But the boy stood firm, seeing as it were through the glittering pageantry of the English Court the gleaming fields of far-off France, a sparkling river, and the grey steeple turrets of an ancient French château. It was home, with all he loved therein.
It was momentary, and the vision was dissolved by the King’s loud voice, as he cried sharply:
“Who’s with you there? Hah! Hurst! Look here, man.”
“Your Majesty!” cried the chamberlain, looking at the boy in astonishment.
“Behold my royal visitor!” cried Henry mockingly. “This is the way my courts are kept.”
“I do not understand, your Majesty,” cried the chamberlain, trembling for what was next to come.
“But I do, man!” cried Henry. “Here is our sick and wounded prisoner.”
“A ruse—a trick!” said the chamberlain excitedly.
“Yes—French,” cried Henry, with a mocking laugh. “The bird has flown, and left another in his nest. There, young popinjay, young daw—look at him, Hurst! He has cast his borrowed plumes.” Then turning to Denis: “Put on your own feathers, boy. You will come with me. Bring him to my apartments, Hurst.”
“As a prisoner, Sire?”