"The London executioner has disappeared, your majesty, but a man has
offered his services instead. The execution will therefore only be
delayed long enough for you to arrange your spiritual and temporal
affairs."
A slight moisture on his brow was the only trace of emotion that Charles
evinced, as he learned these tidings. But Aramis was livid. His heart
ceased beating, he closed his eyes and leaned upon the table. Charles
perceived it and took his hand.
"Come, my friend," said he, "courage." Then he turned to the officer.
"Sir, I am ready. There is but little reason why I should delay you.
Firstly, I wish to communicate; secondly, to embrace my children and bid
them farewell for the last time. Will this be permitted me?"
"Certainly," replied the officer, and left the room.
Aramis dug his nails into his flesh and groaned aloud.
"Oh! my lord bishop," he cried, seizing Juxon’s hands, "where is
Providence? where is Providence?"
"My son," replied the bishop, with firmness, "you see Him not, because
the passions of the world conceal Him."
"My son," said the king to Aramis, "do not take it so to heart. You ask
what God is doing. God beholds your devotion and my martyrdom, and
believe me, both will have their reward. Ascribe to men, then, what is
happening, and not to God. It is men who drive me to death; it is men
who make you weep."
"Yes, sire," said Aramis, "yes, you are right. It is men whom I should
hold responsible, and I will hold them responsible."
"Be seated, Juxon," said the king, falling upon his knees. "I have now
to confess to you. Remain, sir," he added to Aramis, who had moved to
leave the room. "Remain, Parry. I have nothing to say that cannot be
said before all."
Juxon sat down, and the king, kneeling humbly before him, began his
confession.
66. Remember!
The mob had already assembled when the confession terminated. The king’s
children next arrived--the Princess Charlotte, a beautiful, fair-haired
child, with tears in her eyes, and the Duke of Gloucester, a boy eight
or nine years old, whose tearless eyes and curling lip revealed a
growing pride. He had wept all night long, but would not show his grief
before the people.
Charles’s heart melted within him at the sight of those two children,
whom he had not seen for two years and whom he now met at the moment of
death. He turned to brush away a tear, and then, summoning up all his
firmness, drew his daughter toward him, recommending her to be pious and
resigned. Then he took the boy upon his knee.
"My son," he said to him, "you saw a great number of people in the
streets as you came here. These men are going to behead your father. Do
not forget that. Perhaps some day they will want to make you king,
instead of the Prince of Wales, or the Duke of York, your elder
brothers. But you are not the king, my son, and can never be so while
they are alive. Swear to me, then, never to let them put a crown upon
your head unless you have a legal right to the crown. For one
day--listen, my son--one day, if you do so, they will doom you to
destruction, head and crown, too, and then you will not be able to die
with a calm conscience, as I die. Swear, my son."
The child stretched out his little hand toward that of his father and
said, "I swear to your majesty."
"Henry," said Charles, "call me your father."
"Father," replied the child, "I swear to you that they shall kill me
sooner than make me king."
"Good, my child. Now kiss me; and you, too, Charlotte. Never forget me."
"Oh! never, never!" cried both the children, throwing their arms around
their father’s neck.
"Farewell," said Charles, "farewell, my children. Take them away, Juxon;
their tears will deprive me of the courage to die."
Juxon led them away, and this time the doors were left open.
Meanwhile, Athos, in his concealment, waited in vain the signal to
recommence his work. Two long hours he waited in terrible inaction. A
deathlike silence reigned in the room above. At last he determined to
discover the cause of this stillness. He crept from his hole and stood,
hidden by the black drapery, beneath the scaffold. Peeping out from the
drapery, he could see the rows of halberdiers and musketeers around the
scaffold and the first ranks of the populace swaying and groaning like
the sea.
"What is the matter, then?" he asked himself, trembling more than the
wind-swayed cloth he was holding back. "The people are hurrying on, the
soldiers under arms, and among the spectators I see D’Artagnan. What is
he waiting for? What is he looking at? Good God! have they allowed the
headsman to escape?"
Suddenly the dull beating of muffled drums filled the square. The sound
of heavy steps was heard above his head. The next moment the very planks
of the scaffold creaked with the weight of an advancing procession, and
the eager faces of the spectators confirmed what a last hope at the
bottom of his heart had prevented him till then believing. At the same
moment a well-known voice above him pronounced these words:
"Colonel, I want to speak to the people."
Athos shuddered from head to foot. It was the king speaking on the
scaffold.
In fact, after taking a few drops of wine and a piece of bread, Charles,
weary of waiting for death, had suddenly decided to go to meet it and
had given the signal for movement. Then the two wings of the window
facing the square had been thrown open, and the people had seen silently
advancing from the interior of the vast chamber, first, a masked man,
who, carrying an axe in his hand, was recognized as the executioner. He
approached the block and laid his axe upon it. Behind him, pale indeed,
but marching with a firm step, was Charles Stuart, who advanced between
two priests, followed by a few superior officers appointed to preside at
the execution and attended by two files of partisans who took their
places on opposite sides of the scaffold.
The sight of the masked man gave rise to a prolonged sensation. Every
one was full of curiosity as to who that unknown executioner could be
who presented himself so opportunely to assure to the people the
promised spectacle, when the people believed it had been postponed until
the following day. All gazed at him searchingly.
But they could discern nothing but a man of middle height, dressed in
black, apparently of a certain age, for the end of a gray beard peeped
out from the bottom of the mask that hid his features.
The king’s request had undoubtedly been acceded to by an affirmative
sign, for in firm, sonorous accents, which vibrated in the depths of
Athos’s heart, the king began his speech, explaining his conduct and
counseling the welfare of the kingdom.
"Oh!" said Athos to himself, "is it indeed possible that I hear what I
hear and that I see what I see? Is it possible that God has abandoned
His representative on earth and left him to die thus miserably? And I
have not seen him! I have not said adieu to him!"
A noise was heard like that the instrument of death would make if moved
upon the block.
"Do not touch the axe," said the king, and resumed his speech.
At the end of his speech the king looked tenderly around upon the
people. Then unfastening the diamond ornament which the queen had sent
him, he placed it in the hands of the priest who accompanied Juxon. Then
he drew from his breast a little cross set in diamonds, which, like the
order, had been the gift of Henrietta Maria.
"Sir," said he to the priest, "I shall keep this cross in my hand till
the last moment. Take it from me when I am--dead."
"Yes, sire," said a voice, which Athos recognized as that of Aramis.
He then took his hat from his head and threw it on the ground. One by
one he undid the buttons of his doublet, took it off and deposited it by
the side of his hat. Then, as it was cold, he asked for his gown, which
was brought to him.
All the preparations were made with a frightful calmness. One would have
thought the king was going to bed and not to his coffin.
"Will these be in your way?" he said to the executioner, raising his
long locks; "if so, they can be tied up."
Charles accompanied these words with a look designed to penetrate the
mask of the unknown headsman. His calm, noble gaze forced the man to
turn away his head. But after the searching look of the king he
encountered the burning eyes of Aramis.
The king, seeing that he did not reply, repeated his question.
"It will do," replied the man, in a tremulous voice, "if you separate
them across the neck."
The king parted his hair with his hands, and looking at the block he
said:
"This block is very low, is there no other to be had?"
"It is the usual block," answered the man in the mask.
"Do you think you can behead me with a single blow?" asked the king.
"I hope so," was the reply. There was something so strange in these
three words that everybody, except the king, shuddered.
"I do not wish to be taken by surprise," added the king. "I shall kneel
down to pray; do not strike then."
"When shall I strike?"
"When I shall lay my head on the block and say ’Remember!’ then strike
boldly."
"Gentlemen," said the king to those around him, "I leave you to brave
the tempest; I go before you to a kingdom which knows no storms.
Farewell."
He looked at Aramis and made a special sign to him with his head.
"Now," he continued, "withdraw a little and let me say my prayer, I
beseech you. You, also, stand aside," he said to the masked man. "It is
only for a moment and I know that I belong to you; but remember that you
are not to strike till I give the signal."
Then he knelt down, made the sign of the cross, and lowering his face to
the planks, as if he would have kissed them, said in a low tone, in
French, "Comte de la Fere, are you there?"
"Yes, your majesty," he answered, trembling.
"Faithful friend, noble heart!" said the king, "I should not have been
rescued. I have addressed my people and I have spoken to God; last of
all I speak to you. To maintain a cause which I believed sacred I have
lost the throne and my children their inheritance. A million in gold
remains; it is buried in the cellars of Newcastle Keep. You only know
that this money exists. Make use of it, then, whenever you think it will
be most useful, for my eldest son’s welfare. And now, farewell."
"Farewell, saintly, martyred majesty," lisped Athos, chilled with
terror.
A moment’s silence ensued and then, in a full, sonorous voice, the king
exclaimed: "Remember!"
He had scarcely uttered the word when a heavy blow shook the scaffold
and where Athos stood immovable a warm drop fell upon his brow. He
reeled back with a shudder and the same moment the drops became a
crimson cataract.
Athos fell on his knees and remained some minutes as if bewildered or
stunned. At last he rose and taking his handkerchief steeped it in the
blood of the martyred king. Then as the crowd gradually dispersed he
leaped down, crept from behind the drapery, glided between two horses,
mingled with the crowd and was the first to arrive at the inn.
Having gained his room he raised his hand to his face, and observing
that his fingers were covered with the monarch’s blood, fell down
insensible.
67. The Man in the Mask.
The snow was falling thick and icy. Aramis was the next to come in and
to discover Athos almost insensible. But at the first words he uttered
the comte roused himself from the kind of lethargy in which he had sunk.
"Well," said Aramis, "beaten by fate!"
"Beaten!" said Athos. "Noble and unhappy king!"
"Are you wounded?" cried Aramis.
"No, this is his blood."
"Where were you, then?"
"Where you left me--under the scaffold."
"Did you see it all?"
"No, but I heard all. God preserve me from another such hour as I have
just passed."
"Then you know that I did not leave him?"
"I heard your voice up to the last moment."
"Here is the order he gave me and the cross I took from his hand; he
desired they should be returned to the queen."
"Then here is a handkerchief to wrap them in," replied Athos, drawing
from his pocket the one he had steeped in the king’s blood.
"And what," he continued, "has been done with the poor body?"
"By order of Cromwell royal honors will be accorded to it. The doctors
are embalming the corpse, and when it is ready it will be placed in a
lighted chapel."
"Mockery," muttered Athos, savagely; "royal honors to one whom they have
murdered!"
"Well, cheer up!" said a loud voice from the staircase, which Porthos
had just mounted. "We are all mortal, my poor friends."
"You are late, my dear Porthos."
"Yes, there were some people on the way who delayed me. The wretches
were dancing. I took one of them by the throat and three-quarters
throttled him. Just then a patrol rode up. Luckily the man I had had
most to do with was some minutes before he could speak, so I took
advantage of his silence to walk off."
"Have you seen D’Artagnan?"
"We got separated in the crowd and I could not find him again."
"Oh!" said Athos, satirically, "I saw him. He was in the front row of
the crowd, admirably placed for seeing; and as on the whole the sight
was curious, he probably wished to stay to the end."
"Ah Comte de la Fere," said a calm voice, though hoarse with running,
"is it your habit to calumniate the absent?"
This reproof stung Athos to the heart, but as the impression produced by
seeing D’Artagnan foremost in a coarse, ferocious crowd had been very
strong, he contented himself with replying:
"I am not calumniating you, my friend. They were anxious about you here;
I simply told them where you were. You didn’t know King Charles; to you
he was only a foreigner and you were not obliged to love him."
So saying, he stretched out his hand, but the other pretended not to see
it and he let it drop again slowly by his side.
"Ugh! I am tired," cried D’Artagnan, sitting down.
"Drink a glass of port," said Aramis; "it will refresh you."
"Yes, let us drink," said Athos, anxious to make it up by hobnobbing
with D’Artagnan, "let us drink and get away from this hateful country.
The felucca is waiting for us, you know; let us leave to-night, we have
nothing more to do here."
"You are in a hurry, sir count," said D’Artagnan.
"But what would you have us to do here, now that the king is dead?"
"Go, sir count," replied D’Artagnan, carelessly; "you see nothing to
keep you a little longer in England? Well, for my part, I, a
bloodthirsty ruffian, who can go and stand close to a scaffold, in order
to have a better view of the king’s execution--I remain."
Athos turned pale. Every reproach his friend uttered struck deeply in
his heart.
"Ah! you remain in London?" said Porthos.
"Yes. And you?"
"Hang it!" said Porthos, a little perplexed between the two, "I suppose,
as I came with you, I must go away with you. I can’t leave you alone in
this abominable country."
"Thanks, my worthy friend. So I have a little adventure to propose to
you when the count is gone. I want to find out who was the man in the
mask, who so obligingly offered to cut the king’s throat."
"A man in a mask?" cried Athos. "You did not let the executioner escape,
then?"
"The executioner is still in the cellar, where, I presume, he has had an
interview with mine host’s bottles. But you remind me. Mousqueton!"
"Sir," answered a voice from the depths of the earth.
"Let out your prisoner. All is over."
"But," said Athos, "who is the wretch that has dared to raise his hand
against his king?"
