Once again little Paul Stukely stood in the presence of royalty.  The prince’s arm was about his neck, the proud queen’s eyes—­moist now with tears—­were bent upon him in loving gratitude, whilst from the king’s lips he was receiving words of praise that set the hot blood mounting to his brow.  Behind him stood his father, all around were the attendants of the royal family; and Paul, unaccustomed to be thus the centre of attention, almost wished the ground would open to hide him, although his heart could not but beat high in gratification and loving loyalty.

All the city was ringing with the daring attempt that had been made to carry off the young Prince of Wales, and the gallantry of the boy who had dared to brave the consequences, and take upon himself the personality of the youthful Edward.  The child himself, the farmer who had been the means of his restoration, and the knight who owned so brave a son, all had been heroes of the past six-and-thirty hours.

A special mass of thanksgiving had been sung in the cathedral on the Sunday.  The captain of the town, who had heard a rumour which had sent him flying into the forest the previous afternoon, to find the true prince vainly seeking his missing comrade, could not make enough of the boy whose simple-hearted gallantry had saved him from a lasting remorse, and perhaps a lasting disgrace.  Indeed, Sir James Stukely had had to hurry his child home in haste to his mother’s care, lest he should hear too much of his own prowess; and, thrusting him into her loving arms, had said, in a voice which quivered in spite of himself: 

“Here, dame, take the boy and give him a kiss to show that he has been a good lad.  He has done his duty, as a Stukely ought to do, and that should be enough for all of us.  But let us have no nonsense talked.  What will the country come to if everyone who does his duty as it should be done expects to be called a hero, and I know not what besides?  The prince is safe, and the boy likewise.  Now off to bed with him, and no more nonsense to be talked in my hearing.

“God bless you, child!  You’ll live yet to be a credit to the name you bear.”

And Paul was made happier by that one word from his stern though loving sire than by all the praises he had heard lavished upon himself during the past hours.  For there was no one in the wide world that the child so reverenced as his dark-browed father, who seldom praised his children, and was inflexible in his punishments whenever they were deserved.  To be told by him that he had done his duty, and would be a credit to his house, was happiness far beyond his deserts, he thought; and he registered a mental vow, deep down in his brave little heart, that he would never in time to come give the world cause to say he had not lived up to the promise of his boyhood.