How many people, thought he, and not one true friend.
And as he uttered these words of doubt and depression within his mind, a voice beside him said:
“Respect to fallen majesty.”
The king turned quickly around, with tears in his eyes and heart. It was an old soldier of the guards who could not see his king pass captive before him without rendering him this final homage. But the next moment the unfortunate man was nearly killed with heavy blows of sword-hilts, and among those who set upon him the king recognized Captain Groslow.
“Alas!” said Charles, “that is a severe chastisement for a very trifling fault.”
He continued his walk, but he had scarcely gone a hundred paces, when a furious fellow, leaning between two soldiers, spat in the king’s face, as once an infamous and accursed Jew spit in the face of Jesus of Nazareth. Loud roars of laughter and sullen murmurs arose together. The crowd opened and closed again, undulating like a stormy sea, and the king imagined that he saw shining in the midst of this living wave the bright eyes of Athos.
Charles wiped his face and said with a sad smile: “Poor wretch, for half a crown he would do as much to his own father.”
The king was not mistaken. Athos and his friends, again mingling with the throng, were taking a last look at the martyr king.
When the soldier saluted Charles, Athos’s heart bounded for joy; and that unfortunate, on coming to himself, found ten guineas that the French gentleman had slipped into his pocket. But when the cowardly insulter spat in the face of the captive monarch Athos grasped his dagger. But d’Artagnan stopped his hand and in a hoarse voice cried, “Wait!”
Athos stopped. D’Artagnan, leaning on Athos, made a sign to Porthos and Aramis to keep near them and then placed himself behind the man with the bare arms, who was still laughing at his own vile pleasantry and receiving the congratulations of several others.
The man took his way toward the city. The four friends followed him. The man, who had the appearance of being a butcher, descended a little steep and isolated street, looking on to the river, with two of his friends. Arrived at the bank of the river the three men perceived that they were followed, turned around, and looking insolently at the Frenchmen, passed some jests from one to another.
“I don’t know English, Athos,” said d’Artagnan; “but you know it and will interpret for me.”
Then quickening their steps they passed the three men, but turned back immediately, and d’Artagnan walked straight up to the butcher and touching him on the chest with the tip of his finger, said to Athos:
“Say this to him in English: ‘You are a coward. You have insulted a defenseless man. You have befouled the face of your king. You must die.’ ”
Athos, pale as a ghost, repeated these words to the man, who, seeing the bodeful preparations that were making, put himself in an attitude of defense. Aramis, at this movement, drew his sword.
“No,” cried d’Artagnan, “no steel. Steel is for gentlemen.”
And seizing the butcher by the throat:
“Porthos,” said he, “kill this fellow for me with a single blow.”
Porthos raised his terrible fist, which whistled through the air like a sling, and the portentous mass fell with a smothered crash on the insulter’s skull and crushed it. The man fell like an ox beneath the poleaxe. His companions, horror-struck, could neither move nor cry out.
“Tell them this, Athos,” resumed d’Artagnan; “thus shall all die who forget that a captive man is sacred and that a captive king doubly represents the Lord.”
Athos repeated d’Artagnan’s words.
The fellows looked at the body of their companion, swimming in blood, and then recovering voice and legs together, ran screaming off.
“Justice is done,” said Porthos, wiping his forehead.
“And now,” said d’Artagnan to Athos, “entertain no further doubts about me; I undertake all that concerns the king.”
LXIV
Whitehall
The parliament condemned Charles to death, as might have been foreseen. Political judgments are generally vain formalities, for the same passions which give rise to the accusation ordain to the condemnation. Such is the atrocious logic of revolutions.
Although our friends were expecting that condemnation, it filled them with grief. D’Artagnan, whose mind was never more fertile in resources than in critical emergencies, swore again that he would try all conceivable means to prevent the denouement of the bloody tragedy. But by what means? As yet he could form no definite plan; all must depend on circumstances. Meanwhile, it was necessary at all hazards, in order to gain time, to put some obstacle in the way of the execution on the following day—the day appointed by the judges. The only way of doing that was to cause the disappearance of the London executioner. The headsman out of the way, the sentence could not be executed. True, they could send for the headsman of the nearest town, but at least a day would be gained, and a day might be sufficient for the rescue. D’Artagnan took upon himself that more than difficult task.
Another thing, not less essential, was to warn Charles Stuart of the attempt to be made, so that he might assist his rescuers as much as possible, or at least do nothing to thwart their efforts. Aramis assumed that perilous charge. Charles Stuart had asked that Bishop Juxon might be permitted to visit him. Mordaunt had called on the bishop that very evening to apprise him of the religious desire expressed by the king and also of Cromwell’s permission. Aramis determined to obtain from the bishop, through fear or by persuasion, consent that he should enter in the bishop’s place,
