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 anteroom.
“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 tonight?”
“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 Fère—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 maréchal 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 tomorrow?”
“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 Fère?”
“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
