e of Wales, I tell thee that," said the waterman, barring the way
resolutely.

"Give me the cup, then, and make speed, make speed!"

Other revellers were interested by this time. They cried out--

"The loving-cup, the loving-cup! make the sour knave drink the
loving-cup, else will we feed him to the fishes."

So a huge loving-cup was brought; the waterman, grasping it by one of its
handles, and with the other hand bearing up the end of an imaginary
napkin, presented it in due and ancient form to Canty, who had to grasp
the opposite handle with one of his hands and take off the lid with the
other, according to ancient custom. {1} This left the Prince hand-free
for a second, of course. He wasted no time, but dived among the forest
of legs about him and disappeared. In another moment he could not have
been harder to find, under that tossing sea of life, if its billows had
been the Atlantic's and he a lost sixpence.

He very soon realised this fact, and straightway busied himself about his
own affairs without further thought of John Canty. He quickly realised
another thing, too. To wit, that a spurious Prince of Wales was being
feasted by the city in his stead. He easily concluded that the pauper
lad, Tom Canty, had deliberately taken advantage of his stupendous
opportunity and become a usurper.

Therefore there was but one course to pursue--find his way to the
Guildhall, make himself known, and denounce the impostor. He also made
up his mind that Tom should be allowed a reasonable time for spiritual
preparation, and then be hanged, drawn and quartered, according to the
law and usage of the day in cases of high treason.

Chapter XI. At Guildhall.

The royal barge, attended by its gorgeous fleet, took its stately way
down the Thames through the wilderness of illuminated boats. The air was
laden with music; the river banks were beruffled with joy-flames; the
distant city lay in a soft luminous glow from its countless invisible
bonfires; above it rose many a slender spire into the sky, incrusted with
sparkling lights, wherefore in their remoteness they seemed like jewelled
lances thrust aloft; as the fleet swept along, it was greeted from the
banks with a continuous hoarse roar of cheers and the ceaseless flash and
boom of artillery.

To Tom Canty, half buried in his silken cushions, these sounds and this
spectacle were a wonder unspeakably sublime and astonishing. To his
little friends at his side, the Pr