“Princess,” said the child haughtily.

“Princess!” cried Lee. “That’s a strange name for a little boy.”

“It is Pierre, Monsieur,” said the hunchback quickly.

“That in English is Peter,” added Gaston.

“He does not speak the very good English,” went on the hunchback. “His words are not very clear. We talk to him sometimes in our own tongue … sometimes in English … and our English, as you see, Madame, is sometimes not very good.”

“Princess!” repeated the child. “Me … Princess!”

There was silence while all looked at the child. The Lees in puzzlement; the four companions of the child as though they had been struck temporarily lifeless. In the distance could be heard the sound of retreating horses’ hoofs. Then the hunchback seemed to come to a decision; she rose and took the child firmly by the hand.

“We must go,” she said. “We shall not reach our lodging by nightfall if we stay longer. Come, my friends. And good day to both of you. A pleasant journey and thank you for your company.”

The other three had risen with her. They closed about the child.

“Good day to you,” murmured the Lees.

The child turned to take a last look at them, and the big black eyes showed an angry defiance as the lips formed the words: “Princess. Me … Princess!”

They did not speak until they had put some distance between themselves and the man and woman on the bank. The hunchback had picked up the child so that they might more quickly escape.

At length Nell said: “For the moment I was ready to run.”

“That would have been unwise,” said the hunchback. “That would have been the worst thing we could have done.”

“If we could only make … the boy understand!”

“I have often been relieved because he is so young … too young to understand; and yet if only we could explain…. But how could one so young be expected to understand?”

The child, knowing itself to be the subject of discussion, was listening eagerly. The hunchback noticed this and said: “What will there be to eat at this inn of yours, Tom? Mayhap a little duck or snipe … peacock, kid, venison. Mayhap lampreys and sturgeon …”

“We must remember our stations,” said the hunchback.

The child wished to bring the conversation back to itself. The little hands beat the hunchback. “Nan … Nan …” said the child. “Dirty Nan! Don’t like dirty Nan.”

“Hush, dearest, hush!” said the hunchback.

“Want to go home. Want clean Nan … not dirty Nan.”

“Dearest, be good. Only a little while longer. Remember you are Pierre … my little boy.”

“Little girl!” said the child.

“No, dearest, no! You are Pierre … Pierre for Peter.”

“No Pierre! No Pierre!” chanted the child. “Dirty Nan! Black lady! Want to get down.”

“Try to sleep, my darling.”

“No sleep! No sleep!”

Two soldiers had rounded the bend and were coming towards the party, who immediately fell silent; but just as the two men drew level with them, the child called to them: “Me … Princess. Dirty frock … not mine … Me … Princess!”

They stopped. The hunchback smiled, but beneath the grime and dust her face grew a shade paler.

“What was it the little one said?” asked one of the soldiers.

It was the hunchback who answered. “Your pardon, Messieurs. I and my husband do not speak the English very well. Nor does our son. He is telling you his name is Pierre. That is Peter in English.”

One of the soldiers said: “I thought the boy said he was a Princess.”

The child smiled dazzlingly and chanted: “Princess! Princess! Don’t like black lady. Want clean Nan.”

The soldiers looked at each other and exchanged smiles. One of them brought his face near to that of the child. “So you’re a Princess, eh, young fellow?” he said. “I’ll tell you something.” He nodded his head in the direction of his companion. “He’s Oliver Cromwell and I’m Prince Charley.”

“Forgive, Monsieur,” said the hunchback quickly. “We mean no harm. We are walking to Dover to the house of our master.”

“To Dover, eh!” said the soldier. “You’re on the right road but you’ve many hours journey before you yet.”

“Then we must hasten.”

The second soldier was smiling at the child. “Listen to me, little ’un,” he said. “’Tis better in these days to be the son of a hunchback than the daughter of a King.”

“Ah, Messieurs!” cried the hunchback. “You speak truly. I thank God these days that I am a poor hunchback, for I remember there are others in worse case.”

“God’s will be done,” said the soldier.

“God be with you,” said the hunchback.

“And with you, woman. And with you all. Farewell, Princess Peter.”

The child began to wail as they continued along the road. “Me Princess. Want my gown. Don’t like dirty Nan.”

