“Well done!” cried the King. “And you, Saint Simon?”
“A bit battered with blows, sir,” replied the young man; “and I expect when the day dawns I can show some rags.”
“No wounds?” cried the King.
“Not a scratch, sir.”
“But what of you, sir?” cried Denis eagerly, “I am afraid you must have suffered badly.”
“I have,” said the King shortly. “I feel as if my beauty is spoiled by a blow one ruffian struck at my face. But he was the one who suffered,” he added, with a low hiss suggestive of satisfaction. “But no more selfishness. Though I have left him to the last, it is not that I do not want to thank our gallant English preserver, who has given us the best of proofs that he is ready to welcome strangers to his shores. I don’t know by what means you knew, sir, of our peril, or why you should think it worth your while to play the brave knight, and fight against such odds to rescue us from the spoilers, and perhaps from death. Pray give me your name, sir, that we three strangers may bury it deeply in our hearts as one of the most gallant islanders we shall ever meet.”
“My name, your Majesty?” said the stranger quietly.
“What!” cried the King. “You know who I am?”
“As well as your Majesty knows his faithful servant,” came now in familiar tones.
“Master Leoni!” cried all three, in a breath, the King’s voice sounding loudest of all.