“Nay, Sir Geoffrey, if this be the way you welcome your own son!” said the turnkey; “but you quality folks know your own ways best.”
“My son!” exclaimed the little figure. “Audacious——”
“Here is some strange mistake,” said Peveril, in the same breath. “I sought Sir Geoffrey——”
“And you have him before you, young man,” said the pigmy tenant of the cell, with an air of dignity; at the same time casting on the floor his crimson cloak, and standing before them in his full dignity of three feet six inches of height. “I who was the favoured servant of three successive Sovereigns of the Crown of England, am now the tenant of this dungeon, and the sport of its brutal keepers. I am Sir Geoffrey Hudson.”
Julian, though he had never before seen this important personage, had no difficulty in recognising, from description, the celebrated dwarf of Henrietta Maria, who had survived the dangers of civil war and private quarrel—the murder of his royal master, Charles I., and the exile of his widow—to fall upon evil tongues and evil days, amidst the unsparing accusations connected with the Popish Plot. He bowed to the unhappy old man, and hastened to explain to him, and to the turnkey, that it was Sir Geoffrey Peveril, of Martindale Castle in Derbyshire whose prison he desired to share.
“You should have said that before you parted with the gold-dust, my master,” answered the turnkey; “for t’other Sir Geoffrey, that is the big, tall, grey-haired man, was sent to the Tower last night; and the Captain will think he has kept his word well enow with you, by lodging you with this here Sir Geoffrey Hudson, who is the better show of the two.”
“I pray you go to your master,” said Peveril; “explain the mistake; and say to him I beg to be sent to the Tower.”
“The Tower!—Ha, ha, ha!” exclaimed the fellow. “The Tower is for lords and knights, and not for squires of low degree—for high treason, and not for ruffing on the streets with rapier and dagger; and there must go a secretary’s warrant to send you there.”
“At least, let me not be a burden on this gentleman,” said Julian. “There can be no use in quartering us together, since we are not even acquainted. Go tell your master of the mistake.”
“Why, so I should,” said Clink, still grinning, “if I were not sure that he knew it already. You paid to be sent to Sir Geoffrey, and he sent you to Sir Geoffrey. You are so put down in the register, and he will blot it for no man. Come, come, be comfortable, and you shall have light and easy irons—that’s all I can do for you.”