"An amateur headsman," replied Aramis, "who however, does not handle the
axe amiss."
"Did you not see his face?" asked Athos.
"He wore a mask."
"But you, Aramis, who were close to him?"
"I could see nothing but a gray beard under the fringe of the mask."
"Then it must be a man of a certain age."
"Oh!" said D’Artagnan, "that matters little. When one puts on a mask, it
is not difficult to wear a beard under it."
"I am sorry I did not follow him," said Porthos.
"Well, my dear Porthos," said D’Artagnan, "that’s the very thing it came
into my head to do."
Athos understood all now.
"Pardon me, D’Artagnan," he said. "I have distrusted God; I could the
more easily distrust you. Pardon me, my friend."
"We will see about that presently," said D’Artagnan, with a slight
smile.
"Well, then?" said Aramis.
"Well, while I was watching--not the king, as monsieur le comte thinks,
for I know what it is to see a man led to death, and though I ought to
be accustomed to the sight it always makes me ill--while I was watching
the masked executioner, the idea came to me, as I said, to find out who
he was. Now, as we are wont to complete ourselves each by all the rest
and to depend on one another for assistance, as one calls his other hand
to aid the first, I looked around instinctively to see if Porthos was
there; for I had seen you, Aramis, with the king, and you, count, I knew
would be under the scaffold, and for that reason I forgive you," he
added, offering Athos his hand, "for you must have suffered much. I was
looking around for Porthos when I saw near me a head which had been
broken, but which, for better or worse, had been patched with plaster
and with black silk. ’Humph!’ thought I, ’that looks like my handiwork;
I fancy I must have mended that skull somewhere or other.’ And, in fact,
it was that unfortunate Scotchman, Parry’s brother, you know, on whom
Groslow amused himself by trying his strength. Well, this man was making
signs to another at my left, and turning around I recognized the honest
Grimaud. ’Oh!’ said I to him. Grimaud turned round with a jerk,
recognized me, and pointed to the man in the mask. ’Eh!’ said he, which
meant, ’Do you see him?’ ’Parbleu!’ I answered, and we perfectly
understood one another. Well, everything was finished as you know. The
mob dispersed. I made a sign to Grimaud and the Scotchman, and we all
three retired into a corner of the square. I saw the executioner return
into the king’s room, change his clothes, put on a black hat and a large
cloak and disappear. Five minutes later he came down the grand
staircase."
"You followed him?" cried Athos.
"I should think so, but not without difficulty. Every few minutes he
turned around, and thus obliged us to conceal ourselves. I might have
gone up to him and killed him. But I am not selfish, and I thought it
might console you all a little to have a share in the matter. So we
followed him through the lowest streets in the city, and in half an
hour’s time he stopped before a little isolated house. Grimaud drew out
a pistol. ’Eh?’ said he, showing it. I held back his arm. The man in the
mask stopped before a low door and drew out a key; but before he placed
it in the lock he turned around to see if he was being followed. Grimaud
and I got behind a tree, and the Scotchman having nowhere to hide
himself, threw himself on his face in the road. Next moment the door
opened and the man disappeared."
"The scoundrel!" said Aramis. "While you have been returning hither he
will have escaped and we shall never find him."
"Come, now, Aramis," said D’Artagnan, "you must be taking me for some
one else."
"Nevertheless," said Athos, "in your absence----"
"Well, in my absence haven’t I put in my place Grimaud and the
Scotchman? Before he had taken ten steps beyond the door I had examined
the house on all sides. At one of the doors, that by which he had
entered, I placed our Scotchman, making a sign to him to follow the man
wherever he might go, if he came out again. Then going around the house
I placed Grimaud at the other exit, and here I am. Our game is beaten
up. Now for the tally-ho."
Athos threw himself into D’Artagnan’s arms.
"Friend," he said, "you have been too good in pardoning me; I was wrong,
a hundred times wrong. I ought to have known you better by this time;
but we are all possessed of a malignant spirit, which bids us doubt."
"Humph!" said Porthos. "Don’t you think the executioner might be Master
Cromwell, who, to make sure of this affair, undertook it himself?"
"Ah! just so. Cromwell is stout and short, and this man thin and lanky,
rather tall than otherwise."
"Some condemned soldier, perhaps," suggested Athos, "whom they have
pardoned at the price of regicide."
"No, no," continued D’Artagnan, "it was not the measured step of a foot
soldier, nor was it the gait of a horseman. If I am not mistaken we have
to do with a gentleman."
