And the other nodded with grim acquiescence.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE DEATH OF THE KING
It was noon when Fenton awoke the next day. He awoke to a sense of unfamiliar surroundings. Above him was a ceiling of dingy, brownish hue. The walls, he discovered on investigation, were similar to the ceiling and unadorned save for a few dusty old French prints. The bed on which he lay was hard and lumpy, the coverlet ancient and thin. There was a faint mustiness observable in the atmosphere and through a half-closed door came the sound of a bow softly scraping the strings of a decrepit violin. Fenton sat bolt upright in bed and examined his surroundings with much surprise and, truth to tell, a little alarm.
The fact that he was awake was thus communicated to the musician in the other room; for a shuffling step crossed the floor and the head of Monsieur Dubois was poked inquiringly through the door.
"Now I understand," said Fenton, putting one leg out of the bed, and groaning with the effort—for a full day in the saddle will leave its effects on the most experienced horseman.
"Monsieur is surprised," said the old Frenchman, coming into the room with his violin in one hand—a rather crazy, poverty-stricken kind of violin—and the bow in the other. "It was this way. Monsieur Fenton was quite so fatigued that he fell sound asleep in the café and nothing could arouse him. Luckily my lodgings were close by and, with the help of a stout young fellow, who will return to-day for some compensation, which I had to promise, not having anything by me"—this apologetically—"we managed to get monsieur here and to bed. I trust that monsieur is feeling much better?"
Fenton was already out of bed and in the middle of his toilet. He dressed hurriedly, albeit stiffly.
"What news is there?" he asked gravely. "What of the King?"
An expression of sadness came into the fine eyes of the old exile.