“Forbear!  Wouldst sit in the presence of the King?”

This blow staggered Hendon to his foundations.  He muttered to himself, “Lo, the poor thing’s madness is up with the time!  It hath changed with the great change that is come to the realm, and now in fancy is he king!  Good lack, I must humour the conceit, too—­there is no other way—­faith, he would order me to the Tower, else!”

And pleased with this jest, he removed the chair from the table, took his stand behind the King, and proceeded to wait upon him in the courtliest way he was capable of.

While the King ate, the rigour of his royal dignity relaxed a little, and with his growing contentment came a desire to talk.  He said—­“I think thou callest thyself Miles Hendon, if I heard thee aright?”

“Yes, Sire,” Miles replied; then observed to himself, “If I must humour the poor lad’s madness, I must ‘Sire’ him, I must ‘Majesty’ him, I must not go by halves, I must stick at nothing that belongeth to the part I play, else shall I play it ill and work evil to this charitable and kindly cause.”

The King warmed his heart with a second glass of wine, and said—­“I would know thee—­tell me thy story.  Thou hast a gallant way with thee, and a noble—­art nobly born?”

“We are of the tail of the nobility, good your Majesty.  My father is a baronet—­one of the smaller lords by knight service {2}—­Sir Richard Hendon of Hendon Hall, by Monk’s Holm in Kent.”

“The name has escaped my memory.  Go on—­tell me thy story.”

“’Tis not much, your Majesty, yet perchance it may beguile a short half-hour for want of a better.  My father, Sir Richard, is very rich, and of a most generous nature.  My mother died whilst I was yet a boy.  I have two brothers:  Arthur, my elder, with a soul like to his father’s; and Hugh, younger than I, a mean spirit, covetous, treacherous, vicious, underhanded—­a reptile.  Such was he from the cradle; such was he ten years past, when I last saw him—­a ripe rascal at nineteen, I being twenty then, and Arthur twenty-two.  There is none other of us but the Lady Edith, my cousin—­she was sixteen then—­beautiful, gentle, good, the daughter of an earl, the last of her race, heiress of a great fortune and a lapsed title.  My father was her guardian.  I loved her and she loved me; but she was betrothed to Arthur from the cradle, and Sir Richard would not suffer the contract to be broken.  Arthur loved another maid, and bade us be of good cheer and hold fast to the hope that delay and luck together would some day give success to our several causes.  Hugh loved the Lady Edith’s fortune, though in truth he said it was herself he loved—­but then ’twas his way, alway, to say the one thing and mean the other.  But he lost his arts upon the girl; he could deceive my father, but none else.  My father loved him best of us all, and trusted and believed him; for he was the youngest child, and others hated