Tom was assisted to his feet, and approached the Majesty of England, humble and trembling. The King took the frightened face between his hands, and gazed earnestly and lovingly into it awhile, as if seeking some grateful sign of returning reason there, then pressed the curly head against his breast, and patted it tenderly. Presently he said—     

       “Dost not know thy father, child? Break not mine old heart; say thou know’st me. Thou dost know me, dost thou not?”     

       “Yea: thou art my dread lord the King, whom God preserve!”     

       “True, true—that is well—be comforted, tremble not so; there is none here would hurt thee; there is none here but loves thee. Thou art better now; thy ill dream passeth—is’t not so? Thou wilt not miscall thyself again, as they say thou didst a little while agone?”     

       “I pray thee of thy grace believe me, I did but speak the truth, most dread lord; for I am the meanest among thy subjects, being a pauper born, and ’tis by a sore mischance and accident I am here, albeit I was therein nothing blameful. I am but young to die, and thou canst save me with one little word. Oh speak it, sir!”     

       “Die? Talk not so, sweet prince—peace, peace, to thy troubled heart—thou shalt not die!”     

       Tom dropped upon his knees with a glad cry—     

       “God requite thy mercy, O my King, and save thee long to bless thy land!” Then springing up, he turned a joyful face toward the two lords in waiting, and exclaimed, “Thou heard’st it! I am not to die: the King hath said it!” There was no movement, save that all bowed with grave respect; but no one spoke. He hesitated, a little confused, then turned timidly toward the King, saying,       “I may go now?”     

    

  

       “Go? Surely, if thou desirest. But why not tarry yet a little? Whither would’st go?”     

       Tom dropped his eyes, and answered humbly—     

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