Then he asked Tom a question in Latin, and Tom answered him lamely in the same tongue.  The lords and doctors manifested their gratification also.  The King said—­

“’Twas not according to his schooling and ability, but showeth that his mind is but diseased, not stricken fatally.  How say you, sir?”

The physician addressed bowed low, and replied—­

“It jumpeth with my own conviction, sire, that thou hast divined aright.”

The King looked pleased with this encouragement, coming as it did from so excellent authority, and continued with good heart—­

“Now mark ye all:  we will try him further.”

He put a question to Tom in French.  Tom stood silent a moment, embarrassed by having so many eyes centred upon him, then said diffidently—­

“I have no knowledge of this tongue, so please your majesty.”

The King fell back upon his couch.  The attendants flew to his assistance; but he put them aside, and said—­

“Trouble me not—­it is nothing but a scurvy faintness.  Raise me!  There, ’tis sufficient.  Come hither, child; there, rest thy poor troubled head upon thy father’s heart, and be at peace.  Thou’lt soon be well:  ’tis but a passing fantasy.  Fear thou not; thou’lt soon be well.”  Then he turned toward the company:  his gentle manner changed, and baleful lightnings began to play from his eyes.  He said—­

“List ye all!  This my son is mad; but it is not permanent.  Over-study hath done this, and somewhat too much of confinement.  Away with his books and teachers! see ye to it.  Pleasure him with sports, beguile him in wholesome ways, so that his health come again.”  He raised himself higher still, and went on with energy, “He is mad; but he is my son, and England’s heir; and, mad or sane, still shall he reign!  And hear ye further, and proclaim it:  whoso speaketh of this his distemper worketh against the peace and order of these realms, and shall to the gallows! . . .  Give me to drink—­I burn:  this sorrow sappeth my strength. . . .  There, take away the cup. . . .  Support me.  There, that is well.  Mad, is he?  Were he a thousand times mad, yet is he Prince of Wales, and I the King will confirm it.  This very morrow shall he be installed in his princely dignity in due and ancient form.  Take instant order for it, my lord Hertford.”

One of the nobles knelt at the royal couch, and said—­

“The King’s majesty knoweth that the Hereditary Great Marshal of England lieth attainted in the Tower.  It were not meet that one attainted—­”

“Peace!  Insult not mine ears with his hated name.  Is this man to live for ever?  Am I to be baulked of my will?  Is the prince to tarry uninstalled, because, forsooth, the realm lacketh an Earl Marshal free of treasonable taint to invest him with his honours?  No, by the splendour of God!  Warn my Parliament to bring me Norfolk’s doom before the sun rise again, else shall they answer for it grievously!” {1}