Chapter LVI.

The Avenger.

They all four entered the tent; they had no plan ready—they must think

of one.

The king threw himself into an arm-chair. “I am lost,” said he.

“No, sire,” replied Athos. “You are only betrayed.”

The king sighed deeply.

“Betrayed! yes betrayed by the Scotch, amongst whom I was born, whom I

have always loved better than the English. Oh, traitors that ye are!”

“Sire,” said Athos, “this is not a moment for recrimination, but a time

to show yourself a king and a gentleman. Up, sire! up! for you have

here at least three men who will not betray you. Ah! if we had been

five!” murmured Athos, thinking of D’Artagnan and Porthos.

“What do you say?” inquired Charles, rising.

“I say, sire, that there is now but one way open. Lord Winter answers

for his regiment, or at least very nearly so—we will not split straws

about words—let him place himself at the head of his men, we will place

ourselves at the side of your majesty, and we will mow a swath through

Cromwell’s army and reach Scotland.”

“There is another method,” said Aramis. “Let one of us put on the dress

and mount the king’s horse. Whilst they pursue him the king might

escape.”

“It is good advice,” said Athos, “and if the king will do one of us the

honor we shall be truly grateful to him.”

“What do you think of this counsel, Winter?” asked the king, looking

with admiration at these two men, whose chief idea seemed to be how

they could take on their shoulders all the dangers that assailed him.

“I think the only chance of saving your majesty has just been proposed

by Monsieur d’Herblay. I humbly entreat your majesty to choose quickly,

for we have not an instant to lose.”

“But if I accept, it is death, or at least imprisonment, for him who

takes my place.”

“He will have had the glory of having saved his king,” cried Winter.

The king looked at his old friend with tears in his eyes; undid the

Order of the Saint Esprit which he wore, to honor the two Frenchmen who

were with him, and passed it around Winter’s neck, who received on his

knees this striking proof of his sovereign’s confidence and friendship.

“It is right,” said Athos; “he has served your majesty longer than we

have.”

The king overheard these words and turned around with tears in his

eyes.

“Wait a moment, sir,” said he; “I have an order for each of you also.”

He turned to a closet where his own orders were locked up, and took out

two ribbons of the Order of the Garter.

“These cannot be for us,” said Athos.

“Why not, sir?” asked Charles.

“Such are for royalty, and we are simple commoners.”

“Speak not of crowns. I shall not find amongst them such great hearts

as yours. No, no, you do yourselves injustice; but I am here to do you

justice. On your knees, count.”

Athos knelt down and the king passed the ribbon down from left to right

as usual, raised his sword, and instead of pronouncing the customary

formula, “I make you a knight. Be brave, faithful and loyal,” he said,

“You are brave, faithful and loyal. I knight you, monsieur le comte.”

Then turning to Aramis, he said:

“It is now your turn, monsieur le chevalier.”

The same ceremony recommenced, with the same words, whilst Winter

unlaced his leather cuirass, that he might disguise himself like the

king. Charles, having proceeded with Aramis as with Athos, embraced

them both.

“Sire,” said Winter, who in this trying emergency felt all his strength

and energy fire up, “we are ready.”

The king looked at the three gentlemen. “Then we must fly!” said he.

“Flying through an army, sire,” said Athos, “in all countries in the

world is called _charging_.”

“Then I shall die, sword in hand,” said Charles. “Monsieur le comte,

monsieur le chevalier, if ever I am king——”

“Sire, you have already done us more honor than simple gentlemen could

ever aspire to, therefore gratitude is on our side. But we must not

lose time. We have already wasted too much.”

The king again shook hands with all three, exchanged hats with Winter

and went out.

Winter’s regiment was ranged on some high ground above the camp. The

king, followed by the three friends, turned his steps that way. The

Scotch camp seemed as if at last awakened; the soldiers had come out of

their tents and taken up their station in battle array.

“Do you see that?” said the king. “Perhaps they are penitent and

preparing to march.”

“If they are penitent,” said Athos, “let them follow us.”

“Well!” said the king, “what shall we do?”

“Let us examine the enemy’s army.”

At the same instant the eyes of the little group were fixed on the same

line which at daybreak they had mistaken for fog and which the morning

sun now plainly showed was an army in order of battle. The air was soft

and clear, as it generally is at that early hour of the morning. The

regiments, the standards, and even the colors of the horses and

uniforms were now clearly distinct.

On the summit of a rising ground, a little in advance of the enemy,

appeared a short and heavy looking man; this man was surrounded by

officers. He turned a spyglass toward the little group amongst which

the king stood.

“Does this man know your majesty personally?” inquired Aramis.

Charles smiled.

“That man is Cromwell,” said he.

“Then draw down your hat, sire, that he may not discover the

substitution.”

“Ah!” said Athos, “how much time we have lost.”

“Now,” said the king, “give the word and let us start.”

