“’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: