“Yes, boy,” he said, and his voice sounded like a harsh whisper, “we are upon the wrong road; but the Count led, and I thought of nothing but making our escape.”
“Are we to rein in, sir? Will you not tell him at once?” whispered Denis, leaning towards him as near as he could get.
“No; we can do nothing now but gallop on. There is certainly pursuit going on hot foot behind us—somewhere,” he added, after a slight pause; “and perhaps it is in the Count’s wisdom that he has chosen this way, for if we were beyond earshot when pursuit commenced, the guard would naturally divine that we should be making for some southern port. Perhaps all is working for the best.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Denis excitedly, for Francis reeled again in his saddle, this time towards his young esquire, who spurred his steed level with the King’s just in time to save him from falling headlong to the ground.
“Ah!” he muttered angrily. “This horse is going lame, and we shall be last. Poor broken beast, I have ridden him too hard, and—I like it not; I like it not.”
“Master Leoni!” cried Denis excitedly, as the King recovered himself once more. “The Comte, sir—the Comte!”
“I know. I saw. Keep as you are now, as close as you can ride. I’ll keep level on the other side. We must reach water somehow, and I will give him to drink. It is the excitement. He is ill.”
“No, no, sir!” cried Denis wildly. “He is wounded.”
“What!” shouted Leoni.
“My hand and sleeve are wet with blood. Look, sir, look!” For the moon was shining brightly down upon them now. “A horrible cut upon his brow!”