"A gentleman!" exclaimed Athos. "Impossible! It would be a dishonor to
all the nobility."
"Fine sport, by Jove!" cried Porthos, with a laugh that shook the
windows. "Fine sport!"
"Are you still bent on departure, Athos?" asked D’Artagnan.
"No, I remain," replied Athos, with a threatening gesture that promised
no good to whomsoever it was addressed.
"Swords, then!" cried Aramis, "swords! let us not lose a moment."
The four friends resumed their own clothes, girded on their swords,
ordered Mousqueton and Blaisois to pay the bill and to arrange
everything for immediate departure, and wrapped in their large cloaks
left in search of their game.
The night was dark, snow was falling, the streets were silent and
deserted. D’Artagnan led the way through the intricate windings and
narrow alleys of the city and ere long they had reached the house in
question. For a moment D’Artagnan thought that Parry’s brother had
disappeared; but he was mistaken. The robust Scotchman, accustomed to
the snows of his native hills, had stretched himself against a post, and
like a fallen statue, insensible to the inclemency of the weather, had
allowed the snow to cover him. He rose, however, as they approached.
"Come," said Athos, "here’s another good servant. Really, honest men are
not so scarce as I thought."
"Don’t be in a hurry to weave crowns for our Scotchman. I believe the
fellow is here on his own account, for I have heard that these gentlemen
born beyond the Tweed are very vindictive. I should not like to be
Groslow, if he meets him."
"Well?" said Athos, to the man, in English.
"No one has come out," he replied.
"Then, Porthos and Aramis, will you remain with this man while we go
around to Grimaud?"
Grimaud had made himself a kind of sentry box out of a hollow willow,
and as they drew near he put his head out and gave a low whistle.
"Soho!" cried Athos.
"Yes," said Grimaud.
"Well, has anybody come out?"
"No, but somebody has gone in."
"A man or a woman?"
"A man."
"Ah! ah!" said D’Artagnan, "there are two of them, then!"
"I wish there were four," said Athos; "the two parties would then be
equal."
"Perhaps there are four," said D’Artagnan.
"What do you mean?"
"Other men may have entered before them and waited for them."
"We can find out," said Grimaud. At the same time he pointed to a
window, through the shutters of which a faint light streamed.
"That is true," said D’Artagnan, "let us call the others."
They returned around the house to fetch Porthos and Aramis.
"Have you seen anything?" they asked.
"No, but we are going to," replied D’Artagnan, pointing to Grimaud, who
had already climbed some five or six feet from the ground.
All four came up together. Grimaud continued to climb like a cat and
succeeded at last in catching hold of a hook, which served to keep one
of the shutters back when opened. Then resting his foot on a small ledge
he made a sign to show all was right.
"Well?" asked D’Artagnan.
Grimaud showed his closed hand, with two fingers spread out.
"Speak," said Athos; "we cannot see your signs. How many are there?"
"Two. One opposite to me, the other with his back to me."
"Good. And the man opposite to you is----
"The man I saw go in."
"Do you know him?"
"I thought I recognized him, and was not mistaken. Short and stout."
"Who is it?" they all asked together in a low tone.
"General Oliver Cromwell."
The four friends looked at one another.
"And the other?" asked Athos.
"Thin and lanky."
"The executioner," said D’Artagnan and Aramis at the same time.
"I can see nothing but his back," resumed Grimaud. "But wait. He is
moving; and if he has taken off his mask I shall be able to see. Ah----"
And as if struck in the heart he let go the hook and dropped with a
groan.
"Did you see him?" they all asked.
"Yes," said Grimaud, with his hair standing on end.
"The thin, spare man?"
"Yes."
"The executioner, in short?" asked Aramis.
"Yes."
"And who is it?" said Porthos.
"He--he--is----" murmured Grimaud, pale as a ghost and seizing his
master’s hand.
"Who? He?" asked Athos.
"Mordaunt," replied Grimaud.
D’Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis uttered a cry of joy.
Athos stepped back and passed his hand across his brow.
"Fatality!" he muttered.
68. Cromwell’s House.
It was, in fact, Mordaunt whom D’Artagnan had followed, without knowing
it. On entering the house he had taken off his mask and imitation beard,
then, mounting a staircase, had opened a door, and in a room lighted by
a single lamp found himself face to face with a man seated behind a
desk.
This man was Cromwell.
Cromwell had two or three of these retreats in London, unknown except to
the most intimate of his friends. Mordaunt was among these.
"It is you, Mordaunt," he said. "You are late."
