"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 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 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 his eyes on the corpse.
"Yes," said Athos, "by his own nephew."
"Come, he was the first of us to go; peace be to him! he was an honest man," said D'Artagnan.
"Charles Stuart," said the colonel of the English regiment, approaching the king, who had just put on the insignia of royalty, "do you yield yourself a prisoner?"
"Colonel Tomlison," said Charles, "kings cannot yield; the man alone submits to force."
"Your sword."
The king drew his sword and broke it on his knee.
At this moment a horse without a rider, covered with foam, his nostrils extended and eyes all fire, galloped up, and recognizing his master, stopped and neighed with pleasure; it was Arthur.
The king smiled, patted it with his hand and jumped lightly into the saddle.
"Now, gentlemen," said he, "conduct me where you will."
Turning back again, he said, "I thought I saw Winter move; if he still lives, by all you hold most sacred, do not abandon him."
"Never fear, King Charles," said Mordaunt, "the bullet pierced his heart."
"Do not breathe a word nor make the least sign to me or Porthos," said D'Artagnan to Athos and Aramis, "that you recognize this man, for Milady is not dead; her soul lives in the body of this demon."
The detachment now moved toward the town with the royal captive; but on the road an aide-de-camp, from Cromwell, sent orders that Colonel Tomlison should conduct him to Holdenby Castle.
At the same time couriers started in every direction over England and Europe to announce that Charles Stuart was the prisoner of Oliver Cromwell.