On arriving at its gates they were astounded to see the threatening
aspect of the capital. Around a broken-down carriage the people were
uttering imprecations, whilst the persons who had attempted to escape
were made prisoners--that is to say, an old man and two women. On the
other hand, as the two friends approached to enter, they showed them
every kind of civility, thinking them deserters from the royal party and
wishing to bind them to their own.
"What is the king doing?" they asked.
"He is asleep."
"And the Spanish woman?"
"Dreaming."
"And the cursed Italian?"
"He is awake, so keep on the watch, as they are gone away; it’s for some
purpose, rely on it. But as you are the strongest, after all," continued
D’Artagnan, "don’t be furious with old men and women, and keep your
wrath for more appropriate occasions."
The people listened to these words and let go the ladies, who thanked
D’Artagnan with an eloquent look.
"Now! onward!" cried the Gascon.
And they continued their way, crossing the barricades, getting the
chains about their legs, pushed about, questioning and questioned.
In the place of the Palais Royal D’Artagnan saw a sergeant, who was
drilling six or seven hundred citizens. It was Planchet, who brought
into play profitably the recollections of the regiment of Piedmont.
In passing before D’Artagnan he recognized his former master.
"Good-day, Monsieur d’Artagnan," said Planchet proudly.
"Good-day, Monsieur Dulaurier," replied D’Artagnan.
Planchet stopped short, staring at D’Artagnan. The first row, seeing
their sergeant stop, stopped in their turn, and so on to the very last.
"These citizens are dreadfully ridiculous," observed D’Artagnan to
Porthos and went on his way.
Five minutes afterward he entered the hotel of La Chevrette, where
pretty Madeleine, the hostess, came to him.
"My dear Mistress Turquaine," said the Gascon, "if you happen to have
any money, lock it up quickly; if you happen to have any jewels, hide
them directly; if you happen to have any debtors, make them pay you, or
any creditors, don’t pay them."
"Why, prithee?" asked Madeleine.
"Because Paris is going to be reduced to dust and ashes like Babylon, of
which you have no doubt heard tell."
"And are you going to leave me at such a time?"
"This very instant."
"And where are you going?"
"Ah, if you could tell me that, you would be doing me a service."
"Ah, me! ah, me!
"Have you any letters for me?" inquired D’Artagnan, wishing to signify
to the hostess that her lamentations were superfluous and that therefore
she had better spare him demonstrations of her grief.
"There’s one just arrived," and she handed the letter to D’Artagnan.
"From Athos!" cried D’Artagnan, recognizing the handwriting.
"Ah!" said Porthos, "let us hear what he says."
D’Artagnan opened the letter and read as follows:
"Dear D’Artagnan, dear Du Vallon, my good friends, perhaps this may be
the last time that you will ever hear from me. Aramis and I are very
unhappy; but God, our courage, and the remembrance of our friendship
sustain us. Think often of Raoul. I intrust to you certain papers which
are at Blois; and in two months and a half, if you do not hear of us,
take possession of them.
"Embrace, with all your heart, the vicomte, for your devoted, friend,
"ATHOS." "I believe, by Heaven," said D’Artagnan, "that I shall embrace
him, since he’s upon our road; and if he is so unfortunate as to lose
our dear Athos, from that very day he becomes my son."
"And I," said Porthos, "shall make him my sole heir."
"Let us see, what more does Athos say?"
"Should you meet on your journey a certain Monsieur Mordaunt, distrust
him, in a letter I cannot say more."
"Monsieur Mordaunt!" exclaimed the Gascon, surprised.
"Monsieur Mordaunt! ’tis well," said Porthos, "we shall remember that;
but see, there is a postscript from Aramis."
"So there is," said D’Artagnan, and he read:
"We conceal the place where we are, dear friends, knowing your brotherly
affection and that you would come and die with us were we to reveal it."
"Confound it," interrupted Porthos, with an explosion of passion which
sent Mousqueton to the other end of the room; "are they in danger of
dying?"
