Chapter Thirty Six.
Somebody’s wound.
As if to aid the fugitives’ escape, the moon, which had been shining brightly the greater part of the evening, had become overclouded almost from the minute they set off, and headed by the King, who bent low over the pommel of his saddle, and at the start had seemed to drive his spurs into his horse’s flanks, the little party tore over the darkened road at a furious pace, no one uttering a word.
The King led; that was sufficient for two of the party, who set their teeth and gave the horses their heads, merely taking care to rein up slightly as every now and then they came upon some terribly untended piece of the road.
“The King leads,” thought the two young men, “and all we have to do is to keep close at his heels, ready if wanted, and for France.”
Saint Simon was one who thought little and said less. They had had an exciting charge, mastered those who opposed them, behaved like gentlemen of France, and that was enough.
But as Denis galloped on with the wind coming cool and pleasant to cheeks fevered by the excitement that he had passed through, picture after picture flitted through his brain, dominated by that in the stable entry when he had felt his rapier glide through his adversary’s neck.
Had he killed this man? something seemed to ask him again and again.
Then came the strong feeling of dissatisfaction as imaginary pictures took the others’ place, illustrating the breaking open of the cabinet and the stealing of the jewel—imaginary so far as he was concerned, for no communication as to this having been accomplished had been made to him. But he took it all for granted, and though he had taken no active part in the theft—for theft his conscience persisted in calling it—the base action pressed upon him more and more, in spite of his combating it with declarations that it was an act of warfare to regain the King’s own, and that it was for France.