He was moving away, still talking; the constable hesitated, fidgeted, spat out an oath or two, then cried out—­

“Hold, hold, good sir—­prithee wait a little—­the judge!  Why, man, he hath no more sympathy with a jest than hath a dead corpse!—­come, and we will speak further.  Ods body!  I seem to be in evil case—­and all for an innocent and thoughtless pleasantry.  I am a man of family; and my wife and little ones—­List to reason, good your worship:  what wouldst thou of me?”

“Only that thou be blind and dumb and paralytic whilst one may count a hundred thousand—­counting slowly,” said Hendon, with the expression of a man who asks but a reasonable favour, and that a very little one.

“It is my destruction!” said the constable despairingly.  “Ah, be reasonable, good sir; only look at this matter, on all its sides, and see how mere a jest it is—­how manifestly and how plainly it is so.  And even if one granted it were not a jest, it is a fault so small that e’en the grimmest penalty it could call forth would be but a rebuke and warning from the judge’s lips.”

Hendon replied with a solemnity which chilled the air about him—­

“This jest of thine hath a name, in law,—­wot you what it is?”

“I knew it not!  Peradventure I have been unwise.  I never dreamed it had a name—­ah, sweet heaven, I thought it was original.”

“Yes, it hath a name.  In the law this crime is called Non compos mentis lex talionis sic transit gloria mundi.”

“Ah, my God!”

“And the penalty is death!”

“God be merciful to me a sinner!”

“By advantage taken of one in fault, in dire peril, and at thy mercy, thou hast seized goods worth above thirteenpence ha’penny, paying but a trifle for the same; and this, in the eye of the law, is constructive barratry, misprision of treason, malfeasance in office, ad hominem expurgatis in statu quo—­and the penalty is death by the halter, without ransom, commutation, or benefit of clergy.”

“Bear me up, bear me up, sweet sir, my legs do fail me!  Be thou merciful—­spare me this doom, and I will turn my back and see nought that shall happen.”

“Good! now thou’rt wise and reasonable.  And thou’lt restore the pig?”

“I will, I will indeed—­nor ever touch another, though heaven send it and an archangel fetch it.  Go—­I am blind for thy sake—­I see nothing.  I will say thou didst break in and wrest the prisoner from my hands by force.  It is but a crazy, ancient door—­I will batter it down myself betwixt midnight and the morning.”

“Do it, good soul, no harm will come of it; the judge hath a loving charity for this poor lad, and will shed no tears and break no jailer’s bones for his escape.”

Chapter XXV.  Hendon Hall.

As soon as Hendon and the King were out of sight of the constable, his Majesty was instructed to hurry to a certain place outside the town, and wait there, whilst Hendon should go to the inn and settle his account.  Half an hour later the two friends were blithely jogging eastward on Hendon’s sorry steeds.  The King was warm and comfortable, now, for he had cast his rags and clothed himself in the second-hand suit which Hendon had bought on London Bridge.