o expect, for here
he is."

"Who?"

"Mordaunt."

In fact, looking at the place to which Athos pointed, D'Artagnan saw a
cavalier coming toward the house at full gallop.

It was Mordaunt.

D'Artagnan rushed out of the room.

Porthos wanted to follow him.

"Stay," said D'Artagnan, "and do not come till you hear me drum my
fingers on the door."

When Mordaunt arrived opposite the house he saw D'Artagnan on the
threshold and the soldiers lying on the grass here and there, with their
arms.

"Halloo!" he cried, "are the prisoners still there?"

"Yes, sir," answered the sergeant, uncovering.

"'Tis well; order four men to conduct them to my lodging."

Four men prepared to do so.

"What is it?" said D'Artagnan, with that jeering manner which our
readers have so often observed in him since they made his acquaintance.
"What is the matter, if you please?"

"Sir," replied Mordaunt, "I have ordered the two prisoners we made this
morning to be conducted to my lodging."

"Wherefore, sir? Excuse curiosity, but I wish to be enlightened on the
subject."

"Because these prisoners, sir, are at my disposal and I choose to
dispose of them as I like."

"Allow me--allow me, sir," said D'Artagnan, "to observe you are in
error. The prisoners belong to those who take them and not to those who
only saw them taken. You might have taken Lord Winter--who, 'tis said,
was your uncle--prisoner, but you preferred killing him; 'tis well; we,
that is, Monsieur du Vallon and I, could have killed our prisoners--we
preferred taking them."

Mordaunt's very lips grew white with rage.

D'Artagnan now saw that affairs were growing worse and he beat the
guard's march upon the door. At the first beat Porthos rushed out and
stood on the other side of the door.

This movement was observed by Mordaunt.

"Sir!" he thus addressed D'Artagnan, "your resistance is useless; these
prisoners have just been given me by my illustrious patron, Oliver
Cromwell."

These words struck D'Artagnan like a thunderbolt. The blood mounted
to his temples, his eyes became dim; he saw from what fountainhead the
ferocious hopes of the young man arose, and he put his hand to the hilt
of his sword.

As for Porthos, he looked inquiringly at D'Artagnan.

This look of Porthos's made the Gascon regret that he had summoned
the brute force of his friend to aid him in an affair which seemed to
require chiefly cunning.

"Violence," he said to himself, "would spoil a