“Flying through an army, sire,” said Athos, “in all countries in the world is called charging.”
“Then I shall die, sword in hand,” said Charles. “Monsieur le comte, monsieur le chevalier, if ever I am king——”
“Sire, you have already done us more honor than simple gentlemen could ever aspire to, therefore gratitude is on our side. But we must not lose time. We have already wasted too much.”
The king again shook hands with all three, exchanged hats with Winter and went out.
Winter’s regiment was ranged on some high ground above the camp. The king, followed by the three friends, turned his steps that way. The Scotch camp seemed as if at last awakened; the soldiers had come out of their tents and taken up their station in battle array.
“Do you see that?” said the king. “Perhaps they are penitent and preparing to march.”
“If they are penitent,” said Athos, “let them follow us.”
“Well!” said the king, “what shall we do?”
“Let us examine the enemy’s army.”
At the same instant the eyes of the little group were fixed on the same line which at daybreak they had mistaken for fog and which the morning sun now plainly showed was an army in order of battle. The air was soft and clear, as it generally is at that early hour of the morning. The regiments, the standards, and even the colors of the horses and uniforms were now clearly distinct.