"General, I wished to see the ceremony to the end, which delayed me."
"Ah! I scarcely thought you were so curious as that."
"I am always curious to see the downfall of your honor’s enemies, and he
was not among the least of them. But you, general, were you not at
Whitehall?"
"No," said Cromwell.
There was a moment’s silence.
"Have you had any account of it?"
"None. I have been here since the morning. I only know that there was a
conspiracy to rescue the king."
"Ah, you knew that?" said Mordaunt.
"It matters little. Four men, disguised as workmen, were to get the king
out of prison and take him to Greenwich, where a vessel was waiting."
"And knowing all that, your honor remained here, far from the city,
tranquil and inactive."
"Tranquil, yes," replied Cromwell. "But who told you I was inactive?"
"But--if the plot had succeeded?"
"I wished it to do so."
"I thought your excellence considered the death of Charles I. as a
misfortune necessary to the welfare of England."
"Yes, his death; but it would have been more seemly not upon the
scaffold."
"Why so?" asked Mordaunt.
Cromwell smiled. "Because it could have been said that I had had him
condemned for the sake of justice and had let him escape out of pity."
"But if he had escaped?"
"Impossible; my precautions were taken."
"And does your honor know the four men who undertook to rescue him?"
"The four Frenchmen, of whom two were sent by the queen to her husband
and two by Mazarin to me."
"And do you think Mazarin commissioned them to act as they have done?"
"It is possible. But he will not avow it."
"How so?"
"Because they failed."
"Your honor gave me two of these Frenchmen when they were only guilty of
fighting for Charles I. Now that they are guilty of a conspiracy against
England will your honor give me all four of them?"
"Take them," said Cromwell.
Mordaunt bowed with a smile of triumphant ferocity.
"Did the people shout at all?" Cromwell asked.
"Very little, except ’Long live Cromwell!’"
"Where were you placed?"
Mordaunt tried for a moment to read in the general’s face if this was
simply a useless question, or whether he knew everything. But his
piercing eyes could by no means penetrate the sombre depths of
Cromwell’s.
"I was so situated as to hear and see everything," he answered.
It was now Cromwell’s turn to look fixedly at Mordaunt, and Mordaunt to
make himself impenetrable.
"It appears," said Cromwell, "that this improvised executioner did his
duty remarkably well. The blow, so they tell me at least, was struck
with a master’s hand."
Mordaunt remembered that Cromwell had told him he had had no detailed
account, and he was now quite convinced that the general had been
present at the execution, hidden behind some screen or curtain.
"In fact," said Mordaunt, with a calm voice and immovable countenance,
"a single blow sufficed."
"Perhaps it was some one in that occupation," said Cromwell.
"Do you think so, sir? He did not look like an executioner."
"And who else save an executioner would have wished to fill that
horrible office?"
"But," said Mordaunt, "it might have been some personal enemy of the
king, who had made a vow of vengeance and accomplished it in this way.
Perhaps it was some man of rank who had grave reasons for hating the
fallen king, and who, learning that the king was about to flee and
escape him, threw himself in the way, with a mask on his face and an axe
in his hand, not as substitute for the executioner, but as an ambassador
of Fate."
"Possibly."
"And if that were the case would your honor condemn his action?"
"It is not for me to judge. It rests between his conscience and his
God."
"But if your honor knew this man?"
"I neither know nor wish to know him. Provided Charles is dead, it is
the axe, not the man, we must thank."
"And yet, without the man, the king would have been rescued."
Cromwell smiled.
"They would have carried him to Greenwich," he said, "and put him on
board a felucca with five barrels of powder in the hold. Once out to
sea, you are too good a politician not to understand the rest,
Mordaunt."
"Yes, they would have all been blown up."
"Just so. The explosion would have done what the axe had failed to do.
Men would have said that the king had escaped human justice and been
overtaken by God’s. You see now why I did not care to know your
gentleman in the mask; for really, in spite of his excellent intentions,
I could not thank him for what he has done."
Mordaunt bowed humbly. "Sir," he said, "you are a profound thinker and
your plan was sublime."
"Say absurd, since it has become useless. The only sublime ideas in
politics are those which bear fruit. So to-night, Mordaunt, go to
Greenwich and ask for the captain of the felucca Lightning. Show him a
white handkerchief knotted at the four corners and tell the crew to
disembark and carry the powder back to the arsenal, unless, indeed----"
"Unless?" said Mordaunt, whose face was lighted by a savage joy as Cromwell spoke: |
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