D’Artagnan continued:
"Athos bequeaths to you Raoul, and I bequeath to you my revenge. If by
any good luck you lay your hand on a certain man named Mordaunt, tell
Porthos to take him into a corner and to wring his neck. I dare not say
more in a letter.
"ARAMIS." "If that is all, it is easily done," said Porthos.
"On the contrary," observed D’Artagnan, with a vexed look; "it would be
impossible."
"How so?"
"It is precisely this Monsieur Mordaunt whom we are going to join at
Boulogne and with whom we cross to England."
"Well, suppose instead of joining this Monsieur Mordaunt we were to go
and join our friends?" said Porthos, with a gesture fierce enough to
have frightened an army.
"I did think of it, but this letter has neither date nor postmark."
"True," said Porthos. And he began to wander about the room like a man
beside himself, gesticulating and half drawing his sword out of the
scabbard.
As to D’Artagnan, he remained standing like a man in consternation, with
the deepest affliction depicted on his face.
"Ah, this is not right; Athos insults us; he wishes to die alone; it is
bad, bad, bad."
Mousqueton, witnessing this despair, melted into tears in a corner of
the room.
"Come," said D’Artagnan, "all this leads to nothing. Let us go on. We
will embrace Raoul, and perhaps he will have news of Athos."
"Stop--an idea!" cried Porthos; "indeed, my dear D’Artagnan, I don’t
know how you manage, but you are always full of ideas; let us go and
embrace Raoul."
"Woe to that man who should happen to contradict my master at this
moment," said Mousqueton to himself; "I wouldn’t give a farthing for his
life."
They set out. On arriving at the Rue Saint Denis, the friends found a
vast concourse of people. It was the Duc de Beaufort, who was coming
from the Vendomois and whom the coadjutor was showing to the Parisians,
intoxicated with joy. With the duke’s aid they already considered
themselves invincible.
The two friends turned off into a side street to avoid meeting the
prince, and so reached the Saint Denis gate.
"Is it true," said the guard to the two cavaliers, "that the Duc de
Beaufort has arrived in Paris?"
"Nothing more certain; and the best proof of it is," said D’Artagnan,
"that he has dispatched us to meet the Duc de Vendome, his father, who
is coming in his turn."
"Long live De Beaufort!" cried the guards, and they drew back
respectfully to let the two friends pass. Once across the barriers these
two knew neither fatigue nor fear. Their horses flew, and they never
ceased speaking of Athos and Aramis.
The camp had entered Saint Omer; the friends made a little detour and
went to the camp, and gave the army an exact account of the flight of
the king and queen. They found Raoul near his tent, reclining on a truss
of hay, of which his horse stole some mouthfuls; the young man’s eyes
were red and he seemed dejected. The Marechal de Grammont and the Comte
de Guiche had returned to Paris and he was quite lonely. And as soon as
he saw the two cavaliers he ran to them with open arms.
"Oh, is it you, dear friends? Did you come here to fetch me? Will you
take me away with you? Do you bring me tidings of my guardian?"
"Have you not received any?" said D’Artagnan to the youth.
"Alas! sir, no, and I do not know what has become of him; so that I am
really so unhappy that I weep."
In fact, tears rolled down his cheeks.
Porthos turned aside, in order not to show by his honest round face what
was passing in his mind.
"Deuce take it!" cried D’Artagnan, more moved than he had been for a
long time, "don’t despair, my friend, if you have not received any
letters from the count, we have received one."
"Oh, really!" cried Raoul.
"And a comforting one, too," added D’Artagnan, seeing the delight that
his intelligence gave the young man.
"Have you it?" asked Raoul
"Yes--that is, I had it," repined the Gascon, making believe to find it.
"Wait, it ought to be there in my pocket; it speaks of his return, does
it not, Porthos?"
All Gascon as he was, D’Artagnan could not bear alone the weight of that
falsehood.
"Yes," replied Porthos, coughing.
"Eh, give it to me!" said the young man.
"Eh! I read it a little while since. Can I have lost it? Ah! confound
it! yes, my pocket has a hole in it."
"Oh, yes, Monsieur Raoul!" said Mousqueton, "the letter was very
consoling. These gentlemen read it to me and I wept for joy."
"But at any rate, you know where he is, Monsieur d’Artagnan?" asked
Raoul, somewhat comforted.
"Ah! that’s the thing!" replied the Gascon. "Undoubtedly I know it, but
it is a mystery."
"Not to me, I hope?"
"No, not to you, so I am going to tell you where he is."
Porthos devoured D’Artagnan with wondering eyes.
"Where the devil shall I say that he is, so that he cannot try to rejoin
him?" thought D’Artagnan.
"Well, where is he, sir?" asked Raoul, in a soft and coaxing voice.
"He is at Constantinople."
"Among the Turks!" exclaimed Raoul, alarmed. "Good heavens! how can you
tell me that?"
"Does that alarm you?" cried D’Artagnan. "Pooh! what are the Turks to
such men as the Comte de la Fere and the Abbe d’Herblay?"
"Ah, his friend is with him?" said Raoul. "That comforts me a little."
"Has he wit or not--this demon D’Artagnan?" said Porthos, astonished at
his friend’s deception.
"Now, sir," said D’Artagnan, wishing to change the conversation, "here
are fifty pistoles that the count has sent you by the same courier. I
suppose you have no more money and that they will be welcome."
"I have still twenty pistoles, sir."
"Well, take them; that makes seventy."
"And if you wish for more," said Porthos, putting his hand to his
pocket----
"Thank you, sir," replied Raoul, blushing; "thank you a thousand times."
At this moment Olivain appeared. "Apropos," said D’Artagnan, loud enough
for the servant to hear him, "are you satisfied with Olivain?"
"Yes, in some respects, tolerably well."
Olivain pretended to have heard nothing and entered the tent.
"What fault do you find with the fellow?"
"He is a glutton."
"Oh, sir!" cried Olivain, reappearing at this accusation.
"And a little bit of a thief."
"Oh, sir! oh!"
"And, more especially, a notorious coward."
"Oh, oh! sir! you really vilify me!" cried Olivain.
"The deuce!" cried D’Artagnan. "Pray learn, Monsieur Olivain, that
people like us are not to be served by cowards. Rob your master, eat his
sweetmeats, and drink his wine; but, by Jove! don’t be a coward, or I
shall cut off your ears. Look at Monsieur Mouston, see the honorable
wounds he has received, observe how his habitual valor has given dignity
to his countenance."
Mousqueton was in the third heaven and would have embraced D’Artagnan
had he dared; meanwhile he resolved to sacrifice his life for him on the
next occasion that presented itself.
"Send away that fellow, Raoul," said the Gascon; "for if he’s a coward
he will disgrace thee some day."
"Monsieur says I am coward," cried Olivain, "because he wanted the other
day to fight a cornet in Grammont’s regiment and I refused to accompany
him."
"Monsieur Olivain, a lackey ought never to disobey," said D’Artagnan,
sternly; then taking him aside, he whispered to him: "Thou hast done
right; thy master was in the wrong; here’s a crown for thee, but should
he ever be insulted and thou dost not let thyself be cut in quarters for
him, I will cut out thy tongue. Remember that."
Olivain bowed and slipped the crown into his pocket.
"And now, Raoul," said the Gascon, "Monsieur du Vallon and I are going
away as ambassadors, where, I know not; but should you want anything,
write to Madame Turquaine, at La Chevrette, Rue Tiquetonne and draw upon
her purse as on a banker--with economy; for it is not so well filled as
that of Monsieur d’Emery."
And having, meantime, embraced his ward, he passed him into the robust
arms of Porthos, who lifted him up from the ground and held him a moment
suspended near the noble heart of the formidable giant.
"Come," said D’Artagnan, "let us go."
