D’Effiat, still holding out his leg to his servant, and leaning on the saddle of his horse, tried, by listening attentively, to understand the subject of the colloquy; but he knew nothing of German, and could not comprehend the dispute.  Grandchamp, who, still holding the boot, had also been listening very seriously, suddenly burst into loud laughter, holding his sides in a manner not usual with him.

“Ha, ha, ha!  Monsieur, here are two sergeants disputing which they ought to hang of the two Spaniards there; for your red comrades did not take the trouble to tell them.  One of the Swiss says that it’s the officer, the other that it’s the soldier; a third has just made a proposition for meeting the difficulty.”

“And what does he say?”

“He suggests that they hang them both.”

“Stop! stop!” cried Cinq-Mars to the soldiers, attempting to walk; but his leg would not support him.

“Put me on my horse, Grandchamp.”

“Monsieur, you forget your wound.”

“Do as I command, and then mount thyself.”

The old servant grumblingly obeyed, and then galloped off, in fulfilment of another imperative order, to stop the Swiss, who were just about to hang their two prisoners to a tree, or to let them hang themselves; for the officer, with the sang-froid of his nation, had himself passed the running noose of a rope around his own neck, and, without being told, had ascended a small ladder placed against the tree, in order to tie the other end of the rope to one of its branches.  The soldier, with the same calm indifference, was looking on at the Swiss disputing around him, while holding the ladder.

Cinq-Mars arrived in time to save them, gave his name to the Swiss sergeant, and, employing Grandchamp as interpreter, said that the two prisoners were his, and that he would take them to his tent; that he was a captain in the guards, and would be responsible for them.  The German, ever exact in discipline, made no reply; the only resistance was on the part of the prisoner.  The officer, still on the top of the ladder, turned round, and speaking thence as from a pulpit, said, with a sardonic laugh: 

“I should much like to know what you do here?  Who told you I wished to live?”

“I do not ask to know anything about that,” said Cinq-Mars; “it matters not to me what becomes of you afterward.  All I propose now is to prevent an act which seems to me unjust and cruel.  You may kill yourself afterward, if you like.”

“Well said,” returned the ferocious Spaniard; “you please me.  I thought at first you meant to affect the generous in order to oblige me to be grateful, which is a thing I detest.  Well, I consent to come down; but I shall hate you as much as ever, for you are a Frenchman.  Nor do I thank you, for you only discharge a debt you owe me, since it was I who this morning kept you from being shot by this young soldier while he was taking aim at you; and he is a man who never missed a chamois in the mountains of Leon.”