These words contained at once a sorrow, an apprehension, and a reproach perfectly intelligible to D’Artagnan. In fact, during the general’s absence, Lambert might have given battle, conquered, and dispersed the parliament’s army, and taken with his own the place of Monk’s army, deprived of its strongest support. At this doubt, which passed from the mind of Monk to his own, D’Artagnan reasoned in this manner: “One of two things is going to happen; either Monk has spoken correctly, and there are no longer any but Lambertists in the country—that is to say, enemies, who would receive me wonderfully well, since it is to me they owe their victory; or nothing is changed, and Monk, transported with joy at finding his camp still in the same place, will not prove too severe in his settlement with me.” Whilst thinking thus, the two travelers advanced, and began to mingle with a little knot of sailors, who looked on with sorrow at the burning house, but did not dare to say anything on account of the threats of the soldiers. Monk addressed one of these sailors:—“What is going on here?” asked he. “Sir,” replied the man, not recognizing Monk as an officer, under the thick cloak which enveloped him, “that house was inhabited by a foreigner, and this foreigner became suspected by the soldiers. They wanted to get into his house under pretense of taking him to the camp; but he, without being frightened by their number, threatened death to the first who should cross the threshold of his door, and as there was one who did venture, the Frenchman stretched him on the earth with a pistol-shot.” “Ah! he is a Frenchman, is he?” said D’Artagnan, rubbing his hands. “Good!” “How good?” replied the fisherman. “No, I don’t mean that.—What then—my tongue slipped.” “What then, sir—why, the other men became as enraged as so many lions: they fired more than a hundred shots at the house; but the Frenchman was sheltered by the wall, and every time they tried to enter by the door they met with a shot from his lackey, whose aim is deadly, d’ye see? Every time they threatened the window, they met with a pistol-shot from the master. Look and count—there are seven men down. “Ah! my brave countryman,” cried D’Artagnan, “wait a little, wait a little. I will be with you, and we will settle with this rabble.” “One instant, sir,” said Monk, “wait.” “Long?” “No; only the time to ask a question.” Then, turning towards the sailor, “My friend,” asked he with an emotion which, in spite of all his self-command, he could not conceal, “whose soldiers are these, pray tell me?” “Whose should they be but that madman, Monk’s?” “There has been no battle, then?” “A battle, ah, yes! for what purpose? Lambert’s army is melting away like snow in April. All come to Monk, officers and soldiers. In a week Lambert won’t have fifty men left.”