And they set out for Boulogne, where toward evening they arrived, their
horses flecked with foam and dark with perspiration.
At ten steps from the place where they halted was a young man in black,
who seemed waiting for some one, and who, from the moment he saw them
enter the town, never took his eyes off them.
D’Artagnan approached him, and seeing him stare so fixedly, said:
"Well, friend! I don’t like people to quiz me!"
"Sir," said the young man, "do you not come from Paris, if you please?"
D’Artagnan thought it was some gossip who wanted news from the capital.
"Yes, sir," he said, in a softened tone.
"Are you not going to put up at the ’Arms of England’?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you not charged with a mission from his eminence, Cardinal
Mazarin?"
"Yes, sir."
"In that case, I am the man you have to do with. I am M. Mordaunt."
"Ah!" thought D’Artagnan, "the man I am warned against by Athos."
"Ah!" thought Porthos, "the man Aramis wants me to strangle."
They both looked searchingly at the young man, who misunderstood the
meaning of that inquisition.
"Do you doubt my word?" he said. "In that case I can give you proofs."
"No, sir," said D’Artagnan; "and we place ourselves at your orders."
"Well, gentlemen," resumed Mordaunt, "we must set out without delay,
to-day is the last day granted me by the cardinal. My ship is ready, and
had you not come I must have set off without you, for General Cromwell
expects my return impatiently."
"So!" thought the lieutenant, "’tis to General Cromwell that our
dispatches are addressed."
"Have you no letter for him?" asked the young man.
"I have one, the seal of which I am not to break till I reach London;
but since you tell me to whom it is addressed, ’tis useless to wait till
then."
D’Artagnan tore open the envelope of the letter. It was directed to
"Monsieur Oliver Cromwell, General of the Army of the English Nation."
"Ah!" said D’Artagnan; "a singular commission."
"Who is this Monsieur Oliver Cromwell?" inquired Porthos.
"Formerly a brewer," replied the Gascon.
"Perhaps Mazarin wishes to make a speculation in beer, as we did in
straw," said Porthos.
"Come, come, gentlemen," said Mordaunt, impatiently, "let us depart."
"What!" exclaimed Porthos "without supper? Cannot Monsieur Cromwell wait
a little?"
"Yes, but I?" said Mordaunt.
"Well, you," said Porthos, "what then?"
"I cannot wait."
"Oh! as to you, that is not my concern, and I shall sup either with or
without your permission."
The young man’s eyes kindled in secret, but he restrained himself.
"Monsieur," said D’Artagnan, "you must excuse famished travelers.
Besides, our supper can’t delay you much. We will hasten on to the inn;
you will meanwhile proceed on foot to the harbor. We will take a bite
and shall be there as soon as you are."
"Just as you please, gentlemen, provided we set sail," he said.
"The name of your ship?" inquired D’Artagnan.
"The Standard."
"Very well; in half an hour we shall be on board."
And the friends, spurring on their horses, rode to the hotel, the "Arms
of England."
"What do you say of that young man?" asked D’Artagnan, as they hurried
along.
"I say that he doesn’t suit me at all," said Porthos, "and that I feel a
strong itching to follow Aramis’s advice."
"By no means, my dear Porthos; that man is a messenger of General
Cromwell; it would insure for us a poor reception, I imagine, should it
be announced to him that we had twisted the neck of his confidant."
"Nevertheless," said Porthos, "I have always noticed that Aramis gives
good advice."
"Listen," returned D’Artagnan, "when our embassy is finished----"
"Well?"
"If it brings us back to France----"
"Well?"
"Well, we shall see."
At that moment the two friends reached the hotel, "Arms of England,"
where they supped with hearty appetite and then at once proceeded to the
port.
There they found a brig ready to set sail, upon the deck of which they
recognized Mordaunt walking up and down impatiently.
"It is singular," said D’Artagnan, whilst the boat was taking them to
the Standard, "it is astonishing how that young man resembles some one I
must have known, but who it was I cannot yet remember."
