They rode on now at a hand gallop, their horses’ hoofs beating heavily upon the road, but not drowning the King’s voice, as every now and then he made his horse lay back its ears to listen to the rider’s words, which at times came angrily and fast. But they were incoherent and strange, and it was only now and then that Leoni, on his right, and Denis, on his left, caught their import, always something about the hunt and losing their quarry.
It was just after one of these mutterings that the clouds were swept from the face of the moon, passing onward like a vast black velvet curtain edged with silver, and leaving visible a third, later on a half, of the vast arch overhead, studded here and there with stars whose lustre was paled by the effulgent moon.
And now it was that, after studying the sky overhead for some minutes to make sure, Denis could control himself no longer, and involuntarily exclaimed; “Are we going right?”
“What!” cried Leoni sharply, for the King paid no heed, but galloped on, muttering to himself the while.
“Are we going right?” repeated the lad.
“What do you mean, boy?”
“The road is straight, sir, and we are riding to the north. Should we not be making for the south?”
“Are you mad, boy? What do you mean?”
“Look, sir—the stars. That must be the Bear.”
Leoni was silent for a few moments, breathing heavily the while, as they rode steadily on. Then the doctor’s voice came in a low angry hiss: