And they were well worth looking at.  Prince Henry of Wales, tall, comely, open-faced, and well-built, a noble lad of eighteen who called to men’s minds, so “rare Ben Jonson” says, the memory of the hero of Agincourt, that other

thunderbolt of war, Harry the Fifth, to whom in face you are So like, as Fate would have you so in worth;

Prince Charles, royal Duke of York, Knight of the Garter and of the Bath, fair in face and form, an active, manly, daring boy of eleven—­the princely brothers made so fair a sight that the King, jealous and suspicious of Prince Henry’s popularity though he was, looked now upon them both with loving eyes.  But how those loving eyes would have grown dim with tears could this fickle, selfish, yet indulgent father have foreseen the sad and bitter fates of both his handsome boys.

But, fortunately, such foreknowledge is not for fathers or mothers, whatever their rank or station, and King James’s only thought was one of pride in the two brave lads now whispering together in secret confidence.  And into this he speedily broke.

“Come, come, Baby Charles,” he cried, “stand no more parleying, but out and over with the boon ye crave as guerdon for your lucky plum.  Ud’s fish, lad, out with it; we’d get it for ye though it did rain jeddert staves here in Whitehall.”

“So please your Grace,” said the little Prince, bowing low with true courtier-like grace and suavity, “I will, with your permission, crave my boon as a Christmas favor at wassail time in to-morrow’s revels.”

And then he passed from the chamber arm-in-arm with his elder brother, while the King, chuckling greatly over the lad’s show of courtliness and ceremony, went into a learned discussion with my lord of Montacute and Master Sandy as to the origin of the snapdragon, which he, with his customary assumption of deep learning, declared was “but a modern paraphrase, my lord, of the fable which telleth how Dan Hercules did kill the flaming dragon of Hesperia and did then, with the apple of that famous orchard, make a fiery dish of burning apple brandy which he did name ‘snapdragon.’”

For King James VI of Scotland and I of England was, you see, something too much of what men call a pendant.

Christmas morning rose bright and glorious.  A light hoarfrost whitened the ground and the keen December air nipped the noses as it hurried the song-notes of the score of little waifs who, gathered beneath the windows of the big palace, sung for the happy awaking of the young Prince Charles their Christmas carol and their Christmas noel: 

A child this day is born,
A child of great renown;
Most worthy of a sceptre,
A sceptre and a crown.

Noel, noel, noel,
Noel sing we may
Because the King of all Kings
Was born this blessed day.

These tidings shepherds heard
In field watching their fold,
Were by an angel unto them
At night revealed and told.