He pointed on to the two men who had taken charge of and rubbed down their chargers upon their arrival, and who were now lying in a heap of straw, eyes shut, mouth open, and with their heavy faces looking swollen and red, breathing stertorously.
“Why, the brutes are drunk,” said Saint Simon. “If their mistress knew, I fancy their stay here would be short, for she seems a thorough business soul.”
“Sim!” cried Denis excitedly, gripping him by the shoulder.
“What’s the matter, lad? Can you see a ghost or a nightmare in the dark corner there?”
“No, nor can I see our horses. They were haltered yonder. Where are they now?”
“Ah!” yelled Saint Simon, and snatching out his sword he made as if to prick the two sleeping grooms into wakefulness; but Denis flung his arm across his chest and cried angrily:
“Never mind them! The horses, man, the horses—the horses! They may be only in the field, led there to graze.”
“You are mad!” cried Saint Simon angrily. “But yes; go on out through that farther door.”
Denis was already making for an opening at the far end of the long low building, through which the afternoon sunshine streamed. Passing out, they found themselves in an inner yard, and beyond that there was a long open meadow, surrounded by a high hedge. But for the moment all was blank, and a feeling of despair made the young men’s hearts sink as they mentally saw at a glance that their beautiful chargers had not excited attention for nothing—that they had been followed, horse-thieves had been at work, and that their noble steeds were gone.
“How shall we dare to face the King?” thought Denis, and the next instant he grasped the fact that there must be a lane beyond the distant hedge, for he just caught sight of the head of a man whose covering seemed familiar gliding along above the fencing, now seen, now disappearing, as if he were mounted on a walking-horse.