The fool was alarmed at this brilliant feast, resounding music, and
the mad merriment of the king. He was horrified at the laughing
faces and frivolous jests, which came streaming from all those
mirthful lips.
O Heaven! they laughed, and death was in the midst of them; they
laughed, and the gates of the Tower were already opened to admit one
of those merry guests of the king into that house which no one in
those days of Henry the Eighth left again, save to go to the stake
or to ascend the scaffold!
Who was the condemned? For whom were the soldiers below at the
carriage waiting? John Heywood in vain racked his brain with this
question.
Nowhere could he spy a trace that might lead him on the right track;
nowhere a clew that might conduct him through this labyrinth of
horrors.
"When you are afraid of the devil, you do well to put yourself under
his immediate protection," muttered John Heywood; and sad and
despondent at heart, he crept behind the king's throne and crouched
down by it on the ground.
John Heywood had such a little, diminutive form, and the king's
throne was so large and broad, that it altogether concealed the
little crouching fool.
No one had noticed that John Heywood was concealed there behind the
king. Nobody saw his large, keen eyes peeping out from behind the
throne and surveying and watching the whole hall.
John Heywood could see everything and hear everything going on in
the vicinity of the king.
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