"Aramon! Aramon! Here! To me!"
At his call they put spurs to their beasts, and were soon beside him—an evil-looking set of knaves, mounted on horses foam-flecked and weary with hard going. Simon gave them no time for speech, but shouted:
"After them! After them! Else they escape!"
"After whom, monseigneur?" asked he who appeared to be their leader as he went on: "We have chased the air all day; are we to ride after phantoms by night?"
"Fool! It is Mademoiselle de Paradis and her lover. He has wounded me, and killed Trotto and Piero and Malsain, and escaped with her ten minutes ago. They cannot have gone far, and the river must stop them. After them!" And, panting with excitement, he ceased.
From the height of his saddle Aramon looked down on Simon, and whistled low to himself.
"So monseigneur is wounded, which is bad for you, monseigneur; and Piero is dead, which is good; and Malsain is dead, which is bad, for he was my own man; and the captain Trotto is dead, which is good again—for me, monseigneur."
"Fool! Will you waste time? Every moment is precious."
"Softly, monseigneur! There is plenty of time for me. Trotto is dead, you say, and I sit here in my saddle captain of the wolves of Fontevrault; and," he continued with a chuckle, "with a new king comes a new policy, as you are aware, monseigneur."
"What do you mean?" asked Simon, with an uneasy note in his voice.