“Tarry!  There’s fine mummeries here.  Mar them not till thou’st enjoyed them:  then let thy hand be heavy as thou wilt.  Stand forth, lad.  Now say thy foolery again, an thou’st not forgot it.  Name thy name.  Who art thou?”

The insulted blood mounted to the little prince’s cheek once more, and he lifted a steady and indignant gaze to the man’s face and said—­

“’Tis but ill-breeding in such as thou to command me to speak.  I tell thee now, as I told thee before, I am Edward, Prince of Wales, and none other.”

The stunning surprise of this reply nailed the hag’s feet to the floor where she stood, and almost took her breath.  She stared at the Prince in stupid amazement, which so amused her ruffianly son, that he burst into a roar of laughter.  But the effect upon Tom Canty’s mother and sisters was different.  Their dread of bodily injury gave way at once to distress of a different sort.  They ran forward with woe and dismay in their faces, exclaiming—­

“Oh, poor Tom, poor lad!”

The mother fell on her knees before the Prince, put her hands upon his shoulders, and gazed yearningly into his face through her rising tears.  Then she said—­

“Oh, my poor boy!  Thy foolish reading hath wrought its woeful work at last, and ta’en thy wit away.  Ah! why did’st thou cleave to it when I so warned thee ’gainst it?  Thou’st broke thy mother’s heart.”

The Prince looked into her face, and said gently—­

“Thy son is well, and hath not lost his wits, good dame.  Comfort thee:  let me to the palace where he is, and straightway will the King my father restore him to thee.”

“The King thy father!  Oh, my child! unsay these words that be freighted with death for thee, and ruin for all that be near to thee.  Shake of this gruesome dream.  Call back thy poor wandering memory.  Look upon me.  Am not I thy mother that bore thee, and loveth thee?”

The Prince shook his head and reluctantly said—­

“God knoweth I am loth to grieve thy heart; but truly have I never looked upon thy face before.”

The woman sank back to a sitting posture on the floor, and, covering her eyes with her hands, gave way to heart-broken sobs and wailings.

“Let the show go on!” shouted Canty.  “What, Nan!—­what, Bet! mannerless wenches! will ye stand in the Prince’s presence?  Upon your knees, ye pauper scum, and do him reverence!”

He followed this with another horse-laugh.  The girls began to plead timidly for their brother; and Nan said—­

“An thou wilt but let him to bed, father, rest and sleep will heal his madness:  prithee, do.”

“Do, father,” said Bet; “he is more worn than is his wont.  To-morrow will he be himself again, and will beg with diligence, and come not empty home again.”

This remark sobered the father’s joviality, and brought his mind to business.  He turned angrily upon the Prince, and said—­