que el sueo ha conjurado sus desazones y sus pesares! Yo le ensear, curando su enfermedad. S; ser, su hermano mayor, y cuidar de l y por l velar. Y los que quieran mancillarle o maltratarle ya pueden encargar la mortaja, porque la habrn menester, aunque por ello me quemen vivo.
Se inclin sobre el muchacho, y tras contemplarlo con bondadoso y compasivo inters, le dio unos tiernos golpecitos en la mejilla y le alis los enmaraados rizos con la enorme y atezada mano. Un escalofro recorri el cuerpo del nio, y Hendon dijo entre dientes:
–Ha sido una tontera dejarlo descansar ah sin taparlo, y que su cuerpo vaya a padecer dolores reumticos. Qu har ahora? Si lo levanto y lo meto dentro de la cama, se despertar; y tiene mucha necesidad de reposo..
Mir en torno en busca de algo con qu cubrirlo; pero, no hallando nada, se quit el jubn y envolvi en l al muchacho, diciendo:
–Como estoy acostumbrado a los araazos del viento y al poco abrigo, no me importar el fro.
Y se puso a dar paseos por el aposento para mantener en circulacin la sangre, monologando como siempre:
–Su trastornada mente le persuade de que es el Prncipe de Gales. Ser cosa rara tener con nosotros a un Prncipe de Gales ahora que el que era prncipe ya no es prncipe, sino rey. Porque su pobre espritu tiene un tema solo, y no comprender que ahora debe dejar de ser prncipe y llamarse rey.... Si mi padre vive an, despus de estos siete aos en que no he sabido nada de mi casa en mi calabozo en tierra extraa, acoger bien al pobre nio y por mi amor le conceder generoso albergue. Lo mismo har mi buen hermano mayor, Arturo. Mi otro hermano, Hugo... Pero le romper la crisma si se interpone, el muy zorro y desalmado. S. Hacia all nos iremos y sin tampoco perder momento.
Entr un criado con humeante comida, que dej sobre la mesita de pino, arrim las sillas y parti, dejando que unos huspedes tan modestos se sirvieran a s mismos. Se cerr la puerta, tras l, y el ruido del portazo despert al nio, que de un salto se sent en la cama y lanz una alegre mirada en torno. Luego a su rostro asom una expresin ofendida y sus labios musitaron con un profundo suspiro:
–Ay, msero de mil No era ms que un sueo!
Luego repar en el jubn de Miles Hendon, mir al dueo de la prenda, comprendi el sacrificio que haba hecho por l, y le dijo gentilmente:
–Eres bueno conmigo. S, muy bueno conmigo. Toma esto y pntelo; yo no lo necesitar ms.
Se levant luego y se acerc al aguamanil del rincn, donde se qued esperando. Hendon le dijo con alegre acento:
–Ahora vamos a tomar una reconfortante sopa y un buen bocado, porque todo es sabroso y est a punto. Entre eso y el sueo que has echado, volvers a ser otra vez un hombrecito, ya vers.
El nio no contest, sino que lanz una mirada llena de grave sorpresa y con cierto aire de impaciencia al imponente caballero de la espada. Hendon se qued perplejo y dijo:
–Qu pasa?
–Buen seor, quisiera lavarme.
–Ahl Nada ms eso? No pidas permiso a Miles Hendon para nada de lo que desees. Puedes servirte a tus anchas de cuanto le pertenece, con entera libertad.
El nio sigui quieto. Es ms, una o dos veces dio con el pie unos golpecitos de impaciencia. Hendon se sinti del todo perplejo. Por fin dijo:
–Pero a qu esperas?
–Te ruego que eches el agua y no gastes tantas palabras.
Hendon, reprimiendo una carcajada y dicindose: "Por todos los diablos, esto es, irable", avanz con viveza y cumpli la orden del pequeo insolente. Luego se apart con una especie de estupefaccin, hasta que lo despert de ella una orden: "Pronto! La toalla!" Cogi la toalla bajo las mismas narices del nio y se la entreg sin ms. Despus procedi a reconfortarse con un lavatorio, y, mientras lo haca, su hijo adoptivo se sent a la mesa y se prepar para comer. Vivamente acab Rendon con sus abluciones, cogi la otra silla y se dispona a sentarse tambin, cuando el nio le dijo indignado
—Vive Diosl Vas a sentarte en presencia del rey?
Este golpe sacudi a Hendon de arriba abajo. Dijo en su interior: "La locura de este pobre nio est a la altura de los tiempos. Ha cambiado con el gran cambio que ha sobrevenido en el reino, y ahora se imagina ser el rey. Bueno; le seguiremos el humor, ya que no hay otro camino; no vaya a ser que me mande a la Torre.
Y satisfecho de esta broma, apart la silla de la mesa, se situ detrs del rey y se dispuso a servirle de la manera ms cortesana de que era capaz.
Mientras el rey coma se abland un poco el rigor de su real dignidad, y con su creciente satisfaccin experiment el deseo de hablar, y dijo:
–Creo que te llamas Miles Hendon, si no he odo mal.