A few minutes later they were on board, but the embarkation of the
horses was a longer matter than that of the men, and it was eight
o’clock before they raised anchor.
The young man stamped impatiently and ordered all sail to be spread.
Porthos, completely used up by three nights without sleep and a journey
of seventy leagues on horseback, retired to his cabin and went to sleep.
D’Artagnan, overcoming his repugnance to Mordaunt, walked with him upon
the deck and invented a hundred stories to make him talk.
Mousqueton was seasick.
55. The Scotchman.
And now our readers must leave the Standard to sail peaceably, not
toward London, where D’Artagnan and Porthos believed they were going,
but to Durham, whither Mordaunt had been ordered to repair by the letter
he had received during his sojourn at Boulogne, and accompany us to the
royalist camp, on this side of the Tyne, near Newcastle.
There, placed between two rivers on the borders of Scotland, but still
on English soil, the tents of a little army extended. It was midnight.
Some Highlanders were listlessly keeping watch. The moon, which was
partially obscured by heavy clouds, now and then lit up the muskets of
the sentinels, or silvered the walls, the roofs, and the spires of the
town that Charles I. had just surrendered to the parliamentary troops,
whilst Oxford and Newark still held out for him in the hopes of coming
to some arrangement.
At one of the extremities of the camp, near an immense tent, in which
the Scottish officers were holding a kind of council, presided over by
Lord Leven, their commander, a man attired as a cavalier lay sleeping on
the turf, his right hand extended over his sword.
About fifty paces off, another man, also appareled as a cavalier, was
talking to a Scotch sentinel, and, though a foreigner, he seemed to
understand without much difficulty the answers given in the broad
Perthshire dialect.
As the town clock of Newcastle struck one the sleeper awoke, and with
all the gestures of a man rousing himself out of deep sleep he looked
attentively about him; perceiving that he was alone he rose and making a
little circuit passed close to the cavalier who was speaking to the
sentinel. The former had no doubt finished his questions, for a moment
later he said good-night and carelessly followed the same path taken by
the first cavalier.
In the shadow of a tent the former was awaiting him.
"Well, my dear friend?" said he, in as pure French as has ever been
uttered between Rouen and Tours.
"Well, my friend, there is not a moment to lose; we must let the king
know immediately."
"Why, what is the matter?"
"It would take too long to tell you, besides, you will hear it all
directly and the least word dropped here might ruin all. We must go and
find Lord Winter."
They both set off to the other end of the camp, but as it did not cover
more than a surface of five hundred feet they quickly arrived at the
tent they were looking for.
"Tony, is your master sleeping?" said one of the two cavaliers to a
servant who was lying in the outer compartment, which served as a kind
of ante-room.
"No, monsieur le comte," answered the servant, "I think not; or at least
he has not long been so, for he was pacing up and down for more than two
hours after he left the king, and the sound of his footsteps has only
ceased during the last ten minutes. However, you may look and see,"
added the lackey, raising the curtained entrance of the tent.
Lord Winter was seated near an aperture, arranged as a window to let in
the night air, his eyes mechanically following the course of the moon,
intermittently veiled, as we before observed, by heavy clouds. The two
friends approached Winter, who, with his head on his hands, was gazing
at the heavens; he did not hear them enter and remained in the same
attitude till he felt a hand upon his shoulder.
He turned around, recognized Athos and Aramis and held out his hand to
them.
"Have you observed," said he to them, "what a blood-red color the moon
has to-night?"
"No," replied Athos; "I thought it looked much the same as usual."
"Look, again, chevalier," returned Lord Winter.
"I must own," said Aramis, "I am like the Comte de la Fere--I can see
nothing remarkable about it."
"My lord," said Athos, "in a position so precarious as ours we must
examine the earth and not the heavens. Have you studied our Scotch
troops and have you confidence in them?"
"The Scotch?" inquired Winter. "What Scotch?"
"Ours, egad!" exclaimed Athos. "Those in whom the king has
confided--Lord Leven’s Highlanders."
