The two traversed a populous court, and arrived at the grand entrance of the palace, where the officer, with another bow, delivered Hendon into the hands of a gorgeous official, who received him with profound respect and led him forward through a great hall, lined on both sides with rows of splendid flunkeys (who made reverential obeisance as the two passed along, but fell into death-throes of silent laughter at our stately scarecrow the moment his back was turned), and up a broad staircase, among flocks of fine folk, and finally conducted him into a vast room, clove a passage for him through the assembled nobility of England, then made a bow, reminded him to take his hat off, and left him standing in the middle of the room, a mark for all eyes, for plenty of indignant frowns, and for a sufficiency of amused and derisive smiles.

Miles Hendon was entirely bewildered.  There sat the young King, under a canopy of state, five steps away, with his head bent down and aside, speaking with a sort of human bird of paradise—­a duke, maybe.  Hendon observed to himself that it was hard enough to be sentenced to death in the full vigour of life, without having this peculiarly public humiliation added.  He wished the King would hurry about it—­some of the gaudy people near by were becoming pretty offensive.  At this moment the King raised his head slightly, and Hendon caught a good view of his face.  The sight nearly took his breath away!—­He stood gazing at the fair young face like one transfixed; then presently ejaculated—­

“Lo, the Lord of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows on his throne!”

He muttered some broken sentences, still gazing and marvelling; then turned his eyes around and about, scanning the gorgeous throng and the splendid saloon, murmuring, “But these are real—­verily these are real —­surely it is not a dream.”

He stared at the King again—­and thought, “Is it a dream . . . or is he the veritable Sovereign of England, and not the friendless poor Tom o’ Bedlam I took him for—­who shall solve me this riddle?”

A sudden idea flashed in his eye, and he strode to the wall, gathered up a chair, brought it back, planted it on the floor, and sat down in it!

A buzz of indignation broke out, a rough hand was laid upon him and a voice exclaimed—­

“Up, thou mannerless clown! would’st sit in the presence of the King?”

The disturbance attracted his Majesty’s attention, who stretched forth his hand and cried out—­

“Touch him not, it is his right!”

The throng fell back, stupefied.  The King went on—­

“Learn ye all, ladies, lords, and gentlemen, that this is my trusty and well-beloved servant, Miles Hendon, who interposed his good sword and saved his prince from bodily harm and possible death—­and for this he is a knight, by the King’s voice.  Also learn, that for a higher service, in that he saved his sovereign stripes and shame, taking these upon himself, he is a peer of England, Earl of Kent, and shall have gold and lands meet for the dignity.  More—­the privilege which he hath just exercised is his by royal grant; for we have ordained that the chiefs of his line shall have and hold the right to sit in the presence of the Majesty of England henceforth, age after age, so long as the crown shall endure.  Molest him not.”