“Sir William!”

After a moment—­

“Ho, Sir William Herbert!  Hie thee hither, and list to the strangest dream that ever . . .  Sir William! dost hear?  Man, I did think me changed to a pauper, and . . .  Ho there!  Guards!  Sir William!  What! is there no groom of the chamber in waiting?  Alack! it shall go hard with—­”

“What aileth thee?” asked a whisper near him.  “Who art thou calling?”

“Sir William Herbert.  Who art thou?”

“I?  Who should I be, but thy sister Nan?  Oh, Tom, I had forgot!  Thou’rt mad yet—­poor lad, thou’rt mad yet:  would I had never woke to know it again!  But prithee master thy tongue, lest we be all beaten till we die!”

The startled Prince sprang partly up, but a sharp reminder from his stiffened bruises brought him to himself, and he sank back among his foul straw with a moan and the ejaculation—­

“Alas! it was no dream, then!”

In a moment all the heavy sorrow and misery which sleep had banished were upon him again, and he realised that he was no longer a petted prince in a palace, with the adoring eyes of a nation upon him, but a pauper, an outcast, clothed in rags, prisoner in a den fit only for beasts, and consorting with beggars and thieves.

In the midst of his grief he began to be conscious of hilarious noises and shoutings, apparently but a block or two away.  The next moment there were several sharp raps at the door; John Canty ceased from snoring and said—­

“Who knocketh?  What wilt thou?”

A voice answered—­

“Know’st thou who it was thou laid thy cudgel on?”

“No.  Neither know I, nor care.”

“Belike thou’lt change thy note eftsoons.  An thou would save thy neck, nothing but flight may stead thee.  The man is this moment delivering up the ghost.  ’Tis the priest, Father Andrew!”

“God-a-mercy!” exclaimed Canty.  He roused his family, and hoarsely commanded, “Up with ye all and fly—­or bide where ye are and perish!”

Scarcely five minutes later the Canty household were in the street and flying for their lives.  John Canty held the Prince by the wrist, and hurried him along the dark way, giving him this caution in a low voice—­

“Mind thy tongue, thou mad fool, and speak not our name.  I will choose me a new name, speedily, to throw the law’s dogs off the scent.  Mind thy tongue, I tell thee!”

He growled these words to the rest of the family—­

“If it so chance that we be separated, let each make for London Bridge; whoso findeth himself as far as the last linen-draper’s shop on the bridge, let him tarry there till the others be come, then will we flee into Southwark together.”