“ ’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; “everyone 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 battlefield.
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
