“The King—the King! Vive le roi!” muttered Saint Simon.
“Stupid!” whispered Denis, laying one hand lightly over Saint Simon’s lips and shaking him softly with the other. “Wake up. You’re asleep.”
“I kiss your Majesty’s hand,” babbled the sleeper softly.—“Eh? Asleep? Nonsense! Who’s asleep?”
Then coming suddenly to himself, his hand closed tightly upon the hilt of his sword, and dashing away the fingers upon his lips he sprang fiercely to his feet, gazing wonderingly at his companion.
“Pst! The King!” whispered Denis.
“Eh? The King?” said Saint Simon, lowering his voice and glancing at the slumbering monarch. “I say, I haven’t been asleep, have I?”
“Sound as a dormouse in December.”
“Oh, horrible! Suppose he had woke up. But he would have found you on the watch.”
“He wouldn’t,” said Denis, laughing silently, “for I went off as sound as you; and no wonder after such a night. What with that and the dinner, and this hot room, a weasel couldn’t have kept awake. Here, let’s go outside into the open air. I want to see if the horses have been well fed.”
“Yes, of course. We ought to have thought of that before,” whispered Saint Simon; and together they crossed softly to the door, passed out, and closed it behind them without a sound; and then, with a soft pleasant air greeting their cheeks, they passed along the open hall, caught sight of their hostess, who smiled a reply to their salute, and entered the great inn-yard, going to the far end and the big range of stables where they had left their steeds.