CHAPTER XIII
THE BEGGAR AND THE PRINCE
“This favour only, that thou would’st stand out of my sunshine.”
Diogenes.
It was the last week of August, 1274, the morrow of the most splendid coronation that England had ever beheld, either for the personal qualities and appearance of the sovereigns, or for the magnificence of the adornments, and the bounteous feasting of multitudes.
A whole fortnight of entertainments to rich and poor had been somewhat exhausting, even to the guests; and the suburbs of London wore an unusually sleepy and quiescent appearance in the hot beams of the August sun. Bethnal Green lay very silent, parched, and weary, not even enlivened by its usual gabbling flocks of geese, all of whom, poor things! except the patriarchal gander, and one or two of his ladies, had gone to the festival—but to return no more!
One of those who had been in the midst of the pageant, and had returned unscathed, was Blind Hal of Bethnal Green. Many a coin had gone into his scrip—uncontested king of the beggars as he was; many a savoury morsel had been conveyed to him and his child by his admiring brethren of the wallet; with many a gibing scoff had he driven from the field presuming mendicants, not of his own fraternity; and with half-bitter, half-amused remarks, had he listened to the rapturous descriptions of the splendours of king, queen, and their noble suite. And pretty Bessee had clung fast to his hand, and discreetly guided him through every maze of the crowd, with the strange dexterity of a child bred up in throngs. And now tired out with the long-continued festivities, the beggar sat in front of his hut, basking in the sun, and more than half asleep; while Bessee, her lap full of heather-blossoms and long bents of grass, was endeavouring to weave herself chains, bracelets, and coronals, in imitation of those which had recently dazzled her eyes.
She had just encircled her dark auburn locks with a garland of purple heather, studded here and there with white or gold, when, starting upon her little bare but delicately clean pink feet, she laid her hand on her father’s lap, and said, “Father, hark! I see two of the good red monks coming!”
“Well, child; and wherefore waken me? They are after their own affairs, I trow. Moreover, I hear no horses’ feet.”
“They are not riding,” said Bessee; “and they are walking this way. They have a dog, too! Oh, such a gallant glorious dog, father! Ah,” cried she joyfully, “’tis the good Father Grand Prior!” and she was about to start forward, but the blind man’s ear could now distinguish the foot-falls; and holding her fast, he almost gasped—“And the other, child—who is he?”
“No knight at our Spital! A stranger, father. So tall, so tall! His mantle hardly reaches his knee his robe leaves his ankles bare. O father, they are coming. Let me go to meet dear good Father Robert! But what—Oh, is the fit coming? Father Robert will stop it!”
“Hush thy prattle,” said the beggar, clutching her fast, and listening as one all ear; and by this time the two knights were close at hand, the taller holding the dog, straining in a leash, while the good Grand Prior spoke. “How fares it with thee, friend? And thou, my pretty one? No mishaps among the throng?”