Chapter XII. The Prince and his deliverer.

As soon as Miles Hendon and the little prince were clear of the mob, they

struck down through back lanes and alleys toward the river. Their way

was unobstructed until they approached London Bridge; then they ploughed

into the multitude again, Hendon keeping a fast grip upon the Prince's

--no, the King's--wrist. The tremendous news was already abroad, and the

boy learned it from a thousand voices at once--"The King is dead!" The

tidings struck a chill to the heart of the poor little waif, and sent a

shudder through his frame. He realised the greatness of his loss, and

was filled with a bitter grief; for the grim tyrant who had been such a

terror to others had always been gentle with him. The tears sprang to

his eyes and blurred all objects. For an instant he felt himself the

most forlorn, outcast, and forsaken of God's creatures--then another cry

shook the night with its far-reaching thunders: "Long live King Edward

the Sixth!" and this made his eyes kindle, and thrilled him with pride to

his fingers' ends. "Ah," he thought, "how grand and strange it seems--I

AM KING!"

Our friends threaded their way slowly through the throngs upon the

bridge. This structure, which had stood for six hundred years, and had

been a noisy and populous thoroughfare all that time, was a curious

affair, for a closely packed rank of stores and shops, with family

quarters overhead, stretched along both sides of it, from one bank of the

The Prince and The Pauper