“An excellent dinner. I suppose it was having such a bad night, and tossing about. It has made me feel quite drowsy.” And as he spoke he settled himself down in a big chair and closed his eyes, while those of the two young men met in a wondering glance, and had they dared, as they thought of the night they too had spent, they would have burst into a roar of laughter.
But they contented themselves with just raising their brows, and then sat there for a time silent and thoughtful. They could not converse for fear of disturbing their lord and master, who now began to breathe rather heavily. And then a curious thing happened to each: Saint Simon began to think of the frightfully wearying night he had passed, and in an instant the wind was whistling and shrieking through the rigging, the sea rising with a heavy splash against the vessel’s bows, to now and then deluge the deck, and the shivering horses in turn were straining their muzzles towards him in the darkness as if appealing to be relieved from their miserable state.
With Denis it was on this wise. He sat back in his chair watching the King for a few minutes, before fixing his eyes upon the wall just to his left. Then he too as if in a moment was down in the dark cabin with the dim lamp swinging to and fro, and the King sleeping heavily and giving forth that deep breathing sound, while a panel seemed to have formed itself in the bulkhead of the ship, where it began gliding sideways till there was room for a hand to appear, holding a tiny scrap of paper. This was passed through very slowly, to be followed by wrist, elbow, and then the whole of an arm so long that it stretched out like a spear-shaft, and the fingers reached the King’s plate and thrust the paper underneath.
Then it gradually shrank back and grew shorter and shorter till it had all passed through the panel, which next closed of itself with a soft dull roar. Then Denis’s eyes opened and he sat up with a start, realising the fact that he had been fast asleep and that the closing of the panel was only the King’s deep snore.
“Having no sleep last night,” the lad said to himself. “Enough to make anyone drowsy; that and the long ride. Why, Saint Simon’s worse than I was. Nice pair of guards we make! Suppose instead of an arm a spear were thrust through that panel, an enemy might reach his heart.”
Making an effort to shake off his lethargy, the boy stepped to where Saint Simon lay back sleeping soundly, and then, buckling on his sword the while, he bent over him, took his sword-belt from where it hung over a corner of the chair back, and thrust the cold hilt into the heavy sleeper’s hand.
“Quiet, my boy,” muttered Saint Simon, “and keep your nasty cold wet muzzle out of my hand. We shall get there some time,” he added murmuringly, “and you are all right. I am not going away.”
“Pst! Pst! Saint Simon! Rouse up, man! Don’t go to sleep.”
“Is it nearly morning, skipper?” grumbled the sleeper.
“No, and it isn’t night,” whispered Denis, with his lips close to the other’s ear. “Quiet, or you’ll wake the King.”