The dinner hour drew near—yet strangely enough, the thought brought but slight discomfort to Tom, and hardly any terror.  The morning’s experiences had wonderfully built up his confidence; the poor little ash-cat was already more wonted to his strange garret, after four days’ habit, than a mature person could have become in a full month.  A child’s facility in accommodating itself to circumstances was never more strikingly illustrated. Let us privileged ones hurry to the great banqueting-room and have a glance at matters there whilst Tom is being made ready for the imposing occasion.  It is a spacious apartment, with gilded pillars and pilasters, and pictured walls and ceilings.  At the door stand tall guards, as rigid as statues, dressed in rich and picturesque costumes, and bearing halberds.  In a high gallery which runs all around the place is a band of musicians and a packed company of citizens of both sexes, in brilliant attire.  In the centre of the room, upon a raised platform, is Tom’s table. Now let the ancient chronicler speak:
 
“A gentleman enters the room bearing a rod, and along with him another bearing a tablecloth, which, after they have both kneeled three times with the utmost veneration, he spreads upon the table, and after kneeling again they both retire; then come two others, one with the rod again, the other with a salt-cellar, a plate, and bread; when they have kneeled as the others had done, and placed what was brought upon the table, they too retire with the same ceremonies performed by the first; at last come two nobles, richly clothed, one bearing a tasting-knife, who, after prostrating themselves three times in the most graceful manner, approach and rub the table with bread and salt, with as much awe as if the King had been present.” {6}
So end the solemn preliminaries.  Now, far down the echoing corridors we hear a bugle-blast, and the indistinct cry, “Place for the King!  Way for the King’s most excellent majesty!”  These sounds are momently repeated—they grow nearer and nearer—and presently, almost in our faces, the martial note peals and the cry rings out, “Way for the King!”  At this instant the shining pageant appears, and files in at the door, with a measured march. Let the chronicler speak again:—
“First come Gentlemen, Barons, Earls, Knights of the Garter, all richly dressed and bareheaded; next comes the Chancellor, between two, one of which carries the royal sceptre, the other the Sword of State in a red scabbard, studded with golden fleurs-de-lis, the point upwards; next comes the King himself—whom, upon his appearing, twelve trumpets and many drums salute with a great burst of welcome, whilst all in the galleries rise in their places, crying ‘God save the King!’ ............