‘Bethink you, sir,’ he said at last, fixing his piercing eyes on me, and speaking in a harsh, low tone, like the growling of a great dog, ‘this is no jesting-time. Nor will you save your skin by a ruse. Tell me, on your peril, is this a trick?’
‘Heaven forbid, sire!’ I answered with passion. ‘I was in the chamber, and saw it; with my own eyes. I mounted on the instant, and rode hither by the shortest route to warn your Highness to look to yourself. Monks are many, and the Holy Union is not apt to stop half-way.’
I saw he believed me, for his face relaxed. His breath seemed to come and go again, and for the tenth part of a second his eyes sought M. de Rosny’s. Then he looked at me again.
‘I thank you, sir, he said, bowing gravely and courteously, ‘for your care for me—not for your tidings, which are of the sorriest. God grant my good cousin and king may be hurt only. Now tell us exactly—for these gentlemen are equally interested with myself—had a surgeon seen him?’
I replied in the negative, but added that the wound was in the groin, and bled much.
‘You said a few minutes ago, “dying or already dead!”’ the King of Navarre rejoined. ‘Why?’
‘His Majesty’s face was sunken,’ I stammered.
He nodded. ‘You may be mistaken,’ he said. ‘I pray that you are. But here comes Mornay. He may know more.’
In a moment I was abandoned, even by M. de Turenne, so great was the anxiety which possessed all to learn the truth. Maignan alone, under pretence of adjusting a stirrup, remained beside me, and entreated me in a low voice to begone. ‘Take this horse, M. de Marsac, if you will,’ he urged, ‘and ride back the way you came. You have done what you came to do. Go back, and be thankful.’
‘Chut!’ I said, ‘there is no danger.’