“Will you not give it, sire?” asked Athos.

“No; I make you my lieutenant-general,” said the king.

“Listen, then, Lord Winter. Proceed, sire, I beg. What we are going to

say does not concern your majesty.”

The king, smiling, turned a few steps back.

“This is what I propose to do,” said Athos. “We will divide our

regiments into two squadrons. You will put yourself at the head of the

first. We and his majesty will lead the second. If no obstacle occurs

we will both charge together, force the enemy’s line and throw

ourselves into the Tyne, which we must cross, either by fording or

swimming; if, on the contrary, any repulse should take place, you and

your men must fight to the last man, whilst we and the king proceed on

our road. Once arrived at the brink of the river, should we even find

them three ranks deep, as long as you and your regiment do your duty,

we will look to the rest.”

“To horse!” said Lord Winter.

“To horse!” re-echoed Athos; “everything is arranged and decided.”

“Now, gentlemen,” cried the king, “forward! and rally to the old cry of

France, ‘Montjoy and St. Denis!’ The war cry of England is too often in

the mouths of traitors.”

They mounted—the king on Winter’s horse and Winter on that of the king;

then Winter took his place at the head of the first squadron, and the

king, with Athos on his right and Aramis on his left, at the head of

the second.

The Scotch army stood motionless and silent, seized with shame at sight

of these preparations.

Some of the chieftains left the ranks and broke their swords in two.

“There,” said the king, “that consoles me; they are not all traitors.”

At this moment Winter’s voice was raised with the cry of “Forward!”

The first squadron moved off; the second followed, and descended from

the plateau. A regiment of cuirassiers, nearly equal as to numbers,

issued from behind the hill and came full gallop toward it.

The king pointed this out.

“Sire,” said Athos, “we foresaw this; and if Lord Winter’s men but do

their duty, we are saved, instead of lost.”

At this moment they heard above all the galloping and neighing of the

horses Winter’s voice crying out:

“Sword in hand!”

At these words every sword was drawn, and glittered in the air like

lightning.

“Now, gentlemen,” said the king in his turn, excited by this sight,

“come, gentlemen, sword in hand!”

But Aramis and Athos were the only ones to obey this command and the

king’s example.

“We are betrayed,” said the king in a low voice.

“Wait a moment,” said Athos, “perhaps they do not recognize your

majesty’s voice, and await the order of their captain.”

“Have they not heard that of their colonel? But look! look!” cried the

king, drawing up his horse with a sudden jerk, which threw it on its

haunches, and seizing the bridle of Athos’s horse.

“Ah, cowards! traitors!” screamed Lord Winter, whose voice they heard,

whilst his men, quitting their ranks, dispersed all over the plain.

About fifteen men were ranged around him and awaited the charge of

Cromwell’s cuirassiers.

“Let us go and die with them!” said the king.

“Let us go,” said Athos and Aramis.

“All faithful hearts with me!” cried out Winter.

This voice was heard by the two friends, who set off, full gallop.

“No quarter!” cried a voice in French, answering to that of Winter,

which made them tremble.

As for Winter, at the sound of that voice he turned pale, and was, as

it were, petrified.

It was the voice of a cavalier mounted on a magnificent black horse,

who was charging at the head of the English regiment, of which, in his

ardor, he was ten steps in advance.

“’Tis he!” murmured Winter, his eyes glazed and he allowed his sword to

fall to his side.

“The king! the king!” cried out several voices, deceived by the blue

ribbon and chestnut horse of Winter; “take him alive.”

“No! it is not the king!” exclaimed the cavalier. “Lord Winter, you are

not the king; you are my uncle.”

At the same moment Mordaunt, for it was he, leveled his pistol at

Winter; it went off and the ball entered the heart of the old cavalier,

who with one bound on his saddle fell back into the arms of Athos,

murmuring: “He is avenged!”

“Think of my mother!” shouted Mordaunt, as his horse plunged and darted

off at full gallop.

“Wretch!” exclaimed Aramis, raising his pistol as he passed by him; but

the powder flashed in the pan and it did not go off.

At this moment the whole regiment came up and they fell upon the few

men who had held out, surrounding the two Frenchmen. Athos, after

making sure that Lord Winter was really dead, let fall the corpse and

said:

“Come, Aramis, now for the honor of France!” and the two Englishmen who

were nearest to them fell, mortally wounded.

At the same moment a fearful “hurrah!” rent the air and thirty blades

glittered about their heads.

Suddenly a man sprang out of the English ranks, fell upon Athos, twined

arms of steel around him, and tearing his sword from him, said in his

ear:

“Silence! yield—you yield to me, do you not?”

A giant had seized also Aramis’s two wrists, who struggled in vain to

release himself from this formidable grasp.

“D’Art——” exclaimed Athos, whilst the Gascon covered his mouth with his

hand.

“I am your prisoner,” said Aramis, giving up his sword to Porthos.

