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 army.”
“For unpaid wages; yes, I know it. For the last year my
faithful Highlanders have fought for honor alone.”
Athos smiled.
“Well, sir, though honor is a fine thing, they are tired of
fighting for it, and to-night they have sold you for two
hundred thousand pounds — that is to say, for half what is
owing them.”
“Impossible!” cried the king, “the Scotch sell their king
for two hundred thousand pounds! And who is the Judas who
has concluded this infamous bargain?”
“Lord Leven.”
“Are you certain of it, sir?”
“I heard it with my own ears.”
The king sighed deeply, as if his heart would break, and
then buried his face in his hands.
“Oh! the Scotch,” he exclaimed, “the Scotch I called `my
faithful,’ to whom I trusted myself when I could have fled
to Oxford! the Scotch, my brothers! But are you well
assured, sir?”
“Lying behind the tent of Lord Leven, I raised it and saw
all, heard all!”
“And when is this to be consummated?”
“To-day — this morning; so your majesty must perceive there
is no time to lose!”
“To do what? since you say I am sold.”
“To cross the Tyne, reach Scotland and rejoin Lord Montrose,
who will not sell you.”
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“And what shall I do in Scotland? A war of partisans,
unworthy of a king.”
“The example of Robert Bruce will absolve you, sire.”
“No, no! I have fought too long; they have sold me, they
shall give me up, and the eternal shame of treble treason
shall fall on their heads.”
“Sire,” said Athos, “perhaps a king should act thus, but not
a husband and a father. I have come in the name of your wife
and daughter and of the children you have still in London,
and I say to you, `Live, sire,’ — it is the will of
Heaven.”
The king raised himself, buckled on his belt, and passing
his handkerchief over his moist forehead, said:
“Well, what is to be done?”
“Sire, have you in the army one regiment on which you can
implicitly rely?”
“Winter,” said the king, “do you believe in the fidelity of
yours?”
“Sire, they are but men, and men are become both weak and
wicked. I will not answer for them. I would confide my life
to them, but I should hesitate ere I trusted them with your
majesty’s.”
“Well!” said Athos, “since you have not a regiment, we are
three devoted men. It is enough. Let your majesty mount on
horseback and place yourself in the midst of us; we will
cross the Tyne, reach Scotland, and you will be saved.”
“Is this your counsel also, Winter?” inquired the king.
“Yes, sire.”
“And yours, Monsieur d’Herblay?”
“Yes, sire.”
“As you wish, then. Winter, give the necessary orders.”
Winter then left the tent; in the meantime the king finished
his toilet. The first rays of daybreak penetrated the
aperture of the tent as Winter re-entered it.
“All is ready, sire,” said he.
“For us, also?” inquired Athos.
“Grimaud and Blaisois are holding your horses, ready
saddled.”
“In that case,” exclaimed Athos, “let us not lose an
instant, but set off.”
“Come,” added the king.
“Sire,” said Aramis, “will not your majesty acquaint some of
your friends of this?”
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Dumas, Alexandre – Twenty Years After
“Friends!” answered Charles, sadly, “I have but three — one
of twenty years, who has never forgotten me, and two of a
week’s standing, whom I shall never forget. Come, gentlemen,
come!”
The king quitted his tent and found his horse ready waiting
for him. It was a chestnut that the king had ridden for
three years and of which he was very fond.
The horse neighed with pleasure at seeing him.
“Ah!” said the king, “I was unjust; here is a creature that