"No," said Winter, then he paused; "but tell me, can you not perceive
the russet tint which marks the heavens?"
"Not the least in the world," said Aramis and Athos at once.
"Tell me," continued Winter, always possessed by the same idea, "is
there not a tradition in France that Henry IV., the evening before the
day he was assassinated, when he was playing at chess with M. de
Bassompiere, saw clots of blood upon the chessboard?"
"Yes," said Athos, "and the marechal has often told me so himself."
"Then it was so," murmured Winter, "and the next day Henry IV. was
killed."
"But what has this vision of Henry IV. to do with you, my lord?"
inquired Aramis.
"Nothing; and indeed I am mad to trouble you with such things, when your
coming to my tent at such an hour announces that you are the bearers of
important news."
"Yes, my lord," said Athos, "I wish to speak to the king."
"To the king! but the king is asleep."
"I have something important to reveal to him."
"Can it not be put off till to-morrow?"
"He must know it this moment, and perhaps it is already too late."
"Come, then," said Lord Winter.
Lord Winter’s tent was pitched by the side of the royal marquee, a kind
of corridor communicating between the two. This corridor was guarded,
not by a sentinel, but by a confidential servant, through whom, in case
of urgency, Charles could communicate instantly with his faithful
subject.
"These gentlemen are with me," said Winter.
The lackey bowed and let them pass. As he had said, on a camp bed,
dressed in his black doublet, booted, unbelted, with his felt hat beside
him, lay the king, overcome by sleep and fatigue. They advanced, and
Athos, who was the first to enter, gazed a moment in silence on that
pale and noble face, framed in its long and now untidy, matted hair, the
blue veins showing through the transparent temples, his eyes seemingly
swollen by tears.
Athos sighed deeply; the sigh woke the king, so lightly did he sleep.
He opened his eyes.
"Ah!" said he, raising himself on his elbow, "is it you, Comte de la
Fere?"
"Yes, sire," replied Athos.
"You watch while I sleep and you have come to bring me some news?"
"Alas, sire," answered Athos, "your majesty has guessed aright."
"It is bad news?"
"Yes, sire."
"Never mind; the messenger is welcome. You never come to me without
conferring pleasure. You whose devotion recognizes neither country nor
misfortune, you who are sent to me by Henrietta; whatever news you
bring, speak out."
"Sire, Cromwell has arrived this night at Newcastle."
"Ah!" exclaimed the king, "to fight?"
"No, sire, but to buy your majesty."
"What did you say?"
"I said, sire, that four hundred thousand pounds are owing to the
Scottish army."
"For unpaid wages; yes, I know it. For the last year my faithful
Highlanders have fought for honor alone."
Athos smiled.
"Well, sir, though honor is a fine thing, they are tired of fighting for
it, and to-night they have sold you for two hundred thousand
pounds--that is to say, for half what is owing them."
"Impossible!" cried the king, "the Scotch sell their king for two
hundred thousand pounds! And who is the Judas who has concluded this
infamous bargain?"
"Lord Leven."
"Are you certain of it, sir?"
"I heard it with my own ears."
The king sighed deeply, as if his heart would break, and then buried his
face in his hands.
"Oh! the Scotch," he exclaimed, "the Scotch I called ’my faithful,’ to
whom I trusted myself when I could have fled to Oxford! the Scotch, my
brothers! But are you well assured, sir?"
"Lying behind the tent of Lord Leven, I raised it and saw all, heard
all!"
"And when is this to be consummated?"
"To-day--this morning; so your majesty must perceive there is no time to
lose!"
"To do what? since you say I am sold."
"To cross the Tyne, reach Scotland and rejoin Lord Montrose, who will
not sell you."
"And what shall I do in Scotland? A war of partisans, unworthy of a
king."
"The example of Robert Bruce will absolve you, sire."
"No, no! I have fought too long; they have sold me, they shall give me
up, and the eternal shame of treble treason shall fall on their heads."