Again that silence; again that tension.

Nell said: “Can it go on? Shall we be so lucky every time?”

“We must be,” replied the hunchback grimly.

It was dusk when they came to the inn. They were glad of that, for the daylight was disturbing; moreover the child slept.

Tom went across the inn yard and found the landlord. He was a long time gone. The rest of the party waited uneasily beneath the hanging sign.

“Mayhap we should not have come here,” said Nell. “Mayhap we should have made beds for ourselves under the hedges.”

“We shall be safe enough,” murmured the hunchback. “And we’ll leave at daybreak.”

At length Tom called to them to come forward. The landlord was with him.

“So this is the party,” said the landlord. “Two women and two men and a young boy. I don’t make a practice of taking foot passengers … nor those that come on the stage wagon. My inn is an inn for the quality.”

“We can pay,” said Tom quickly.

“There’s comings and goings these days,” said the landlord. “We had a troop of soldiers in here only this day.”

Tom took out his purse and showed it to the innkeeper. “We’ll pay in advance,” he said. “We’re tired and hungry. Let us make a bargain here and now.”

“Very well, very well,” said the landlord. “What’ll you eat? It’ll be at the common table, I reckon, and that’ll cost you sixpence a-piece.”

Tom looked at the hunchback, who said: “Could we have the meal served for us alone? Mayhap we could have a room to ourselves.”

The innkeeper scratched his head and looked at them.

“We’ll pay,” said Tom.

“Well then … it could be arranged. Please to wait in the inn parlor, and you’ll be called to table in good time.”

He led the way into the parlor, and Tom went out with him to settle where they would sleep, what they would eat, and to pay the innkeeper what he asked.

There were several people in the inn parlor. The hunchback noticed this with dismay and she hesitated, but only for a second; then she went boldly forward holding the sleeping child in her arms, with Nell and Gaston on either side of her.

Several people, who sat at the tables and in the window seat, and who were talking together, called a good day to them. The eyes of a plump lady bedecked with ribbons went to the child.

“Looks worn out,” she commented. “Poor little mite! She fast asleep?”

“It’s a little boy.”

“There now! So he is! Have you come far?”

“From London.”

The rest of the people went on talking about the war; they were sighing for the good old days of peace and blaming “The French Woman” for all their troubles. There was one large man with short hair who had taken upon himself the task of mentor to the rest. He was explaining to the company why it had been necessary to wage war against the Royalists. His knowledge of affairs was imperfect, but those present who might have corrected him dared not do so.

“The Queen would make us all Catholic if she could,” he was declaring. “You, Sir, and you, Madam, and you, my comely wench. Aye, and you who have just come in … the hunchback woman and the boy there … she’d make us all Catholic if she dared.”

“We’d die rather,” said another man.

“Why,” went on the first, “on St. James’ day this Queen of ours walked afoot to Tyburn to honor Catholics who had died there. And I tell you, friends, by the gleam in her eyes it was clear she’d like to see done to some of us good Christians what was done to idolators at Tyburn gallows. If I’d been at Exeter I’d not have let her give me the slip. I’d have found her. I’d have carried her to London … aye, that I would. I’d have made her walk to Tyburn gallows … and it wouldn’t have been to honor idolators!”

“She’s a very wicked woman,” volunteered one of the women. “They say the French are all wicked.”

“It won’t be long,” said the large talkative man, “before we’ve done with kings and queens in England. Kings and queens have no place in England today.”

“If the King was to be killed in battle … or after,” said a short fat man, “there’d still be his children to make trouble.”

“I saw the Prince of Wales once,” said the beribboned woman. “An ugly fellow!”

“Well, that’s as may be,” said the woman with a smile.

“And what would you mean by that?”

“Oh … he was dark … dark to swarthiness … He had a big nose and a big mouth … He was a boy and yet …”

“Sounds as if you’re a Royalist, madam,” said the large man accusingly.

“Oh no, I wouldn’t say that. He was naught but a boy … Prince Charles … and he was riding through our town with his brother, young James. It would have been just before Edgehill, I reckon.”

“We nearly got those boys at Edgehill,” grumbled the man. “If I’d have been there …”