“Never mind; the messenger is welcome. You never come to me without conferring pleasure. You whose devotion recognizes neither country nor misfortune, you who are sent to me by Henrietta; whatever news you bring, speak out.” “Sire, Cromwell has arrived this night at Newcastle.” “Ah!” exclaimed the king, “to fight?” “No, sire, but to buy your majesty.” “What did you say?” “I said, sire, that four hundred thousand pounds are owing to the Scottish army.” “For unpaid wages; yes, I know it. For the last year my faithful Highlanders have fought for honor alone.” Athos smiled. “Well, sir, though honor is a fine thing, they are tired of fighting for it, and to-night they have sold you for two hundred thousand pounds—that is to say, for half what is owing them.” “Impossible!” cried the king, “the Scotch sell their king for two hundred thousand pounds! And who is the Judas who has concluded this infamous bargain?” “Lord Leven.” “Are you certain of it, sir?” “I heard it with my own ears.” The king sighed deeply, as if his heart would break, and then buried his face in his hands. “Oh! the Scotch,” he exclaimed, “the Scotch I called ‘my faithful,’ to whom I trusted myself when I could have fled to Oxford! the Scotch, my brothers! But are you well assured, sir?” “Lying behind the tent of Lord Leven, I raised it and saw all, heard all!” “And when is this to be consummated?” “To-day—this morning; so your majesty must perceive there is no time to lose!” “To do what? since you say I am sold.” “To cross the Tyne, reach Scotland and rejoin Lord Montrose, who will not sell you.” “And what shall I do in Scotland? A war of partisans, unworthy of a king.” “The example of Robert Bruce will absolve you, sire.” “No, no! I have fought too long; they have sold me, they shall give me up, and the eternal shame of treble treason shall fall on their heads.” “Sire,” said Athos, “perhaps a king should act thus, but not a husband and a father. I have come in the name of your wife and daughter and of the children you have still in London, and I say to you, ‘Live, sire,’—it is the will of Heaven.” The king raised himself, buckled on his belt, and passing his handkerchief over his moist forehead, said: “Well, what is to be done?” “Sire, have you in the army one regiment on which you can implicitly rely?” “Winter,” said the king, “do you believe in the fidelity of yours?” “Sire, they are but men, and men are become both weak and wicked. I will not answer for them. I would confide my life to them, but I should hesitate ere I trusted them with your majesty’s.” “Well!” said Athos, “since you have not a regiment, we are three devoted men. It is enough. Let your majesty mount on horseback and place yourself in the midst of us; we will cross the Tyne, reach Scotland, and you will be saved.” “Is this your counsel also, Winter?” inquired the king. “Yes, sire.” “And yours, Monsieur d’Herblay?” “Yes, sire.”