his poniard, which he placed upon the table; unhooked his
sword-belt, which he laid close to his poniard; and, without
affectation, opening his doublet as if to look for his
handkerchief, showed beneath his fine cambric shirt his
naked breast, without weapons either offensive or defensive.
“This is truly a singular man,” said Monk; “he is without
any arms; he has an ambuscade placed somewhere yonder.”
“General,” said he, as if he had divined Monk’s thought,
“you wish we should be alone; that is very right, but a
great captain ought never to expose himself with temerity.
It is night, the passage of the marsh may present dangers;
be accompanied.”
“You are right,” replied he, calling Digby. The aid-de-camp
appeared. “Fifty men with swords and muskets,” said he,
looking at Athos.
“That is too few if there is danger, too many if there is
not.”
“I will go alone,” said Monk; “I want nobody. Come,
monsieur.”
CHAPTER 25
The March
Athos and Monk passed over, in going from the camp towards
the Tweed, that part of the ground which Digby had traversed
with the fishermen coming from the Tweed to the camp. The
aspect of this place, the aspect of the changes man had
wrought in it, was of a nature to produce a great effect
upon a lively and delicate imagination like that of Athos.
Athos looked at nothing but these desolate spots; Monk
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looked at nothing but Athos — at Athos, who, with his eyes
sometimes directed towards heaven, and sometimes towards the
earth, sought, thought, and sighed.
Digby, whom the last orders of the general, and particularly
the accent with which he had given them, had at first a
little excited, followed the pair at about twenty paces, but
the general having turned round as if astonished to find his
orders had not been obeyed, the aid-de-camp perceived his
indiscretion and returned to his tent.
He supposed that the general wished to make, incognito, one
of those reviews of vigilance which every experienced
captain never fails to make on the eve of a decisive
engagement: he explained to himself the presence of Athos in
this case as an inferior explains all that is mysterious on
the part of his leader. Athos might be, and, indeed, in the
eyes of Digby, must be, a spy, whose information was to
enlighten the general.
At the end of a walk of about ten minutes among the tents
and posts, which were closer together near the headquarters,
Monk entered upon a little causeway which diverged into
three branches. That on the left led to the river, that in
the middle to Newcastle Abbey on the marsh, that on the
right crossed the first lines of Monk’s camp, that is to
say, the lines nearest to Lambert’s army. Beyond the river
was an advanced post belonging to Monk’s army, which watched
the enemy; it was composed of one hundred and fifty Scots.
They had swum across the Tweed, and, in case of attack, were
to recross it in the same manner, giving the alarm; but as
there was no post at that spot, and as Lambert’s soldiers
were not so prompt at taking to the water as Monk’s were,
the latter appeared not to have much uneasiness on that
side. On this side of the river, at about five hundred paces
from the old abbey, the fishermen had taken up their abode
amidst a crowd of small tents raised by the soldiers of the
neighboring clans, who had with them their wives and
children. All this confusion, seen by the moon’s light,
presented a striking coup d’oeil; the half shadow enlarged
every detail, and the light, that flatterer which only
attaches itself to the polished side of things, courted upon
each rusty musket the point still left intact, and upon
every rag of canvas the whitest and least sullied part.
Monk arrived then with Athos, crossing this spot, illumined
with a double light, the silver splendor of the moon, and
the red blaze of the fires at the meeting of the three
causeways; there he stopped, and addressing his companion,
— “Monsieur,” said he, “do you know your road?”