The speaker was a sort of Don Caesar de Bazan in dress, aspect, and

bearing. He was tall, trim-built, muscular. His doublet and trunks were

of rich material, but faded and threadbare, and their gold-lace

adornments were sadly tarnished; his ruff was rumpled and damaged; the

plume in his slouched hat was broken and had a bedraggled and

disreputable look; at his side he wore a long rapier in a rusty iron

sheath; his swaggering carriage marked him at once as a ruffler of the

camp. The speech of this fantastic figure was received with an explosion

of jeers and laughter. Some cried, "'Tis another prince in disguise!"

"'Ware thy tongue, friend: belike he is dangerous!" "Marry, he looketh

it--mark his eye!" "Pluck the lad from him--to the horse-pond wi' the

cub!"

Instantly a hand was laid upon the Prince, under the impulse of this

happy thought; as instantly the stranger's long sword was out and the

meddler went to the earth under a sounding thump with the flat of it.

The next moment a score of voices shouted, "Kill the dog! Kill him!

Kill him!" and the mob closed in on the warrior, who backed himself

against a wall and began to lay about him with his long weapon like a

madman. His victims sprawled this way and that, but the mob-tide poured

over their prostrate forms and dashed itself against the champion with

undiminished fury. His moments seemed numbered, his destruction

certain, when suddenly a trumpet-blast sounded, a voice shouted, "Way for

The Prince and The Pauper