It was clear to Geoffrey's eye that Dacre was suffering under some heavy fear or despondency that quelled his excitement. There was a look in his face of tense expectancy that was pitiful to his friend.
"The King was to have been here at eleven," said Geoffrey to him at last. "It is now twenty minutes to twelve. Can anything have happened, Dacre?"
Dacre looked at him reproachfully; but only shook his head, without a smile. Geoffrey walked to the door, and turned suddenly, almost with a shout.
"Here's Featherstone!" he cried. "He was in the King's escort; he has news."
The Royalists crowded around Featherstone as he entered, but their eager eyes found no reassurance in his face, which was pale, and, still more unlike Featherstone, full of anger and gloom.
He did not reply to the hail of questions which met him, but looked around for Dacre, and went to him.
"The King?" asked Dacre, sternly.
"The King has disappeared," answered Featherstone, "and no one knows where he has gone."
There was a dead silence in the tent; not a man moved. Dacre looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to twelve.
"He may be on the way here by another route," suggested the old Duke.