–S, seor –replic Miles, que se dijo en seguida: "Para seguir la vena de este pobre nio loco debo llamarle seor' y majestad. No debo, hacer las cosas a medias, ni detenerme ante nada respecto al papel que represento, pues de lo contrario lo representar mal y no servir bien a esta caritativa y buena causa."
El rey se enton con un segundo vaso de vino y dijo:
–Quisiera conocerte. Cuntame tu historia. Tu conducta es generosa y noble. ,Has nacido noble?
–Pertenecemos a la cola de la nobleza, seor. Mi padre es baronet, uno de los pequeos lores, por servicios caballerescos. Se llama sir Ricardo Hendon, de Hendon Hall, junto a Monk's Holm, en Kent.
–Se me haba ido el nombre de la memoria. Sigue. Cuntame tu historia.
–No es muy larga, seor, pero acaso a falta de cosa mejor pueda divertir a Vuestra Majestad. Mi padre, sir Ricardo, es muy rico y de natural en extremo generoso. Muri mi madre siendo yo nio; tengo dos hermanos: Arturo, el mayor, cuya alma es como la de su padre, y Hugo, menor que yo, que es un espritu mezquino, codicioso, traidor, vicioso, artero..., un reptil. As fue desde su cuna; as era diez aos ha, cuando lo vi por ltima vez: un bribn de diecinueve aos. Entonces yo tena veinte y Arturo veintids. No queda nadie ms de mi familia, salvo lady Edith, mi prima, que entonces tena diecisis aos. Era hermosa, gentil y buena. Es hija de un conde, la ltima de su familia, y heredera de una gran fortuna y de un ttulo caducado. Mi padre era su tutor. Yo la amaba y ella me amaba a m, pera contrajo nupcias con Arturo desde la cuna, y sir Ricardo no quiso consentir que se rompiera el contrato. Arturo quera a otra doncella y nos dijo que tuviramos nimo y no perdiramos la esperanza de que el tiempo y la suerte, de consumo, traeran algn da un feliz suceso a nuestra causa. Hugo codiciaba la hacienda de lady Edith, aunque finga amarla; pero siempre fue su hbito decir una cosa y pensar otra. Mas todas sus artes se perdieron con la doncella. Hugo pudo engaar a mi padre, pero a nadie ms. Mi padre le quera ms que a los otros y confiaba en l y en l crea, porque era el hijo menor y los dems lo odiaban, cualidad esta que siempre ha sido parte a granjear el amor de un padre. Hugo tena un hablar suave y persuasivo y un irable don para la mentira, y stas son prendas que ayudan mucho a despertar un afecto ciego. Yo estaba furioso..., podra ir ms all, y decir que furioso, aunque era una furia demasiada inocente, puesto que a nadie daaba sino a m, ni trajo vergenza a nadie ni prdida alguna, ni llevaba en s ningn germen de crimen ni de bajeza, ni de nada que no correspondiera a mi noble condicin.
Sin embargo, mi hermano Hugo supo sacar partido de esta furia ma, al ver que la salud de nuestro hermano Arturo distaba mucho de ser buena; porque esperaba que su muerte podra beneficiarle si yo me quitara de en medio, por lo cual... Pero ste sera un cuento muy largo y no vale la pena de referirlo a Vuestra Majestad. En pocas palabras dir que mi hermano logr arteramente acrecentar mis defectos hasta convertirlos en crmenes, y termin su rastrera obra hallando en mi aposento una escala de seda –llevada por l mismo– y convenciendo a mi padre con ella, y con la declaracin de criados sobornados y de otros bellacos, de que yo me propona robar a Edita y tomarla por mujer con evidente reto a su voluntad.
Dijo mi padre que tres aos de destierro de mi casa y de Inglaterra podran hacer de m un soldado y un hombre, y ensearme un algo de prudencia. Hice largas pruebas en las guerras continentales, en que supe en demasa lo que eran golpes, duras privaciones y aventuras, pero en la ltima batalla me tomaron prisionero, y en los siete aos que han transcurrido desde entonces me he visto encerrado en un calabozo en tierra extraa. A fuerza de ingenio y de valor consegu por fin verme libre, y hu hacia aqui en seguida; y ahora acabo de llegar y me encuentro pobre de dineros y ropa, y ms pobre todava en conocimientos de lo que en estos siete tristsimos aos ha acontecido en Hendon Hall y a su gente. Y con esto mi pobre historia queda referida a Vuestra Majestad.
–Te han agraviado vergonzosamente –exclam el reyecito con centelleantes ojos–; pera yo te vengar. Por la cruz te la juro. El rey lo ha dicho.
"Dios mo. Brava imaginacin tiene! A fe ma que no es un espritu vulgar, pues si lo fuera, loco o cuerdo, no podra tejer un cuadro tan verosmil y deslumbrante y tan falto de realidad. Pobre cabecita enferma! No te faltar un amigo y un amparo mientras yo me cuente entre los vivos. No te separar nunca de mi lado. Sers mi favorito y mi camarada. Y se curar, s. Volver a. verse curado, y entonces ganar un nombre y yo podr decir con orgullo: "S; es mo." Yo lo recog cuando era un pobre rapaz sin hogar, pero vi lo que llevaba dentro y dije que algn da se oira hablar de su nombre. Miradlo, observadlo. Tena yo razn?"
