“Lost!” sighed Leoni, as, utterly unnerved, he stood tightly pressing the King’s wrist, unable even to stir, but listening to the sounds of voices which came weirdly and whispering along the gallery—challenge, reply, and order of the changing guard.
Before recalling the fact that the bearers of the light were hardly likely to discern them at so great a distance, he recovered himself and pressed on towards the door and raised the tapestry, when without word of direction Francis passed through, followed by Leoni, and the arras was dropped.
“Saint Simon,” muttered the doctor, as without closing the door he led the King onward for about a dozen yards, before returning to the open door with the intention of kneeling down to raise the hangings slightly and watch.
“Must I leave him behind—another?” he muttered; and then he started, to clap his hand to his dagger again and prepare to strike, for there was a faint rustling sound from the open door and then the faintest of faint clicks, followed by the expiration of a heavy breath as from one who could contain it no longer.
Leoni stood with his arm raised on high and his stiletto pointing downwards. The next moment it had dropped to his side, for from out of the darkness in front there came the whispered words:
“Are you there?”
“Saint Simon!” cried the doctor, not beneath his breath, for he was too much excited by his surprise to control his emotion, as he stretched out his left hand to grip his follower by the arm. “I did not expect this,” he muttered.
“Too dangerous to stay,” said Saint Simon.
“Yes, and you were right; it was bravely done.”
“But what about the garden door? It will be fast.”