  The King sprang to his deliverers side, with
flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, exclaiming--

Thou hast lagged sorely, but thou comest in good season, now, Sir
Miles; carve me this rabble to rags!




CHAPTER XXIII. The Prince a prisoner.

Hendon forced back a smile, and bent down and whispered in the Kings
ear--

Softly, softly, my prince, wag thy tongue warily--nay, suffer it not to
wag at all.