"Sire," said Athos, "perhaps a king should act thus, but not a husband
and a father. I have come in the name of your wife and daughter and of
the children you have still in London, and I say to you, ’Live,
sire,’--it is the will of Heaven."
The king raised himself, buckled on his belt, and passing his
handkerchief over his moist forehead, said:
"Well, what is to be done?"
"Sire, have you in the army one regiment on which you can implicitly
rely?"
"Winter," said the king, "do you believe in the fidelity of yours?"
"Sire, they are but men, and men are become both weak and wicked. I will
not answer for them. I would confide my life to them, but I should
hesitate ere I trusted them with your majesty’s."
"Well!" said Athos, "since you have not a regiment, we are three devoted
men. It is enough. Let your majesty mount on horseback and place
yourself in the midst of us; we will cross the Tyne, reach Scotland, and
you will be saved."
"Is this your counsel also, Winter?" inquired the king.
"Yes, sire."
"And yours, Monsieur d’Herblay?"
"Yes, sire."
"As you wish, then. Winter, give the necessary orders."
Winter then left the tent; in the meantime the king finished his toilet.
The first rays of daybreak penetrated the aperture of the tent as Winter
re-entered it.
"All is ready, sire," said he.
"For us, also?" inquired Athos.
"Grimaud and Blaisois are holding your horses, ready saddled."
"In that case," exclaimed Athos, "let us not lose an instant, but set
off."
"Come," added the king.
"Sire," said Aramis, "will not your majesty acquaint some of your
friends of this?"
"Friends!" answered Charles, sadly, "I have but three--one of twenty
years, who has never forgotten me, and two of a week’s standing, whom I
shall never forget. Come, gentlemen, come!"
The king quitted his tent and found his horse ready waiting for him. It
was a chestnut that the king had ridden for three years and of which he
was very fond.
The horse neighed with pleasure at seeing him.
"Ah!" said the king, "I was unjust; here is a creature that loves me.
You at least will be faithful to me, Arthur."
The horse, as if it understood these words, bent its red nostrils toward
the king’s face, and parting his lips displayed all its teeth, as if
with pleasure.
"Yes, yes," said the king, caressing it with his hand, "yes, my Arthur,
thou art a fond and faithful creature."
After this little scene Charles threw himself into the saddle, and
turning to Athos, Aramis and Winter, said:
"Now, gentlemen, I am at your service."
But Athos was standing with his eyes fixed on a black line which
bordered the banks of the Tyne and seemed to extend double the length of
the camp.
"What is that line?" cried Athos, whose vision was still rather obscured
by the uncertain shades and demi-tints of daybreak. "What is that line?
I did not observe it yesterday."
"It must be the fog rising from the river," said the king.
"Sire, it is something more opaque than the fog."
"Indeed!" said Winter, "it appears to me like a bar of red color."
"It is the enemy, who have made a sortie from Newcastle and are
surrounding us!" exclaimed Athos.
"The enemy!" cried the king.
"Yes, the enemy. It is too late. Stop a moment; does not that sunbeam
yonder, just by the side of the town, glitter on the Ironsides?"
This was the name given the cuirassiers, whom Cromwell had made his
body-guard.
"Ah!" said the king, "we shall soon see whether my Highlanders have
betrayed me or not."
"What are you going to do?" exclaimed Athos.
"To give them the order to charge, and run down these miserable rebels."
And the king, putting spurs to his horse, set off to the tent of Lord
Leven.
"Follow him," said Athos.
"Come!" exclaimed Aramis.
"Is the king wounded?" cried Lord Winter. "I see spots of blood on the
ground." And he set off to follow the two friends.
He was stopped by Athos.
"Go and call out your regiment," said he; "I can foresee that we shall
have need of it directly."
Winter turned his horse and the two friends rode on. It had taken but
two minutes for the king to reach the tent of the Scottish commander; he
dismounted and entered.
The general was there, surrounded by the more prominent chiefs.
"The king!" they exclaimed, as all rose in bewilderment. |
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