El rey habl con aire y tono pensativos:

–Me has salvado de la injuria y de la vergenza.. Acaso has salvado tambin mi vida, y con ello mi corona. Semejante servicio pide rica recompensa. Dime tus deseos, y si estn dentro del alcance de mi poder real, los vers satisfechos.
Esta fantstica declaracin sac a Hendon de sus meditaciones. Se dispona a dar las gracias al rey y dejar a un lado el asunto, diciendo que no haba hecho sino cumplir con su deber y que no deseaba recompensa alguna, cuando acudiendo una idea ms sensata a su mente, le pidi la venia de callarse unos instantes y meditar en la graciosa oferta, lo cual el rey aprob gravemente, diciendo que era mejor no precipitarse en asunto de tanta importancia.
Miles reflexion unos momentos y se dijo: "S, eso es. Por cualquier otro medio sera imposible conseguirlo. Y, en verdad, mi experiencia de estas horas pasadas me ha enseado que sera harto trabajoso e inconveniente proseguir como hasta ahora. S, lo propondr. Ha sido una feliz casualidad que no haya dejado perder la ocasin." Despus de esto dobl una rodilla y dijo:
–Mi modesto servicio no ha traspasado el lmite del ms simple deber de un vasallo, y por consiguiente no tiene ningn mrito. Pero ya que Vuestra Majestad se digna considerar que merece alguna recompensa, me atrevo a hacer una peticin al efecto. Cerca de cuatrocientos aos atrs, como Vuestra Majestad no ignora, estando enemistados Juan, rey de Inglaterra, y el rey de Francia, se decret que dos campeones combatieran en la palestra para poner trmino a la disputa con lo que se llama juicio de Dios. Reunidos los dos reyes, y el rey de Espaa para ser testigo de la disputa y juzgarla, apareci el campen francs; mas era tan temible, que nuestros caballeros ingleses se negaron a medir sus armas con l. As el asunto, que era muy grave, estuvo a punto de resolverse contra el monarca ingls por falta de campen. En la Torre se hallaba lord De Courcy, el ms poderoso brazo de Inglaterra, despojado de sus honores y posesiones, y consumindose en largo cautiverio. Apel a l, que accedi y compareci armado para el combate; mas no bien divis el francs su recio cuerpo y oy su famoso nombre, huy a escape, y la causa del rey de Francia qued perdida. El rey Juan devolvi a De Courcy sus ttulos y posesiones, y le dijo: "Manifistame tu deseo y lo conseguirs, aunque me cueste la mitad de mi reino." A lo que De Courcy, de hinojos como yo estoy ahora, contest: "Pido, pues, solo una cosa., seor mo, y es que yo y mis descendientes tengamos y conservemos el privilegio de permanecer cubiertos en presencia del rey de Inglaterra mientras su trono perdure." Se conceci la gracia como Vuestra Majestad sabe; y como en estos cuatrocientos aos no ha habido nunca un momento en que la familia haya carecido de herederos, hasta el da de hoy el jefe de la antigua casa tiene an el sombrero o el yelmo puesto ante la majestad del rey, sin impedimento alguno, y nadie ms puede hacerlo. Invocando este precedente en ayuda de mi ruego, suplico al rey que me conceda esta gracia y privilegio –para ms que suficiente recompensa ma– y ninguna otra cosa, a saber: que yo y mis herederos para siempre podamos sentarnos en presencia, de Su Majestad el rey de Inglaterra.
–Levantaos, sir Miles Hendon, caballero –dijo gravemente el rey dndole el espaldarazo con la espada de Hendon–. Levantaos y sentaos. Tu peticin queda concedida. Mientras subsista Inglaterra y perdure la corona, no caducar tu privilegio.
Se apart Su Majestad meditando y Hendon se dej caer en una silla junto a la mesa, dicindose:
"Ha sido una feliz idea, que me ha trado un gran consuelo, porque tena ya las piernas fatigadsimas. Si esto no se me hubiera ocurrido, acaso habra tenido que estar en pie semanas enteras, hasta que se cure el seso mi pobre muchacho."
Despus de lo cual prosigui dicindose:
"Heme aqu convertido en caballero del Reino de los Sueos y de las Sombras. Es una situacin peregrina y extraa en verdad para un hombre tan positivo como yo. No quiero rerme, de ninguna manera, Dios me libre!, porque esta, que para m es tan falto de substancia, es real para l. Y para m en cierto modo tampoco es una falsedad, porque refleja verdaderamente el espritu dulce y generoso de este chico." Y termin, despus de una pausa: "Ah! Si me llamara con mi hermoso ttulo delante de gentes! Qu singular contraste entre mi gloria y mi porte! Pero no me importa: llmeme como quiera y como le agrade, que yo estar contento."