The king was seized. He did not even struggle, so paralyzed was he with the

Mere thought of the monstrous outrage that was proposed to be inflicted upon

His sacred person. History was already defiled with the record of the

Scourging of an English king with whips — it was an intolerable reflection

That he must furnish a duplicate of that shameful page. He was in the toils,

There was no help for him; he must either take this punishment or beg for its

Remission. Hard conditions; he would take the stripes — a king might do that,

But a king could not beg.

But meantime, Miles Hendon was resolving the difficulty. 'Let the child go,'

said he; 'ye heartless dogs, do ye not see how young and frail he is? Let him go

— I will take his lashes.'

'Marry, a good thought — and thanks for it,' said Sir Hugh, his face lighting

with a sardonic satisfaction. 'Let the little beggar go, and give this fellow a

dozen in his place — an honest dozen, well laid on.' The king was in the act of

Entering a fierce protest, but Sir Hugh silenced him with the potent remark,

'Yes, speak up, do, and free thy mind — only, mark ye, that for each word

you utter he shall get six strokes the more.'

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Hendon was removed from the stocks, and his back laid bare; and while the