“No,” replied Athos; “I thought it looked much the same as usual.”
“Look, again, chevalier,” returned Lord Winter.
“I must own,” said Aramis, “I am like the Comte de la Fere—I can see nothing remarkable about it.”
“My lord,” said Athos, “in a position so precarious as ours we must examine the earth and not the heavens. Have you studied our Scotch troops and have you confidence in them?”
“The Scotch?” inquired Winter. “What Scotch?”
“Ours, egad!” exclaimed Athos. “Those in whom the king has confided—Lord Leven’s Highlanders.”
“No,” said Winter, then he paused; “but tell me, can you not perceive the russet tint which marks the heavens?”
“Not the least in the world,” said Aramis and Athos at once.
“Tell me,” continued Winter, always possessed by the same idea, “is there not a tradition in France that Henry IV., the evening before the day he was assassinated, when he was playing at chess with M. de Bassompiere, saw clots of blood upon the chessboard?”
“Yes,” said Athos, “and the marechal has often told me so himself.”