“Hale him forth!  To the horse-pond, to the horse-pond!  Where be the dogs?  Ho, there, Lion! ho, Fangs!”

Then followed such a thing as England had never seen before—­the sacred person of the heir to the throne rudely buffeted by plebeian hands, and set upon and torn by dogs.

As night drew to a close that day, the prince found himself far down in the close-built portion of the city.  His body was bruised, his hands were bleeding, and his rags were all besmirched with mud.  He wandered on and on, and grew more and more bewildered, and so tired and faint he could hardly drag one foot after the other.  He had ceased to ask questions of anyone, since they brought him only insult instead of information.  He kept muttering to himself, “Offal Court—­that is the name; if I can but find it before my strength is wholly spent and I drop, then am I saved—­for his people will take me to the palace and prove that I am none of theirs, but the true prince, and I shall have mine own again.”  And now and then his mind reverted to his treatment by those rude Christ’s Hospital boys, and he said, “When I am king, they shall not have bread and shelter only, but also teachings out of books; for a full belly is little worth where the mind is starved, and the heart.  I will keep this diligently in my remembrance, that this day’s lesson be not lost upon me, and my people suffer thereby; for learning softeneth the heart and breedeth gentleness and charity.” {1}

The lights began to twinkle, it came on to rain, the wind rose, and a raw and gusty night set in.  The houseless prince, the homeless heir to the throne of England, still moved on, drifting deeper into the maze of squalid alleys where the swarming hives of poverty and misery were massed together.

Suddenly a great drunken ruffian collared him and said—­

“Out to this time of night again, and hast not brought a farthing home, I warrant me!  If it be so, an’ I do not break all the bones in thy lean body, then am I not John Canty, but some other.”

The prince twisted himself loose, unconsciously brushed his profaned shoulder, and eagerly said—­

“Oh, art his father, truly?  Sweet heaven grant it be so—­then wilt thou fetch him away and restore me!”

“His father?  I know not what thou mean’st; I but know I am thy father, as thou shalt soon have cause to—­”

“Oh, jest not, palter not, delay not!—­I am worn, I am wounded, I can bear no more.  Take me to the king my father, and he will make thee rich beyond thy wildest dreams.  Believe me, man, believe me!—­I speak no lie, but only the truth!—­put forth thy hand and save me!  I am indeed the Prince of Wales!”

The man stared down, stupefied, upon the lad, then shook his head and muttered—­

“Gone stark mad as any Tom o’ Bedlam!”—­then collared him once more, and said with a coarse laugh and an oath, “But mad or no mad, I and thy Gammer Canty will soon find where the soft places in thy bones lie, or I’m no true man!”