“Fire, fire!” cried Mordaunt, returning to the group surrounding the

two friends.

“And wherefore fire?” said the colonel; “every one has yielded.”

“It is the son of Milady,” said Athos to D’Artagnan.

“I recognize him.”

“It is the monk,” whispered Porthos to Aramis.

“I know it.”

And now the ranks began to open. D’Artagnan held the bridle of Athos’s

horse and Porthos that of Aramis. Both of them attempted to lead his

prisoner off the battle-field.

This movement revealed the spot where Winter’s body had fallen.

Mordaunt had found it out and was gazing on his dead relative with an

expression of malignant hatred.

Athos, though now cool and collected, put his hand to his belt, where

his loaded pistols yet remained.

“What are you about?” said D’Artagnan.

“Let me kill him.”

“We are all four lost, if by the least gesture you discover that you

recognize him.”

Then turning to the young man he exclaimed:

“A fine prize! a fine prize, friend Mordaunt; we have both myself and

Monsieur du Vallon, taken two Knights of the Garter, nothing less.”

“But,” said Mordaunt, looking at Athos and Aramis with bloodshot eyes,

“these are Frenchmen, I imagine.”

“I’faith, I don’t know. Are you French, sir?” said he to Athos.

“I am,” replied the latter, gravely.

“Very well, my dear sir, you are the prisoner of a fellow countryman.”

“But the king—where is the king?” exclaimed Athos, anxiously.

D’Artagnan vigorously seized his prisoner’s hand, saying:

“Eh! the king? We have secured him.”

“Yes,” said Aramis, “through an infamous act of treason.”

Porthos pressed his friend’s hand and said to him:

“Yes, sir, all is fair in war, stratagem as well as force; look

yonder!”

At this instant the squadron, that ought to have protected Charles’s

retreat, was advancing to meet the English regiments. The king, who was

entirely surrounded, walked alone in a great empty space. He appeared

calm, but it was evidently not without a mighty effort. Drops of

perspiration trickled down his face, and from time to time he put a

handkerchief to his mouth to wipe away the blood that rilled from it.

“Behold Nebuchadnezzar!” exclaimed an old Puritan soldier, whose eyes

flashed at the sight of the man they called the tyrant.

“Do you call him Nebuchadnezzar?” said Mordaunt, with a terrible smile;

“no, it is Charles the First, the king, the good King Charles, who

despoils his subjects to enrich himself.”

Charles glanced a moment at the insolent creature who uttered this, but

did not recognize him. Nevertheless, the calm religious dignity of his

countenance abashed Mordaunt.

“_Bon jour_, messieurs!” said the king to the two gentlemen who were

held by D’Artagnan and Porthos. “The day has been unfortunate, but it

is not your fault, thank God! But where is my old friend Winter?”

The two gentlemen turned away their heads in silence.

“In Strafford’s company,” said Mordaunt, tauntingly.

Charles shuddered. The demon had known how to wound him. The

remembrance of Strafford was a source of lasting remorse to him, the

shadow that haunted him by day and night. The king looked around him.

He saw a corpse at his feet. It was Winter’s. He uttered not a word,

nor shed a tear, but a deadly pallor spread over his face; he knelt

down on the ground, raised Winter’s head, and unfastening the Order of

the Saint Esprit, placed it on his own breast.

“Lord Winter is killed, then?” inquired D’Artagnan, fixing his eyes on

the corpse.

“Yes,” said Athos, “by his own nephew.”

“Come, he was the first of us to go; peace be to him! he was an honest

man,” said D’Artagnan.

“Charles Stuart,” said the colonel of the English regiment, approaching

the king, who had just put on the insignia of royalty, “do you yield

yourself a prisoner?”

“Colonel Tomlison,” said Charles, “kings cannot yield; the man alone

submits to force.”

“Your sword.”

The king drew his sword and broke it on his knee.

At this moment a horse without a rider, covered with foam, his nostrils

extended and eyes all fire, galloped up, and recognizing his master,

stopped and neighed with pleasure; it was Arthur.

The king smiled, patted it with his hand and jumped lightly into the

saddle.

“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “conduct me where you will.”

Turning back again, he said, “I thought I saw Winter move; if he still

lives, by all you hold most sacred, do not abandon him.”

“Never fear, King Charles,” said Mordaunt, “the bullet pierced his

heart.”

“Do not breathe a word nor make the least sign to me or Porthos,” said

D’Artagnan to Athos and Aramis, “that you recognize this man, for

Milady is not dead; her soul lives in the body of this demon.”

The detachment now moved toward the town with the royal captive; but on

the road an aide-de-camp, from Cromwell, sent orders that Colonel

Tomlison should conduct him to Holdenby Castle.

At the same time couriers started in every direction over England and

Europe to announce that Charles Stuart was the prisoner of Oliver

Cromwell.