M. Bentinck rose from his knees; his splendid dress was soiled and tarnished, his bright good looks marred by fatigue.
“I am thinking of Your Highness.”
“I am very well, but I am sorry for Matthew Bromley.”
“He is not the only one.”
“The cause was not his,” answered the Prince wearily. “And he is a man who loves his life.”
With that he took one of the candles and went softly into the inner room where his gentleman lay.
The bed was set in the wall, and could be concealed by drawing a sliding panel; it was fragrantly clean, but dark and close.
The Englishman’s head was propped up on two pillows, the upper part of him concealed in shadow.
His coat had been removed and his wound dressed by William Bentinck’s unskilled care; the blood had soaked through the linen swathings and stained the neat, flowered coverlet.
William approached, shading the candle with his hand.