“But how to pass the gates?” said Leoni thoughtfully.
“There is no need,” cried Denis. “Follow the narrow alley leading downward to the river, and take the boat of which young Carrbroke spoke. The river! Surely you could escape that way.”
“Boy,” whispered Leoni ecstatically, “you are the deliverer of France! Hah!” he added, in tones full of regret. “And you will not be with us! The river—yes. They would never dream that we escaped that way. Quick, then. There is not a moment to be lost. You will not flinch?”
“I? No!” whispered Denis proudly.
“Quick, then! The darkness is the best disguise.” And leading the way into the sleeping chamber, he busied himself with torn-up linen and scarf, preparing the semblance of bandages, while Denis unbuckled his sword-belt and hurriedly threw off his doublet.
A few minutes sufficed for the skilful hands of Leoni to strap and bandage the gallant lad’s features, leaving him standing on one side of the bed while he went to the other to draw back the coverlet.
In obedience to the thought that flashed through his brain the lad bent quickly forward, caught at the King’s hand and raised it eagerly to his lips, half rousing him, to mutter in his sleep, while Leoni took out and unscrewed his little flask and applied it to the King’s lips.
“Drink this, sir,” he said, and in strict obedience to his medical attendant, the sick man drank till the vessel was withdrawn.
“Ah!” exclaimed Francis wearily. “I am not well, Leoni. We pay dearly for our adventure. But we will hunt to-morrow at Fontainebleau. Is it not so? Call the Master of the Chase.”
“You may do so, sir. But you feel stronger now?”