Not a moment was to be lost. Hugues hurried off to the stable, and was rejoiced to find, on reaching it, that Bourbon and Pomperant were already mounted. His own horse was also in readiness, and he was no sooner in the saddle than the party galloped off.
They had not ridden far, however, when a loud shout, proceeding from the scene of the conflagration, proclaimed that their flight was discovered. Warthy and his men were starting in pursuit.
Sounds also arose from the little town of Saint-Simphorien, proving that its inhabitants had been roused from their slumbers by the alarm of fire, while the loud clangour of a church bell, violently rung, broke the stillness of the night.
“Poor Benoit will have plenty of help in case his house should catch fire,” remarked Hugues. “All the good folks of Saint-Simphorien will be with him presently.”
“Fail not to tell him I will rebuild his mill,” said Bourbon.
“Your highness need not trouble yourself on that score,” rejoined Hugues. “Benoit is rich enough to rebuild the mill himself. He will think nothing of the loss, provided your highness escapes.”
“We must spur our horses sharply, if we would escape,” cried Pomperant, looking back. “Warthy and his men are better mounted than we are, and are gaining upon us.”
“But they won't catch us,” rejoined Hugues. “We shall reach yonder thicket before them, and then we are safe.”
“By Saint Denis, it galls me to the quick to fly thus before such caitiffs!” cried Bourbon. “Let us wait for them. That villain Warthy shall pay for his temerity.”
“He shall pay for it, but not now,” rejoined Pomperont. “On—on—for Heaven's sake! I implore your highness not to risk your life in a miserable encounter. Consider that a kingdom is at stake.”