“No,” he thought. “Impossible. The people here would surely have securely fastened up that way, and the King has been captured; and with such an enemy as Henry what will be his fate?”
For some time he gave these thoughts firm harbour, but at last his common sense prevailed. The idea was absurd, he told himself. If the little party had been seized while making their escape the whole castle would have been in an uproar, full of wild excitement, with the hurrying to and fro of steps, especially the heavy tramp and clash of the guards, instead of which all was horribly still, while the candles burning in a couple of sconces were hidden from his sight by the heavy hangings of the bed, so that he lay there alone in the deep gloom.
There were moments when the shadows cast by the lights seemed to take form and move, making him feel that he could lie there no longer, that he must spring out of bed to face bravely these weird and shadowy forms, and convince himself that he really was alone, and merely a prey to a childish superstitious dread brought about by the horror of his position.
It was hard to bear, and required a heavy call upon his manliness to force back these fancies and prepare himself to play his part when the crucial time came of some one visiting the room and finding that the Comte’s attendants were no longer there.
“It is for the King of France!” he muttered, when at last the dread and horror of his position had culminated in a feverish fit that seemed as if it would end by his springing out of bed, tearing off the mockery of his disguise, and hurrying through the outer chamber into the corridor to seek the company of the nearest guards.
“It means hastening the discovery,” he muttered, “but I can bear this no longer. It is too much.”
He lay panting heavily for some few moments before a reaction came, following quickly upon the one question he asked himself, contained in that one little word:
“Why?”
He began breathing more easily the next moment, for the weak boy had mastered, and manliness was coming to his aid.
“Oh,” he muttered to himself, “am I to be as cowardly as a girl? It is too childish. Afraid of shadows, shrinking from lying alone in the dark! Why, I shall fancy next that I shall be afraid to lie here with the sun shining brightly, through the panes. What difference is there between the light and darkness? I can make it black darkness even at noonday if I close my eyes. I know why it is. I am tired and faint. There is no danger—for me. The danger is to the King. This is only a trick, a masquerade. Sooner or later I shall be found out. But what then? I am only a lad, and this King Harry would be a bloodthirsty monster if he had me slain for what is after all only a boyish prank. I have nothing to do but lie here quite still, as if a sick man, and very bad. They will find out at last. Well, let them. I am utterly tired out with all I have gone through. My head is as weary as my bones, and now all this weak cowardice has gone I am going to do what I should do here in bed, and go to sleep.