" cried out Winter.

This voice was heard by the two friends, who set off, full gallop.

"No quarter!" cried a voice in French, answering to that of Winter,
which made them tremble.

As for Winter, at the sound of that voice he turned pale, and was, as it
were, petrified.

It was the voice of a cavalier mounted on a magnificent black horse,
who was charging at the head of the English regiment, of which, in his
ardor, he was ten steps in advance.

"'Tis he!" murmured Winter, his eyes glazed and he allowed his sword to
fall to his side.

"The king! the king!" cried out several voices, deceived by the blue
ribbon and chestnut horse of Winter; "take him alive."

"No! it is not the king!" exclaimed the cavalier. "Lord Winter, you are
not the king; you are my uncle."

At the same moment Mordaunt, for it was he, leveled his pistol at
Winter; it went off and the ball entered the heart of the old cavalier,
who with one bound on his saddle fell back into the arms of Athos,
murmuring: "He is avenged!"

"Think of my mother!" shouted Mordaunt, as his horse plunged and darted
off at full gallop.

"Wretch!" exclaimed Aramis, raising his pistol as he passed by him; but
the powder flashed in the pan and it did not go off.

At this moment the whole regiment came up and they fell upon the few
men who had held out, surrounding the two Frenchmen. Athos, after making
sure that Lord Winter was really dead, let fall the corpse and said:

"Come, Aramis, now for the honor of France!" and the 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 o