Chapter Forty Six.
In borrowed plumes.
Denis stood for a few moments panting heavily, not daring to take his eyes from those of the King, who stood there speechless with astonishment. Then by an effort the boy wrenched his gaze from where it was held, as he thought of his own sword; but the weapon was on the other side of the bed, and as he realised it the thought came that this was a King—one who had but to utter a word to bring in his guards.
“Tricked again,” said the King at last; “and by you, boy! Francis’s esquire! Where is your King?”
“Beyond your reach, Sire, by this time,” said the boy boldly, nerved as he was by the feeling that he had gained much time, and that his words were true.
“Escaped?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Ah!” ejaculated the King. “And I see now this was another ruse. How like a Frenchman! He was not wounded after all.”
“He was, Sire,” cried the boy indignantly, “and dangerously too.”
“But that jewel—where is it now? On its way to France?”