Twenty Years Later by Dumas, Alexandre. Part 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; “every one 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 battle-field.

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

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Dumas, Alexandre – Twenty Years After

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

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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

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