on your own feathers, boy. You will come with me. Bring him to my
apartments, Hurst."

"As a prisoner, Sire?"

"No," said the King, still fixing Denis with his eyes, and speaking to
him as much as to the chamberlain. "He is my guest still, though his
master is gone. See that you use him well."

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.

FRANCIS IS A KING.

To have seen King Henry seated at his supper in that eventful year, and
on one particular night, it would have been impossible to suppose that
not many hours before he had been indulging in so fierce a storm of
passion, such kingly rage, that not one of his most trusted courtiers
and counsellors had dared approach for fear of consequences that might
ensue.

It was the lion's feeding time, and the food had evidently been good and
satisfying. The music too in the minstrels' gallery had been sweet and
pleasant to the ear. The Court jester had for a wonder excelled himself
in his strong endeavours to put the King in a good humour, and uttered
no less than three samples of his wit which had made the King roar,
inasmuch as in the tail of each joke there was a slightly poisoned sting
which had gone home to the three noblemen for whom they were intended,
my Lord Hurst, the King's chamberlain, getting the worst dose.

There had been a good deal of whispered wonder running through the great
dining chamber, especially below the salt, where the King's gentlemen
were seated who had for long been disappointed at the absence of royal
favour and promotion they had been hoping for since they came to offer
their services at Court; and though all who were well within the scan of
his Majesty's eyes spoke softly and with a stereotyped Court smile upon
their countenances, they said more bitter things by far than any that
had been uttered by the King's jester, their remarks being dipped in
envy, as they asked one another whether this French boy to whom the King
was showing such favour--this French _champignon_, "impudent young
upstart"--was to be the new favourite now, and one and all said to
themselves that which was too dangerous to confide to another, that the
King must have gone a little mad over the fit he had on discovering the
loss of his favourite jewel, which had been carried off--so rumour
said--by the so-called French Ambassador. This, joined to the second
escape, must have turned the royal brain; otherwise he would never have
displayed such sudden favour to one who had played so d