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And he proceeded to call the names out from the catalogue.

When a dozen had answered, Anne of Cleeves said, “That’s enough, Henry dear; we’ve got twelve.”

“Oh, have we?” said he. “You can have more if you like, you know; there’s plenty left.”

The ladies, however, decided that a dozen was enough, and the trial began.

“Prisoner at the bar,” said Edward the Black Prince, who was acting as usher, “are you guilty or not guilty?”

“What’s the use of asking him that,” said Henry the Eighth, “when everybody knows, eh?”

John here began to explain that he had arranged the matter in Magna Charta, whereupon the judge exclaimed–

“Oh, gracious! if we’re to have that up every two minutes I’ll adjourn the court! Now, you there!” said he to me; “why don’t you answer?”

I tried in dumb show to explain that I was not aware what I was being tried for; but as no one saw the point of my answer, I tremblingly pleaded “Not guilty.”

“Oh,” said Henry, growing very red in the face, “all right! Now, somebody, let’s have the indictment!”

To my horror, I suddenly saw reflected on a screen, in large characters, at the far end of the room, my recent examination paper, with all my answers appended thereto! As I staggered back in terror, Henry laughed.

“Too late now,” said he; “you’ve said `Not guilty’, so you’ve got to be tried–got to be tried. Eh, what? Now start away; begin at the top. What’s that he says about Alfred the Great? Where is Alf, by the way?”

“Oh,” said Edward the Third, “he can’t come. The fact is, they’ve taken him and dressed him up as a French General, and he’s so awfully busy, he says, you’d better let his part of the thing slide.”

“All serene!” replied Henry. “Lucky job for you, prisoner. I know what a rage he’d be in over that toast-and-muffin story you’ve been telling about him. He’d have done you brown, my boy, I can promise you! Never mind. Now let’s go on to the next. Read it out, Nigger.”

Edward the Black Prince, who answered to this genial pet name, accordingly read–

“`William the Conqueror was a cruel tyrant. He made many homes desolate, and wrote Doomsday Book in the year 1087.'”

“There!” cried the Conqueror, coming to the rail of the guillotine and striking it in a passion with his gauntlet; “what do you think of that? I wrote Doomsday Book! It’s a lie. My lords and gentlemen of the jury, I can stand anything else, but when he says I wrote Doomsday Book, I say it’s a lie, and I hope to see him hung!”

“Hanged,” suggested Henry the First.

“All right, all right,” said Henry the Eighth, “keep cool, and you shall see him hung, and Henry shall see him hanged. We’ll oblige all parties. So you mean to say, Willie, you never did such a thing?”

“No, never; I hope I know my place better,” said the Conqueror; “and I’m surprised at you for asking such a question.”

“Got that all down, Nigger?” asked the judge.

“Yes. Forge ahead!” said the Black Prince. “Now we come to the next, `William the Second, surnamed Rufus, shot in the New Forest, by Walter Tyrrell.'”

“Eh?” shouted Rufus, pushing his father aside, and coming to the front. “What’s that? Me shot by Walter? Me–“

“Do say I,” suggested Henry the First.

The Red King rounded on him at once.

“Oh!” he cried, “it was you, then, was it? You’re the one that did it! I guessed as much! I knew you were at the bottom of it all along. What do you think of that, my lords and gentlemen?”

“The thing is,” drawled Edward the Second, “did Walter–“

“Order in the court!” cried Henry the Eighth. “Kindly allow me to conduct my own case. All you’ve got to say, Rufus, is whether it’s true what he says, that Walter Tyrrell shot you?”