“Man,” whispered the King hoarsely, “you are my servant. Don’t thwart me now. If you value your place here—more, your life—speak out!”
The chamberlain returned the candle to the sconce, and then said slowly:
“Your servant’s life is at your service, Sire. I am not sure, but I tell you honestly that which I believe. This gentleman is wearing a disguise, and comes here under an assumed name, and from my soul I believe he is—”
“Who?” whispered the King, grasping him fiercely by the arm.
“Francis, King of France.”
“Hah!” ejaculated the King hoarsely, and with his face taking a fierce expression mingled with anger, surprise, and triumph. “And what has brought him here? If you are right. Hurst—mind, I say, if you are right— But you had never seen this man before, and it may be only a resemblance.”
“It may, your Majesty, but—”
“If it is,” whispered the King, with his face looking purple in the dim light, “the fox has come unbidden into the lion’s den, and if the lion should raise his paw, where would be the fox?”
He looked fiercely and meaningly in his follower’s eyes.
“France,” continued the King, in a hoarse whisper. “France, how much of those fair domains won by my predecessors with the sword have been wrested from the English crown bit by bit—the noble domains over which these Valois now rule as usurpers. Hurst, what if the sceptre of England should be held again swaying our ancient lands of France. Supposing, I say, there were no Valois, or he perforce had been called upon to render back all that had been stolen from our crown. I am the King, and as my father used his gallant sword to gain one kingdom, why should not I by a diplomatic move win back another?”