“And three followers who carry theirs, and—”
The boy stopped short, for as he uttered his boastful words he was interrupted by a hoarse, mocking laugh which came through the partly open door, rousing the boy’s ire so that he clapped his hand to his weapon, the others turning also in the direction from which the sound had come.
“What!” came in a loud, bullying tone. “The room engaged? Nonsense! Who are they! What are they doing here?”
“French gentlemen, Sir Robert.”
“French dancing masters, I suppose, come to teach the Court lads minuets; and are they to keep English gentlemen waiting outside because, forsooth, they have engaged the public room? Come in, boys. Here, landlord; a stoup of wine. I’m thirsty. Frenchmen! Why, we can make them dance!”
There was a thump struck upon the panel of the door, which flew open, and a big, soldierly-looking man in horseman’s boots covered with dust swaggered in, followed by a couple more, who looked, like their leader, hot and dusty, and, judging by their accoutrements, appeared to have just dismounted.
Francis started and frowned as he met the English officer’s insulting gaze—insulting, for the stranger gave a contemptuous look around at the assembled party, swaggered forward, unbuckling his belt and throwing it and his sword upon the table with a bang, before dragging forward a chair over the polished floor, raising it a little, and then bringing it heavily down, to throw himself into its seat and then cry:
“Come, boys; the chairs are not all occupied. How long is that fellow going to be with the wine?”
Francis turned pale; Leoni bit his lip, drew closer to him, and whispered softly:
“Pay no heed, M. le Comte;” while Denis and Saint Simon, after gazing fiercely at the new-comers, turned to look at the King as if to signify their readiness, and mutely ask his consent to drive these intruders from the room.