“Last year in Paris, Sire, he befriended my brother, who could speak nothing of him but good; and I have not told you, Sire, that he is very ill.”
“Bah!” cried the King.
“Deadly sick from his wound, Sire.”
“His wound!” said the King, starting.
“Yes, Sire. In the daring escape, when two of the guards and Sir Robert Garstang were wounded, the Comte was struck down by one of your brave halberdiers.”
“And serve the villain right,” cried the King impetuously. “Brave fellow! has he been rewarded?”
“No, Sire. That is left for your Majesty to do.”
“And it shall be done, on my royal word,” cried the King. “Wounded and sick, say you?”
“Yes, Sire; I have seen him, and he is very weak.”
“Well,” said the King, “you have done your part in your appeal. But I have made up my mind to this.” And as he spoke the King drew himself up in his chair once more and seized his pen.