“It’s no use, Tony. Armand is in Paris. I saw him in the corridor of the Temple prison in the company of Chauvelin.”
“Great God!” exclaimed Lord Hastings.
The others were silent. What was the use of arguing? One of themselves was in danger. Armand St. Just, the brother of Marguerite Blakeney! Was it likely that Percy would leave him in the lurch.
“One of us will stay with you, of course?” asked Sir Andrew after awhile.
“Yes! I want Hastings and Tony to take the child to Mantes, then to make all possible haste for Calais, and there to keep in close touch with the Day-Dream; the skipper will contrive to open communication. Tell him to remain in Calais waters. I hope I may have need of him soon.
“And now to horse, both of you,” he added gaily. “Hastings, when you are ready, I will hand up the child to you. He will be quite safe on the pillion with a strap round him and you.”
Nothing more was said after that. The orders were given, there was nothing to do but to obey; and the uncrowned King of France was not yet out of danger. Hastings and Tony led two of the horses out of the spinney; at the roadside they mounted, and then the little lad for whose sake so much heroism, such selfless devotion had been expended, was hoisted up, still half asleep, on the pillion in front of my Lord Hastings.
“Keep your arm round him,” admonished Blakeney; “your horse looks quiet enough. But put on speed as far as Mantes, and may Heaven guard you both!”
The two men pressed their heels to their horses’ flanks, the beasts snorted and pawed the ground anxious to start. There were a few whispered farewells, two loyal hands were stretched out at the last, eager to grasp the leader’s hand.
Then horses and riders disappeared in the utter darkness which comes before the dawn.