“Who art thou calling?”

“Sir William Herbert.  Who art thou?”

“I?  Who should I be, but thy sister Nan?  Oh, Tom, I had forgot!
Thou’rt mad yet--poor lad, thou’rt mad yet:  would I had never woke to
know it again!  But prithee master thy tongue, lest we be all beaten
till we die!”

The startled Prince sprang partly up, but a sharp reminder from his
stiffened bruises brought him to himself, and he sank back among his
foul straw with a moan and the ejaculation--

“Alas! it was no dream, then!”

In a moment all the heavy sorrow and misery which sleep had banished
were upon him again, and he realised that he was no longer a petted
prince in a palace, with the adoring eyes of a nation upon him, but
a pauper, an outcast, clothed in rags, prisoner in a den fit only for
beasts, and consorting with beggars and thieves.