D’Artagnan called the sergeant. “My dear friend, General Cromwell has sent Monsieur Mordaunt to fetch me. Guard the prisoners well, I beg of you.”
The sergeant made a sign, as much as to say he did not understand French, and D’Artagnan tried to make him comprehend by signs and gestures. Then he went into the stable; he found the five horses saddled, his own amongst the rest.
“Each of you take a horse by the bridle,” he said to Porthos and Mousqueton; “turn to the left, so that Athos and Aramis may see you clearly from the window.”
“They are coming, then?” said Porthos.
“In a moment.”
“You didn’t forget my purse?”
“No; be easy.”
“Good.”
Porthos and Mousqueton each took a horse by the bridle and proceeded to their post.
Then D’Artagnan, being alone, struck a light and lighted a small bit of tinder, mounted his horse and stopped at the door in the midst of the soldiers. There, caressing as he pretended, the animal with his hand, he put this bit of burning tinder in his ear. It was necessary to be as good a horseman as he was to risk such a scheme, for no sooner had the animal felt the burning tinder than he uttered a cry of pain and reared and jumped as if he had been mad.