grew fainter and
fainter, till the last sound died away and the silence was broken by a
deep groan uttered by one of the men, who now dropped out and sank upon
his knees.

"Who's that?" cried the leader sharply.

"Staines Dick," was the reply.

"Humph!" grunted the sergeant who had led the pursuit. "That's two of
us gone down. I saw the sentry had it as we passed out. Is there
anyone among you as would like to be sergeant instead of me?"

"No," said another voice. "Why?"

"Because I am Sergeant of the Guard, my lads, and I shall have to go
back and meet the King."

There was a peculiar sound from the little body of men, caused by their
simultaneously sharply drawing in their breath, and then silence once
again, as they listened to make sure that the beating of hoofs had
passed beyond their ken. Then once more the sergeant spoke out.

"Halberds here," he said sharply, "and make a litter for this poor chap.
That's right; lift him gently. Have you got it badly, lad?"

"No, sergeant; only my left arm broke. It was the hoof of a horse as he
galloped over me and struck me aside."

"Hah!" said the sergeant, as he marched beside the improvised litter and
went on talking to his injured man. "It's bad, my lad, bad; but it
don't mean funeral march, and between ourselves, Staines Dick. I wish I
was you."

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

BLUFF HAL RAGES.

"I don't understand this, Hurst. I don't understand it a bit. One
moment I feel that he is no Comte, at another that there may be
something in what you say. But just now I can think of nothing but de
la Seine not being in his room. Bah! He cannot have taken to flight,
thinking that I have discovered who he is; but we must find out that."

At this moment the King was passing along the centre of the gallery
devoted to the priceless treasures of his collection, to which Carrbroke
had so proudly directed the young French visitor's attention, when his
foot came suddenly in contact with something which he sent flying along
the polished oaken boards, the object making a musical metallic sound.

"What's that?" cried the King sharply; and the chamberlain started
forward into the gloom close beneath one of the windows, to pick up
after a moment's search what proved on being held up to the light to be
a beautiful little golden cup covered with such _repousse_ work as would
most likely have been placed there by some Italian artist of the
Benvenuto Cellini type.

A