The worse matters grew the more the King lost his temper. He bullied, raged, and stormed, called the skipper and his men clumsy idiots and imbeciles, till temper was lost on the other side, the skipper’s face, always ruddy and brown, grew red and black, and he ended by telling his Majesty that he would have to wait, for the men should do no more.
“This will be the end of our travels,” whispered Saint Simon, “for the King will now betray himself.”
“The Comte, you mean,” said Denis quietly; for he had been standing very thoughtful and quiet, thinking over his conversation with the skipper hours before, and starting forward suddenly just as the King was clapping his hand to his sword, he whispered to him quickly:
“I think I can get the horses ashore, Sire.”
“How dare—here—how?”
“Will your Majesty let me try—I mean, Monsieur le Comte, will you let me try?”
“Hah! That’s better, boy. But speak; what do you mean to do?”
“Let me show you, sir,” cried the boy excitedly, and going to where his steed was tethered, he patted and tried to soothe it for a few moments before taking bit and bridle and fitting them on. Then he called to the skipper.
“What do you want?” said the man gruffly, as he came up scowling.
“Have that flat hauled away,” said Denis quickly, “and then give me a clear space on the deck. There isn’t much room, but I think I can manage.”