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 someone, 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, today 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 someone 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.
LV
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
