But what was snapdragon, you ask?  A simple enough game, but dear for many and many a year to English children.  A broad and shallow bowl or dish half-filled with blazing brandy, at the bottom of which lay numerous toothsome raisins—­a rare tidbit in those days—­and one of these, pierced with a gold button, was known as the “lucky raisin.”  Then, as the flaming brandy flickered and darted from the yawning bowl, even as did the flaming poison tongues of the cruel dragon that St. George of England conquered so valiantly, each one of the revellers sought to snatch a raisin from the burning bowl without singe or scar.  And he who drew out the lucky raisin was winner and champion, and could claim a boon or reward for his superior skill.  Rather a dangerous game, perhaps it seems, but folks were rough players in those old days and laughed at a burn or a bruise, taking them as part of the fun.

So around Master Sandy’s Snapdragon danced the royal children, and even the King himself condescended to dip his royal hands in the flames, while Archie Armstrong the jester cried out:  “Now fair and softly, brother Jamie, fair and softly, man.  There’s ne’er a plum in all that plucking so worth the burning as there was in Signer Guy Fawkes’ snapdragon when ye proved not to be his lucky raisin.”  For King’s jesters were privileged characters in the old days, and jolly Archie Armstrong could joke with the King on this Guy Fawkes scare as none other dared.

And still no one brought out the lucky raisin, though the Princess Elizabeth’s fair arm was scotched and good Master Sandy’s peaked beard was singed, and my Lord Montacute had dropped his signet ring in the fiery dragon’s mouth, and even His Gracious Majesty the King was nursing one of his royal fingers.

But just as through the parted arras came young Henry, Prince of Wales, little Prince Charles gave a boyish shout of triumph.

“Hey, huzzoy!” he cried, “’tis mine, ’tis mine!  Look, Archie; see, dear dad; I have the lucky raisin!  A boon, good folk; a boon for me!” And the excited lad held aloft the lucky raisin in which gleamed the golden button.

“Rarely caught, young York,” cried Prince Henry, clapping his hands in applause.  “I came in right in good time, did I not, to give you luck, little brother?  And now, lad, what is the boon to be?”

And King James, greatly pleased at whatever his dear “Baby Charles” said or did, echoed his eldest son’s question.  “Ay lad, ’twas a rare good dip; so crave your boon.  What does my bonny boy desire?”

But the boy hesitated.  What was there that a royal prince, indulged as was he, could wish for or desire?  He really could think of nothing, and crossing quickly to his elder brother, whom, boy-fashion, he adored, he whispered, “Ud’s fish, Hal, what do I want?”

Prince Henry placed his hand upon his brother’s shoulder and looked smilingly into his questioning eyes, and all within the room glanced for a moment at the two lads standing thus.