And now the ranks began to open. D’Artagnan held the bridle of Athos’s horse and Porthos that of Aramis. Both of them attempted to lead his prisoner off the battle-field.
This movement revealed the spot where Winter’s body had fallen. Mordaunt had found it out and was gazing on his dead relative with an expression of malignant hatred.
Athos, though now cool and collected, put his hand to his belt, where his loaded pistols yet remained.
“What are you about?” said D’Artagnan.
“Let me kill him.”
“We are all four lost, if by the least gesture you discover that you recognize him.”
Then turning to the young man he exclaimed:
“A fine prize! a fine prize, friend Mordaunt; we have both myself and Monsieur du Vallon, taken two Knights of the Garter, nothing less.”
“But,” said Mordaunt, looking at Athos and Aramis with bloodshot eyes, “these are Frenchmen, I imagine.”
“I’faith, I don’t know. Are you French, sir?” said he to Athos.