“Oh yes, yes, sir; if it is not clouded over; but the road from here towards London is through the forest and overhung with trees and—and,” she added, in a whisper, “it is not safe.”
“We have our swords, madam,” said the youth; but he winced as he spoke, for his right arm seemed to give him a sudden warning twinge of his inability to use his weapon. “What do you mean about the road not being safe?”
The woman drew herself closer to him, and her ruddy buxom face became blotched with white.
“Bad men,” she whispered. “Robbers and murderers have a stronghold in the forest, from which they come out to lay wait for rich travellers.”
“Are they mounted men?” said Denis, as the King slowly drew nearer.
“Yes,” she said, “with the best of horses.”
“And do they steal horses too?”
“Oh yes,” she whispered, with a shudder.
“Then that man who watched us here was one of them, was he not?” cried Denis excitedly.
The woman’s jaw dropped, and the whiteness in her countenance increased.