“Well,” said Aramis, when they were alone, “what do you think of this business, my dear count?”

“Bad!” replied Athos.  “Very bad!”

“But you entered on it with enthusiasm.”

“As I shall ever do when a great principle is to be defended.  Kings are only strong by the aid of the aristocracy; but aristocracy cannot exist without kings.  Let us then support monarchy in order to support ourselves.”

“We shall be murdered there,” said Aramis.  “I hate the English—­they are so coarse, like all people who drink beer.”

“Would it be better to remain here?” said Athos.  “And take a turn in the Bastille, by the cardinal’s order?  Believe me, Aramis, there is little left to regret.  We avoid imprisonment, and we take the part of heroes—­ the choice is easy!”

While Athos and Aramis were preparing to go to England on behalf of the king, Mazarin had decided to employ D’Artagnan and Porthos as his envoys to Oliver Cromwell.

“Monsieur D’Artagnan,” said the cardinal, “do you wish to become a captain?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Your friend wishes to be made a baron?”

“At this very moment, my lord, he’s dreaming that he is one.”

“Then,” said Mazarin, “take this dispatch, carry it to England, and when you get to London, tear off the outer envelope.”

“And on our return, may we, my friend and I, rely on getting our promotion—­he his barony, I my captaincy?”

“On the honour of Mazarin, yes.”

“I would rather have another sort of oath than that,” said D’Artagnan to himself as he went out.

Just as they were leaving Paris, a letter came from Athos, who had already gone.

“Dear D’Artagnan, dear Porthos,—­My friends, perhaps this is the last time you will hear from me.  I entrust certain papers which are at Bragelonne to your keeping; if in three months you do not hear of me, take possession of them.  May God and the remembrance of our friendship support you always.—­Your devoted friend, Athos.”

III.—­In England

Athos and Aramis were with Charles I. at Newcastle.  The king had been sold by the Scotch to the English Parliament, and on the approach of Cromwell’s army the king’s troops refused to fight.  Only fifteen men stood round the king when Cromwell’s cavalry came charging down.  Lord de Winter was shot dead by his own nephew, who was in Cromwell’s army.

“Come, Aramis, now for the honour of France,” said Athos, and the two Englishmen who were nearest to them fell mortally wounded.

At the same instant a tremendous shout filled the air, and thirty swords flashed before them.  Suddenly a man sprang out of the English ranks, fell upon Athos, wound his muscular arms round him, and tearing his sword from him, said in his ear, “Silence!  Yield—­you yield to me, don’t you?”

A giant from the English ranks at the same moment seized Aramis by the wrists, who struggled in vain to get free.