We cannot doubt that this loss was a grievous one to a man of Shakespeare's deep feeling; doubly grievous, it would seem, because it was his constant ambition to restore the fallen fortunes of his family, and he was now left without an heir to his name. Traces of what his heart must have suffered appear in the work he now undertakes, _King John_, which seems to date from 1596-97. One of the main themes of this play is the relation between John Lackland, who has usurped the English crown, and the rightful heir, Arthur, son of John's elder brother, in reality a boy of about fourteen at the date of the action, but whom Shakespeare, for the sake of poetic effect, and influenced, perhaps, by his private preoccupations of the moment, has made considerably younger, and consequently more childlike and touching. The King has got Arthur into his power. The most famous scene in the play is that (iv. I) in which Hubert de Burgh, the King's chamberlain, who has received orders to sear out the eyes of the little captive, enters Arthur's prison with the irons, and accompanied by the two servants who are to bind the child to a chair and hold him fast while the atrocity is being committed. The little prince, who has no mistrust of Hubert, but only a general dread of his uncle's malice, as yet divines no danger, and is full of sympathy and childlike tenderness. The passage is one of extraordinary grace:-- "_Arthur_ You are sad. _Hubert_. Indeed, I have been merrier. _Arth_. Mercy on me Methinks, nobody should be sad but I: . . . . . . . . I would to Heaven, I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. _Hub. [Aside_.] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate He will awake my mercy, which lies dead: Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch. _Arth_. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day. In sooth, I would you were a little sick, That I might sit all night, and watch with you: I warrant, I love you more than you do me." Hubert gives him the royal mandate to read:-- "_Hubert_. Can you not read it? is it not fair writ? _Arthur_. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect. Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes? _Hub_. Young boy, I must. _Arth_ . And will you? _Hub_ . And I will. _Arth_. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache, I knit my handkerchief about your brows, (The best I had, a princess wrought it me,) And I did never ask it you again; And with my hand at midnight held your head."