Chapter Thirty Seven.
An awkward halt.
Meanwhile the strong medicament administered by Leoni had had its effect, giving the sufferer temporary energy and to some extent restoring the reeling senses, so that by the time the al fresco surgery was at an end, Francis began to speak with a fair amount of coherence.
“Who’s this?” he said. “You, Leoni? Thanks, man. How cool and fresh the night air feels! Have I been hurt? Yes, I remember. That caitiff dog of an Englishman struck me with his partisan, and I had no time to reach him and pay him back. Thanks, doctor. Yes, I am better now. But on, on, on!” he panted, with a sudden return of the slight delirium from which he had suffered. “An end to all this. Fontainebleau! Can we reach there to-night?”
“No, sir,” replied Leoni soothingly, as with his hand upon the King’s rein he led his horse at a walk. “But we are well on the way for the palace. That’s right. That’s right. I am weary of this playing Comte, and all it means. But we shall be late, Leoni; we shall be late. They will have laid the hounds upon the boar’s track. He will have broken cover, and I shall not be there with my spear.”
“We will go faster soon, sir,” said Leoni encouragingly; but he did not attempt to increase their speed, continuing at a walk and suddenly drawing rein to speak to Denis.
“Saint Simon,” he said—“I had forgotten him.”
“Coming on about a hundred yards behind,” whispered Denis. “He thinks we are not followed.”
“Hah!” exclaimed Leoni. “You ride on first. I will follow with the Comte. He will take up all my attention now.”