“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.