a passing glance at the proceedings.
The King was seized. He did not even struggle, so paralysed 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