“‘Ambrosio de demonio’, do you not know that it is forbidden to throw away powder uselessly, before sallies or attacks are made, merely to have the pleasure of killing a boy not worth your match?  It was in this very place that Charles the Fifth threw the sleeping sentinel into the ditch and drowned him.  Do your duty, or I shall follow his example.”

Ambrosio replaced the gun upon his shoulder, the rest at his side, and continued his walk upon the rampart.

Cinq-Mars had been little alarmed at this menacing gesture, contenting himself with tightening the reins of his horse and bringing the spurs close to his sides, knowing that with a single leap of the nimble animal he should be carried behind the wall of a hut which stood near by, and should thus be sheltered from the Spanish fusil before the operation of the fork and match could be completed.  He knew, too, that a tacit convention between the two armies prohibited marksmen from firing upon the sentinels; each party would have regarded it as assassination.  The soldier who had thus prepared to attack Cinq-Mars must have been ignorant of this understanding.  Young D’Effiat, therefore, made no visible movement; and when the sentinel had resumed his walk upon the rampart, he again betook himself to his ride upon the turf, and presently saw five cavaliers directing their course toward him.  The first two, who came on at full gallop, did not salute him, but, stopping close to him, leaped to the ground, and he found himself in the arms of the Counsellor de Thou, who embraced him tenderly, while the little Abbe de Gondi, laughing heartily, cried: 

“Behold another Orestes recovering his Pylades, and at the moment of immolating a rascal who is not of the family of the King of kings, I assure you.”

“What! is it you, my dear Cinq-Mars?” cried De Thou; “and I knew not of your arrival in the camp!  Yes, it is indeed you; I recognize you, although you are very pale.  Have you been ill, my dear friend?  I have often written to you; for my boyish friendship has always remained in my heart.”

“And I,” answered Henri d’Effiat, “I have been very culpable toward you; but I will relate to you all the causes of my neglect.  I can speak of them, but I was ashamed to write them.  But how good you are!  Your friendship has never relaxed.”

“I knew you too well,” replied De Thou; “I knew that there could be no real coldness between us, and that my soul had its echo in yours.”

With these words they embraced once more, their eyes moist with those sweet tears which so seldom flow in one’s life, but with which it seems, nevertheless, the heart is always charged, so much relief do they give in flowing.

This moment was short; and during these few words, Gondi had been pulling them by their cloaks, saying: 

“To horse! to horse, gentlemen!  Pardieu! you will have time enough to embrace, if you are so affectionate; but do not delay.  Let our first thought be to have done with our good friends who will soon arrive.  We are in a fine position, with those three villains there before us, the archers close by, and the Spaniards up yonder!  We shall be under three fires.”