mes into
the great down pillow, making it purl up into a hillock, upon which he
laid his cheek, and into which it softly sank, while, closing his eyes,
he strove to force himself into a heavy sleep, till his strong effort
joined with his bodily weariness, and he sank into a deep dreamless
trance.

How long this lasted he never knew, but all at once he lay wide awake
and wondering, striving to realise where he was, and what the meaning of
that heavy distant tramp, tramp, as of soldiery coming nearer and
nearer, till it ceased outside the farther door in obedience to a hoarse
command.

There was another order, followed by a close fusillade-like sound of the
butts of halberds planted upon the floor. Then a few moments' silence,
and as the lad strained his eyes in the direction of the doors, that
farthest was suddenly flung open and the outer chamber was filled with
light which emphasised the gloom of the inner, where, fully alive to his
position, Denis lay still, closing his eyes and pressing his face
farther into the pillow, as a stern voice shouted as if in warning, for
all to hear: "His Majesty the King!"

CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

IN THE GLOOMY GALLERY.

Leoni was the moving spirit of the adventure of what he felt to be
another daring attempt to escape; for Francis, under the influence of
the medicament that he had administered, was like a puppet in his hands;
while Saint Simon, big, manly, and strong, ready to draw and attack any
who should bar their way, spoke no word, but followed his leader's every
gesture watchfully, suggesting nothing, doing nothing save that exactly
which he was told.

As they stood outside the door and began to move along the corridor, the
place looked so lonely and the task so ridiculously easy, that the
scheming, subtle doctor's heart smote him with a feeling of remorse.

It seemed to be so cruel, so cowardly, to escape and leave that brave
lad, who was ready to sacrifice his life in his master's service, alone
there with his despair, waiting for the discovery that would probably
end with his death.

"Pish!" said Leoni to himself. "What is the boy to me? Nothing more
than a pawn upon the chessboard of life, one of the pieces I am using
for the sake of France--France, my country, for which I have ventured
this. For what is this gay butterfly? King? Yes, the King upon the
chessboard, whom it is my fate to move; and where I place him, there he
stays. It is I, I in my calm, grave,