A man who had once been for some years at the court of the expected
visitor saw him enter the city, sombrely clad, on foot. Meanwhile his
Chamberlain entered the town in full panoply with the trumpets blowing
and many riders in attendance. The man who knew the real thing ran to
every one telling the truth, but they laughed at him and refused to
listen. And the real king departed quietly as he had come.
It was, I suppose, an influence of this kind that drove Wilbraham now.
Suddenly something was of so great an importance to him that nothing
else, mockery, hostility, scorn, counted. After all, simply a supreme
example of the other impulses that had swayed him throughout his life.
What followed might I think have been to some extent averted had his
appearance been different. London is a home of madmen and casually
permits any lunacy so that public peace is not endangered; had poor
Wilbraham looked a fanatic with pale face, long hair, ragged clothes,
much would have been forgiven him, but for a stout, middle-aged
gentleman, well dressed, well groomed.
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