It's always called so when a king escapes, f'rinstance.

And the same with a king's son; it don't make no difference whether he's a natural one or an unnatural one." So Tom he wrote the nonnamous letter, and I smouched the yaller wench's frock that night, and put it on, and shoved it under the front door, the way Tom told me to.

It said: Beware.

Trouble is brewing.

Keep a sharp lookout.