“No, Sire; I can answer for that.”
“Then you have it.”
“No, Sire, I have it not; and I am sure—my life on it—it never passed into his Majesty’s hands.”
“You lie, boy!” cried the King fiercely.
“I am a gentleman of France, Sire,” said the boy haughtily.
“A gentleman of France!” cried the King scornfully. “A member of a gang of thieves!”
“I am your prisoner, Sire,” said the boy boldly, “and I know what is bound to be my fate. I am no member of a gang of thieves, but one of my King’s esquires, bound to do his duty as his Majesty’s servant; and I have done mine—no more.”
“Ah!” cried the King, making a quick advance towards the boy, who made an involuntary movement towards his rear, but checked it on the instant, drew himself up proudly, and folded his arms across his breast.
“Pish!” said Henry impatiently. “I was not going to slay you, boy.” And he thrust his sword back into its sheath and caught the lad by the shoulder. “Then that was the King of France!”
“Yes, Sire.”