“By my faith,” he ejaculated, “there is black treachery here! Am I in my own palace or in a tavern? These fellows come and go as if the place were their own. A mystery too. But by the crown I swear I’ll solve it!” And for a few moments he stood fuming. “Here, Hurst,” he said hoarsely, “your brains have been sharper than mine, and I’m beginning to think you are right about that portrait. Ambassador—poet—brilliant conversationalist—one who has won himself into favour with us all. Hah!” he went on. “He can be no Comte de la Seine! Can you ever trust a Frenchman? But come on!” And he led the way back into the long gallery. “I’ve got ears like a cat to-night,” he said; “but unfortunately not the eyes of one. Surely those were footsteps down yonder?”
“Yes, Sire,” said Hurst. “Beneath that window—a white doublet!”
“Yes,” cried the King. “Come on!”
“But the guard, Sire? Shall I gammon them?”
“No, no,” cried the King impatiently. “This is exciting. We will be our own guard, and find out the truth ourselves.”
The King and the chamberlain had not gone many yards along the gallery when they they came to a halt, for a figure barred the way.
“Who goes there?” came from out of the gloom.
“Pst!” said the King. “Young Carrbroke.—England!” he cried.
The figure came nearer, into the light of a window—a slim figure in a white doublet; and the radiance of the moon flashed on a bared and shining sword.
“Your Majesty!” he exclaimed, and he dropped on one knee.