The prince continued to struggle for freedom, and to rage against
the treatment he was suffering, until John Canty lost what little
patience was left in him, and raised his oaken cudgel in a sudden fury
over the prince's head. The single pleader for the lad sprang to
stop the man's arm, and the blow descended upon his own wrist. Canty
roared out:
'Thou'lt meddle, wilt thou? Then have thy reward.'
His cudgel crashed down upon the meddler's head; there was a
groan, a dim form sank to the ground among the feet of the crowd,
and the next moment it lay there in the dark alone. The mob pressed
on, their enjoyment nothing disturbed by this episode.
Presently the prince found himself in John Canty's abode, with the
door closed against the outsiders. By the vague light of a tallow
candle which was thrust into a bottle, he made out the main features
of the loathsome den, and also of the occupants of it. Two frowsy
girls and a middle-aged woman cowered against the wall in one
corner, with the aspect of animals habituated to harsh usage, and
expecting and dreading it now. From another corner stole a withered
hag with streaming gray hair and malignant eyes. John Canty said to
this one:
'Tarry! There's fine mummeries here. Mar them not till thou'st
enjoyed them; then let thy hand be heavy as thou wilt. Stand forth,
lad. Now say thy foolery again, an thou'st not forget it. Name thy
name. Who art thou?'
The insulted blood mounted to the little prince's cheek once more,
and he lifted a steady and indignant gaze to the man's face, and said:
''Tis but ill-breeding in such as thou to command me to speak.
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