The speaker was a sort of Don Caesar de Bazan in dress, aspect, and bearing.  He was tall, trim-built, muscular.  His doublet and trunks were of rich material, but faded and threadbare, and their gold-lace adornments were sadly tarnished; his ruff was rumpled and damaged; the plume in his slouched hat was broken and had a bedraggled and disreputable look; at his side he wore a long rapier in a rusty iron sheath; his swaggering carriage marked him at once as a ruffler of the camp.  The speech of this fantastic figure was received with an explosion of jeers and laughter.  Some cried, “’Tis another prince in disguise!” “’Ware thy tongue, friend:  belike he is dangerous!” “Marry, he looketh it—­mark his eye!” “Pluck the lad from him—­to the horse-pond wi’ the cub!”

Instantly a hand was laid upon the Prince, under the impulse of this happy thought; as instantly the stranger’s long sword was out and the meddler went to the earth under a sounding thump with the flat of it.  The next moment a score of voices shouted, “Kill the dog!  Kill him!  Kill him!” and the mob closed in on the warrior, who backed himself against a wall and began to lay about him with his long weapon like a madman.  His victims sprawled this way and that, but the mob-tide poured over their prostrate forms and dashed itself against the champion with undiminished fury.  His moments seemed numbered, his destruction certain, when suddenly a trumpet-blast sounded, a voice shouted, “Way for the King’s messenger!” and a troop of horsemen came charging down upon the mob, who fled out of harm’s reach as fast as their legs could carry them.  The bold stranger caught up the Prince in his arms, and was soon far away from danger and the multitude.

Return we within the Guildhall.  Suddenly, high above the jubilant roar and thunder of the revel, broke the clear peal of a bugle-note.  There was instant silence—­a deep hush; then a single voice rose—­that of the messenger from the palace—­and began to pipe forth a proclamation, the whole multitude standing listening.

The closing words, solemnly pronounced, were—­

“The King is dead!”

The great assemblage bent their heads upon their breasts with one accord; remained so, in profound silence, a few moments; then all sank upon their knees in a body, stretched out their hands toward Tom, and a mighty shout burst forth that seemed to shake the building—­

“Long live the King!”

Poor Tom’s dazed eyes wandered abroad over this stupefying spectacle, and finally rested dreamily upon the kneeling princesses beside him, a moment, then upon the Earl of Hertford.  A sudden purpose dawned in his face.  He said, in a low tone, at Lord Hertford’s ear—­

“Answer me truly, on thy faith and honour!  Uttered I here a command, the which none but a king might hold privilege and prerogative to utter, would such commandment be obeyed, and none rise up to say me nay?”