“And what,” said a subaltern officer, lolling by the archway of the (now styled) “Bloody Tower,” hard by the turret devoted to the prisoner, [The Wakefield Tower] and speaking to Adam’s guide, who still mounted guard by the model,—“what may be the precious burden of which thou art the convoy?”
“Marry, sir,” said Hugh, who spoke in the strong Yorkshire dialect, which we are obliged to render into intelligible English—“marry, I weet not,—it is some curious puppet-box, or quiet contrivance, that Master Warner, whom they say is a very deft and ingenious personage, is permitted to bring hither for the Lord Henry’s diversion.”
“A puppet-box!” said the officer, with much animated curiosity. “‘Fore the Mass! that must be a pleasant sight. Lift the lid, fellow!”
“Please your honour, I do not dare,” returned Hugh,—“I but obey orders.”
“Obey mine, then. Out of the way,” and the officer lifted the lid of the pannier with the point of his dagger, and peered within. He drew back, much disappointed. “Holy Mother!” said he, “this seemeth more like an instrument of torture than a juggler’s merry device. It looks parlous ugly!”
“Hush!” said one of the lazy bystanders, with whom the various gateways and courts of the Palace-Fortress were crowded, “hush—thy cap and thy knee, sir!”
The officer started; and, looking round, perceived a young man of low stature, followed by three or four knights and nobles, slowly approaching towards the arch, and every cap in the vicinity was off, and every knee bowed.
The eye of this young man was already bent, with a searching and keen gaze, upon the motionless mule, standing patiently by the Wakefield Tower; and turning from the mule to the porter, the latter shrunk, and grew pale, at that dark, steady, penetrating eye, which seemed to pierce at once into the secrets and hearts of men.
“Who may this young lord be?” he whispered to the officer.
“Prince Richard, Duke of Gloucester, man,” was the answer. “Uncover, varlet!”