Happy as a king." How far kings are happy I cannot say, no more than could Prince Dolor, though he had once been a king himself. But he remembered nothing about it, and there was nobody to tell him, except his nurse, who had been forbidden upon pain of death to let him know anything about his dead parents, or the king his uncle, or indeed any part of his own history.
Sometimes he speculated about himself, whether he had had a father and mother as other little boys had what they had been like, and why he had never seen them. But, knowing nothing about them, he did not miss them--only once or twice, reading pretty stories about little children and their mothers, who helped them when they were in difficulty and comforted them when they were sick, he feeling ill and dull and lonely, wondered what had become of his mother and why she never came to see him.
Then, in his history lessons, of course he read about kings and princes, and the governments of different countries, and the events that happened there. And though he but faintly took in all this, still he did take it in a little, and worried his young brain about it, and perplexed his nurse with questions, to which she returned sharp and mysterious answers, which only set him thinking the more.
He had plenty of time for thinking. After his last journey in the traveling-cloak, the journey which had given him so much pain, his desire to see the world somehow faded away.
He contented himself with reading his books, and looking out of the tower windows, and listening to his beloved little lark, which had come home with him that day, and never left him again.
True, it kept out of the way; and though his nurse sometimes dimly heard it, and said "What is that horrid noise outside?" she never got the faintest chance of making it into a lark pie. Prince Dolor had his pet all to himself, and though he seldom saw it, he knew it was near him, and he caught continually, at odd hours of the day, and even in the night, fragments of its delicious song.
All during the winter--so far as there ever was any difference between summer and winter in Hopeless Tower--the little bird cheered and amused him. He scarcely needed anything more--not even his traveling-cloak, which lay bundled up unnoticed in a corner, tied up in its innumerable knots.
Nor did his godmother come near him. It seemed as if she had given these treasures and left him alone--to use them or lose them, apply them or misapply them, according to his own choice. That is all we can do with children when they grow into big children old enough to distinguish between right and wrong, and too old to be forced to do either.
Prince Dolor was now quite a big boy. Not tall--alas! he never could be that, with his poor little shrunken legs, which were of no use, only an encumbrance. But he was stout and strong, with great sturdy shoulders, and muscular arms, upon which he could swing himself about almost like a monkey. As if in compensation for his useless lower limbs, Nature had given to these extra strength and activity. His face, too, was very handsome; thinner, firmer, more manly; but still the sweet face of his childhood --his mother's own face.
How his mother would have liked to look at him! Perhaps she did--who knows?
The boy was not a stupid boy either. He could learn almost anything he chose--and he did choose, which was more than half the battle.
He never gave up his lessons till he had learned them all--never thought it a punishment that he had to work at them, and that they cost him a deal of trouble sometimes.
"But," thought he, "men work, and it must be so grand to be a man--a prince too; and Ifancy princes work harder than anybody--except kings. The princes I read about generally turn into kings. I wonder"--the boy was always wondering--"Nurse,"--and one day he startled her with a sudden question,--"tell me--shall I ever be a king?"
The woman stood, perplexed beyond expression.
So long a time had passed by since her crime--if it were a crime--and her sentence, that she now seldom thought of either. Even her punishment--to be shut up for life in Hopeless Tower--she had gradually got used to.
Used also to the little lame Prince, her charge --whom at first she had hated, though she carefully did everything to keep him alive, since upon him her own life hung.
But latterly she had ceased to hate him, and, in a sort of way, almost loved him--at least, enough to be sorry for him--an innocent child, imprisoned here till he grew into an old man, and became a dull, worn-out creature like herself. Sometimes, watching him, she felt more sorry for him than even for herself; and then, seeing she looked a less miserable and ugly woman, he did not shrink from her as usual.
He did not now. "Nurse--dear nurse," said he, "I don't mean to vex you, but tell me what is a king? shall I ever be one?"When she began to think less of herself and more of the child, the woman's courage increased. The idea came to her--what harm would it be, even if he did know his own history?
Perhaps he ought to know it--for there had been various ups and downs, usurpations, revolutions, and restorations in Nomansland, as in most other countries. Something might happen --who could tell? Changes might occur. Possibly a crown would even yet be set upon those pretty, fair curls--which she began to think prettier than ever when she saw the imaginary coronet upon them.
She sat down, considering whether her oath, never to "say a word" to Prince Dolor about himself, would be broken if she were to take a pencil and write what was to be told. A mere quibble--a mean, miserable quibble. But then she was a miserable woman, more to be pitied than scorned.
After long doubt, and with great trepidation, she put her fingers to her lips, and taking the Prince's slate--with the sponge tied to it, ready to rub out the writing in a minute--she wrote:
"You are a king."
Prince Dolor started. His face grew pale, and then flushed all over; he held himself erect.
Lame as he was, anybody could see he was born to be a king.
