his behalf, Paul might have been a
victim to their irritation at being thus duped, as it was his life
was now safe enough.

"We war not with babes and children. The boy has borne himself
gallantly, and we will take the gold pieces and let him go free.
Our chance may come another time, and we want not the cumbrance of
children on our march. He would not be hostage worth having, so
ransom him and begone. We have the prince's jewels if we have not
the lad himself.

"Go your way, boy; you will make a soldier in time. You have the
right grit in you. Farewell! one day we may meet again."

And thinking, perhaps, that he and his band had better not linger
longer, the captain gave the word to mount; and as soon as Paul's
thongs were cut and the ransom paid over, the troopers set spurs to
their horses' sides and vanished away in the darkness.

Once again little Paul Stukely stood in the presence of royalty.
The prince's arm was about his neck, the proud queen's eyes--moist
now with tears--were bent upon him in loving gratitude, whilst from
the king's lips he was receiving words of praise that set the hot
blood mounting to his brow. Behind him stood his father, all around
were the attendants of the royal family; and Paul, unaccustomed to
be thus the centre of attention, almost wished the ground would
open to hide him, although his heart could not but beat high in
gratification and loving loyalty.

All the city was ringing with the daring attempt that had been made
to carry off the young Prince of Wales, and the gallantry of the
boy who had dared to brave the consequences, and take upon himself
the personality of the youthful Edward. The child himself, the
farmer who had been the means of his restoration, and the knight
who owned so brave a son, all had been heroes of the past
six-and-thirty hours.

A special mass of thanksgiving had been sung in the cathedral on
the Sunday. The captain of the town, who had heard a rumour which
had sent him flying into the forest the previous afternoon, to find
the true prince vainly seeking his missing comrade, could not make
enough of the boy whose simple-hearted gallantry had saved him from
a lasting remorse, and perhaps a lasting disgrace. Indeed, Sir
James Stukely had had to hurry his child home in haste to his
mother's care, lest he should hear too much of his own prowess;
and, thrusting him into her loving arms, had said, in a voice which
quivered in spite of himself:

"Here, dame