He hurriedly led the way back along the gallery, past the broken cabinet without giving it a moment’s concern, and when nearing the private corridor the King stopped short, to clutch his follower by the breast with his left hand.
“Hurst,” he whispered hoarsely, the deep tones of his voice betraying the rage burning in his breast—“Hurst, have we been betrayed?”
“Surely not, your Majesty. Your people are too loyal for that.”
“But the French are very cunning, man, and gold, even if it is foreign, will sometimes work its way.”
“Your Majesty speaks in riddles,” said the chamberlain nervously, for his master still clutched him by the breast, and the sword was trembling in his hand as if he were about to use it upon a prisoner he had taken himself.
“Riddles!” cried the King. “When we are searching for that vile culprit whom I believed to be still in the place, and who has not passed the guards at either end of these galleries? That boy Carrbroke: he told us that no one had passed by him.”
“Yes, your Majesty; but still I do not understand your drift.”
“Man, have you no brains to think? Is there not another way from here?”
“Hah!” cried the chamberlain in a hoarse whisper. “The secret passage!”
“Yes,” said the King, in a low, deep voice. “Some one—if they have not watched and discovered for themselves—must have betrayed its existence, known only to me and you. But maybe it has acted like a trap—the outer door is locked, and a stranger would not be likely to find the key.”