"Bah!" growled Saint Simon. "I can bear hunger like a man." The day glided by in perfect peace, the two rowers resting from the past night's labours, and the King sleeping as quietly as a child; while from time to time as Saint Simon glanced at him sadly, thinking of how he and Leoni had been the cause of all the trouble to his friend, he could not help a growing feeling of admiration within his breast as he saw how able the doctor's ministrations were, as shown by the way in which he had treated his master's serious wound. It was during one of these musing fits, when he was wondering, to use the homely phrase, how Denis was getting on, that Leoni, after a long silence, spoke out decisively. "We will wait till it is dark," he said. "It will not be long now--and then row on through the night. It looks so clear that I expect we shall have the moon to help us on our way. To-morrow morning we shall be obliged to risk landing somewhere on the left bank, and then make our way due south, walking till the King is weary--of course after one of us has bought food of some kind, for he will never walk without. Hah!" he continued, as he bent over the sleeping King and carefully examined his face. "He is dreaming a good deal now." "How do you know?" asked Saint Simon. "By the motion of his eyes." "Why, they are shut, sir." "Yes, but look how they are turning about beneath his lids. He is going through some imaginary scene--hunting perhaps." Singularly enough, as the doctor spoke in a whisper, Francis proved the correctness of Leoni's surmise, for he exclaimed: "Yon bosky piece--quick! Lay on the hounds!" Leoni drew back with a smile, and met Saint Simon's wondering eyes. "Yes," he said; "he is getting to the end of his deep sleep. It will not be long before he wakes, and I should say just at dark. Ah, good! It is lightening in the east. Yonder comes the moon. We will start at once; but I must cover him again. The mist is rising in the meadows, and it promises a damp night." As he spoke he bent over the King to draw his cloak about shoulder and throat; but at the first touch of his hands the King started up and caught them fast. CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. THE BALAS RUBY. "Who's this?" cried Francis sharply, and in a much firmer voice. "Hah! You, Leoni?" "I, M. le Comte." "Bah! The Comte! But what is it? Have I been asleep and dreaming? Where are we? What are we doing here?" "Making for Fontainebleau, sir." "Yes, Fontainebleau!" cried the King eagerly. "But like this--in a boat?" "Yes, sir--" began Leoni. "Say Sire, man! I have done with this masquerading folly. Speak out plainly. That mummery is at an end. Why are we in this boat?" "Escaping from King Henry's vengeance, Sire." "Hah!" cried the King. "I do not understand. Yes, I remember now. It all comes back. There was some question of that--oh yes, I remember-- the fit of madness. But was I not wounded?" "Yes, Sire; but your injury is healing fast."