His Majesty.
Denis glanced at the doctor, grasping his hilt tightly the while, and ready to spring into position for a fresh encounter; but at the same moment he noted the change which came over his adversary, who from being tense, erect and active, suddenly seemed to grow limp of body, though his face was more animated than ever. He hung his head till his chin rested upon his chest, his eyes literally flashed, and he gazed up through his bushy brows at the young courtier who had just joined them, while for answer to his request he slowly finished sheathing his rapier and then took his heavy gown from where he had thrown it upon a chair, and held it out to Denis.
“Help me,” he said. “I am growing old and stiff.”
The lad looked at him wonderingly as he recalled the marvellous activity of a few minutes earlier, and then helped his instructor to resume his garment.
“What!” cried Saint Simon warmly. “You will not go on? Why, doctor, I want to learn.”
The doctor gave him a peculiar, double sinister look, and said, with his unpleasant smile playing about his thin lips:
“The time to bend and train the wand is while it is young and green. You, sir, have grown too old and tough and stubborn to learn.”
“At five and twenty?” cried the young man, flushing.
“Yes, at five and twenty. The soil of a court makes a tree old before its time, and—hark! Did I not hear his Majesty ring?”
“Yes,” cried Denis quickly, and hurriedly smoothing his hair, which hung loose from his late exertions, and then, readjusting his doublet and seeing to the hang of his sword, he hurried through the arras, those who waited hearing the click of the door latch as he passed into the King’s chamber.