ve no fear in going back to
the capital.

"I hope she'll enjoy it," said the Prince.

And then a kind of remorse smote him for feeling so bitterly towards
her, after all the years she had taken care of him--grudgingly, perhaps,
still, she had taken care of him.

For the second time he tried to dress himself, and then to do everything
he could for himself--even to sweeping the hearth and putting on more
coals.

He then thought of his godmother. Not of calling her or asking her to
help him--she had evidently left him to help himself, and he was
determined to try his best to do it, being a very proud and independent
boy--but he remembered her tenderly.

After his first despair, he was comfortable and happy in his solitude,
but when it was time to go to bed, he was very lonely, even his little
lark was silent and as for his traveling cloak, either he never thought
about it, or else it had been spirited away--for he made no use of it,
nor attempted to do so.

On the sixth day, Prince Dolor had a strange contented look in his face.
Get out of the tower he could not; the ladder the deaf mute used was
always carried away again and his food was nearly gone. So he made up
his mind to die. Not that he wished to die; on the contrary, there was a
great deal that he wished to live to do. Dying did not seem so very
dreadful; not even to lie quietly like his uncle, whom he had entirely
forgiven now.

"Suppose I had grown to be a man, and had had work to do, and people to
care for, and was so useful and busy that they liked me, and perhaps
even forgot that I was lame. Then, it would have been nice to have
lived, I think," and tears came into the little fellow's eyes. Then he
heard a trumpet, one of the great silver trumpets so admired in
Nomansland. Not pleasant music, but very bold and grand.

The poor condemned woman had not been such a wicked woman after all. As
soon as she heard of the death of the King, she persuaded the deaf-mute
to take her away with him, and they galloped like the wind from city to
city, spreading everywhere the news that Prince Dolor's death and burial
had been an invention concocted by his wicked uncle--that he was alive
and well, and the noblest young Prince that ever was born.

It was a bold stroke, but it succeeded. People jumped at the idea of
this Prince, who was the son of their late good King and Queen.

"Hurrah for Prince Dolor! Let him be our king!" rang from end to end of
the kingdom. Th