Then he heard the cry—a seamew’s call—repeated thrice at intervals, and five minutes later something loomed out of the darkness quite close to the hind wheels of the cart.
“Hist! Ffoulkes!” came in a soft whisper, scarce louder than the wind.
“Present!” came in quick response.
“Here, help me to lift the child into the cart. He is asleep, and has been a dead weight on my arm for close on an hour now. Have you a dry bit of sacking or something to lay him on?”
“Not very dry, I am afraid.”
With tender care the two men lifted the sleeping little King of France into the rickety cart. Blakeney laid his cloak over him, and listened for awhile to the slow regular breathing of the child.
“St. Just is not here—you know that?” said Sir Andrew after a while.
“Yes, I knew it,” replied Blakeney curtly.
It was characteristic of these two men that not a word about the adventure itself, about the terrible risks and dangers of the past few hours, was exchanged between them. The child was here and was safe, and Blakeney knew the whereabouts of St. Just—that was enough for Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, the most devoted follower, the most perfect friend the Scarlet Pimpernel would ever know.
Ffoulkes now went to the horse, detached the nose-bag, and undid the nooses of the hobble and of the tether.