facial effort he fell senseless on his back with a fractured skull. This was the manner in which Jack Falstaff broke Skogan’s head at the Court Gate. A loud shout burst from the spectators. Shallow wept tears of rapture--mingled with envy. “Oh, if I could but do it! If I could but have such a thing to talk of! If I could but once say I had broken a head like that!” he exclaimed frantically. “A word with you, sir,” said a rough, shockheaded fellow, drawing him aside confidentially. A flourish of trumpets announced the approach of the princes. Jack’s companions flocked round him, overwhelming him with congratulations and apologies. Jack affected to treat the whole matter lightly; the knowledge that he had more than recovered his lost ground enabled him to still the beatings of his heart. He had fought with wondrous coolness and apparent enjoyment, but had, in reality, suffered all the agonies which a keen intellect must always experience in an encounter with serious physical danger. Skogan was carried away to be plastered. It is to be hoped his poem would keep till the next birthday. By the time Sir Thomas Mowbray came out with the rest of the courtiers, he found his page fully equipped, and ready to accompany him to the tiltyard in Smithfield. When they reached the ground, as Jack was struggling with a crowd of men at arms to get through the narrow gateway, he felt his sleeve pulled from behind, and an eager voice cried-- “Jack, Jack! don’t go in yet. Look here; I’ve fought too!” He looked round and saw Master Robert Shallow in a high state of excitement, dragging a man by the collar, whose head was bound with a cloth streaming with blood. “Look, Jack! mind, say you saw it. Sampson Stockfish his name is--he’s a fruiterer--I made him come here to show his broken head, or I threatened him with another.” “Another head?” “I pray you let me go, sir,” whined the wounded man; “you have hurt me sore enough for one day.” “There! you hear him confess,” crowed the delighted Shallow. “Out of the way, thou cobbler’s end,” said an authoritative voice. “What dost thou here among the Marshal’s men?” And Prince John of Gaunt, striding through the gateway, laid his sheathed sword across Master Shallow’s head--reducing that warlike gentleman to the same condition as his blood-stained victim. Master Shallow was led away howling, by the magnanimous Stockfish. “Why what eelskin had’st thou got hold of there, Jack?” inquired the prince, looking after the discomfited champion. “A Gloucestershire lamprey,” answered Jack. “Your highness would have done well to kill him, for truly he puts your title in danger.” “How so?” “Why your highness is no more Gaunt than he is. He fairly beats your name.”