“Oh, I couldn’t have believed it,” cried Denis, five minutes later. “Master Carrbroke—”
“Ned,” said the young man correctively. “Ned always to my friends.”
“Ned, then,” said Denis warmly; “once more, this is Master Leoni, and you ought to make him one, for you never before met such a man as he.”
Chapter Seventeen.
A few bars’ rest.
A short time later, the dull aching pain seemed to have passed completely out of the injured shoulder, and after a few words evincing his gratitude, which Leoni received with a rather cynical smile, they passed together, led by their new young friend, into the long low dining-hall of the house, where the King, in company with Saint Simon, both apparently none the worse for the previous night’s experience, was impatiently waiting, and conversing with his host, a tall grey-bearded man of sixty, whose aspect told at once that he was father to the youth who ushered in the injured lad.
“Let me introduce my son, my lord,” said Sir John. “Ned, my boy, this is Comte de la Seine, a French nobleman about to visit your royal master’s Court. My lord, my fighting days have long been over, and I only serve my King now with my counsel; but he has honoured me by accepting the service of my only son for his father’s sake, and has made him, young as he is, one of the King’s esquires.”
“And a brave one too, I’ll warrant,” said Francis, holding out his hand, quite forgetful of his new character as a travelling nobleman, for his host’s heir to kiss.