“Charles Stuart,” said he, “an order has come to conduct you to London without stopping day or night.  Prepare yourself, then, to start at once.”

“And by whom is this order given?” asked the king.

“By General Oliver Cromwell.  And here is Mr. Mordaunt, who has brought it and is charged with its execution.”

“Mordaunt!” muttered the four friends, exchanging glances.

D’Artagnan swept up the money that he and Porthos had lost and buried it in his huge pocket.  Athos and Aramis placed themselves behind him.  At this movement Mordaunt turned around, recognized them, and uttered an exclamation of savage delight.

“I’m afraid we are prisoners,” whispered D’Artagnan to his friend.

“Not yet,” replied Porthos.

“Colonel, colonel,” cried Mordaunt, “you are betrayed.  These four Frenchmen have escaped from Newcastle, and no doubt want to carry off the king.  Arrest them.”

“Ah! my young man,” said D’Artagnan, drawing his sword, “that is an order sooner given than executed.  Fly, friends, fly!” he added, whirling his sword around him.

The next moment he darted to the door and knocked down two of the soldiers who guarded it, before they had time to cock their muskets.  Athos and Aramis followed him.  Porthos brought up the rear, and before soldiers, officers, or colonel had time to recover their surprise all four were in the street.

“Fire!” cried Mordaunt; “fire upon them!”

Three or four shots were fired, but with no other result than to show the four fugitives turning the corner of the street safe and sound.

The horses were at the place fixed upon, and they leaped lightly into their saddles.

“Forward!” cried D’Artagnan, “and spur for your dear lives!”

They galloped away and took the road they had come by in the morning, namely, in the direction toward Scotland.  A few hundred yards beyond the town D’Artagnan drew rein.

“Halt!” he cried, “this time we shall be pursued.  We must let them leave the village and ride after us on the northern road, and when they have passed we will take the opposite direction.”

There was a stream close by and a bridge across it.

D’Artagnan led his horse under the arch of the bridge.  The others followed.  Ten minutes later they heard the rapid gallop of a troop of horsemen.  A few minutes more and the troop passed over their heads.

62

London.

As soon as the noise of the hoofs was lost in the distance D’Artagnan remounted the bank of the stream and scoured the plain, followed by his three friends, directing their course, as well as they could guess, toward London.

“This time,” said D’Artagnan, when they were sufficiently distant to proceed at a trot, “I think all is lost and we have nothing better to do than to reach France.  What do you say, Athos, to that proposition?  Isn’t it reasonable?”