As soon as Miles Hendon and the little prince were clear of the mob, they
struck down through back lanes and alleys toward the river.  Their way
was unobstructed until they approached London Bridge; then they ploughed
into the multitude again, Hendon keeping a fast grip upon the Prince's—
no, the King's—wrist.  The tremendous news was already abroad, and the
boy learned it from a thousand voices at once—"The King is dead!"  The
tidings struck a chill to the heart of the poor little waif, and sent a
shudder through his frame.  He realised the greatness of his loss, and
was filled with a bitter grief; for the grim tyrant who had been such a
terror to others had always been gentle with him.  The tears sprang to
his eyes and blurred all objects.  For an instant he felt himself the
most forlorn, outcast, and forsaken of God's creatures—then another cry
shook the night with its far-reaching thunders:  "Long live King Edward