'
'Half a dozen will better serve his turn,' suggested Sir Hugh, who
had ridden up a moment before to take a passing glance at the
proceedings.
The king was seized. He did not even struggle, so paralyzed was he
with the mere thought of the monstrous outrage that was proposed to be
inflicted upon his sacred person. History was already defiled with the
record of the scourging of an English king with whips- it was an
intolerable reflection that he must furnish a duplicate of that
shameful page. He was in the toils, there was no help for him; he must
either take this punishment or beg for its remission. Hard conditions;
he would take the stripes- a king might do that, but a king could
not beg.
But meantime, Miles Hendon was resolving the difficulty. 'Let
the child go,' said he; 'ye heartless dogs, do ye not see how young
and frail he is? Let him go- I will take his lashes.'
'Marry, a good thought- and thanks for it,' said Sir Hugh, his
face lighting with a sardonic satisfaction. 'Let the little beggar go,
and give this fellow a dozen in his place- an honest dozen, well
laid on.' The king was in the act of entering a fierce protest, but
Sir Hugh silenced him with the potent remark, 'Yes, speak up, do,
and free thy mind- only, mark ye, that for each word you utter he
shall get six strokes the more.'
Hendon was removed from the stocks, and his back laid bare; and
while the lash was applied the poor little king turned away his face
and allowed unroyal tears to channel his cheeks unchecked.
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