“Not yet,” replied Porthos.
“Colonel, colonel,” cried Mordaunt, “you are betrayed. These four Frenchmen have escaped from Newcastle, and no doubt want to carry off the king. Arrest them.”
“Ah! my young man,” said d’Artagnan, drawing his sword, “that is an order sooner given than executed. Fly, friends, fly!” he added, whirling his sword around him.
The next moment he darted to the door and knocked down two of the soldiers who guarded it, before they had time to cock their muskets. Athos and Aramis followed him. Porthos brought up the rear, and before soldiers, officers, or colonel had time to recover their surprise all four were in the street.
“Fire!” cried Mordaunt; “fire upon them!”
Three or four shots were fired, but with no other result than to show the four fugitives turning the corner of the street safe and sound.
The horses were at the place fixed upon, and they leaped lightly into their saddles.
“Forward!” cried d’Artagnan, “and spur for your dear lives!”
They galloped away and took the road they had come by in the morning, namely, in the direction toward Scotland. A few hundred yards beyond the town d’Artagnan drew rein.
“Halt!” he cried, “this time we shall be pursued. We must let them leave the village and ride after us on the northern road, and when they have passed we will take the opposite direction.”
There was a stream close by and a bridge across it.
D’Artagnan led his horse under the arch of the bridge. The others followed. Ten minutes later they heard the rapid gallop of a troop of horsemen. A few minutes more and the troop passed over their heads.
LXII
London
As soon as the noise of the hoofs was lost in the distance d’Artagnan remounted the bank of the stream and scoured the plain, followed by his three friends, directing their course, as well as they could guess, toward London.
“This time,” said d’Artagnan, when they were sufficiently distant to proceed at a trot, “I think all is lost and we have nothing better to do than to reach France. What do you say, Athos, to that proposition? Isn’t it reasonable?”
“Yes, dear friend,” Athos replied, “but you said a word the other day that was more than reasonable—it was noble and generous. You said, ‘Let us die here!’ I recall to you that word.”
“Oh,” said Porthos, “death is nothing: it isn’t death that can disquiet us, since we don’t know what it is. What troubles me is the idea of defeat. As things are turning out, I foresee that we must give battle to London, to the provinces, to all England, and certainly in the end we can’t fail to be beaten.”
“We ought to witness this great tragedy even to its last scene,” said Athos. “Whatever happens, let us not leave England before the crisis. Don’t you agree with me, Aramis?”
“Entirely, my dear count. Then, too, I confess I should not be sorry to come across Mordaunt again. It appears to me that we have an account to settle with him, and that it is not our custom to leave a place without paying our debts, of this kind, at least.”
“Ah! that’s another thing,” said d’Artagnan, “and I should not mind waiting in London a whole year for a chance of meeting this Mordaunt in question. Only let us lodge with someone on whom we can count; for I imagine, just now, that Noll Cromwell would not be inclined to trifle with us. Athos, do you know any inn in the whole town where one can find white sheets, roast beef reasonably cooked, and wine which is not made of hops and gin?”
“I think I know what you want,” replied Athos. “De Winter took us to the house of a Spaniard, who, he said, had become naturalized as an Englishman by the guineas of his new compatriots. What do you say to it, Aramis?”
“Why, the idea of taking quarters with Señor Perez seems to me very reasonable, and for my part I agree to it. We will invoke the remembrance of that poor de Winter, for whom he seemed to have a great regard; we will tell him that we have come as amateurs to see what is going on; we will spend with him a guinea each per day; and I think that by taking all these precautions we can be quite undisturbed.”
“You forget, Aramis, one precaution of considerable importance.”
“What is that?”
“The precaution of changing our clothes.”
“Changing our clothes!” exclaimed Porthos. “I don’t see why; we are very comfortable in those we wear.”
“To prevent recognition,” said d’Artagnan. “Our clothes have a cut which would proclaim the Frenchman at first sight. Now, I don’t set sufficient store on the cut of my jerkin to risk being hung at Tyburn or sent for change of scene to the Indies. I shall buy a chestnut-colored suit. I’ve remarked that your Puritans revel in that color.”
“But can you find your man?” said Aramis to Athos.
“Oh! to be sure, yes. He lives at the Bedford Tavern, Greenhall Street. Besides, I can find my way about the city with my eyes shut.”
“I wish we were already there,” said d’Artagnan; “and my advice is that we reach London before daybreak, even if we kill our horses.”
“Come on, then,” said Athos, “for unless I am mistaken in my calculations we have only eight or ten leagues to go.”
The friends urged on their horses and arrived, in fact, at about five o’clock in the morning. They were stopped and questioned at the gate by which they sought to enter the city, but Athos replied, in excellent English, that they had been sent forward by Colonel Harrison to announce to his colleague, Monsieur Bridge, the approach of the king. That reply led to several questions about the king’s capture, and Athos gave details so precise and positive that if the gatekeepers had any suspicions they vanished completely. The way was therefore opened to the four friends with all sorts of
