When the soldier saluted Charles, Athos’s heart bounded for joy; and that unfortunate, on coming to himself, found ten guineas that the French gentleman had slipped into his pocket.  But when the cowardly insulter spat in the face of the captive monarch Athos grasped his dagger.  But D’Artagnan stopped his hand and in a hoarse voice cried, “Wait!”

Athos stopped.  D’Artagnan, leaning on Athos, made a sign to Porthos and Aramis to keep near them and then placed himself behind the man with the bare arms, who was still laughing at his own vile pleasantry and receiving the congratulations of several others.

The man took his way toward the city.  The four friends followed him.  The man, who had the appearance of being a butcher, descended a little steep and isolated street, looking on to the river, with two of his friends.  Arrived at the bank of the river the three men perceived that they were followed, turned around, and looking insolently at the Frenchmen, passed some jests from one to another.

“I don’t know English, Athos,” said D’Artagnan; “but you know it and will interpret for me.”

Then quickening their steps they passed the three men, but turned back immediately, and D’Artagnan walked straight up to the butcher and touching him on the chest with the tip of his finger, said to Athos: 

“Say this to him in English:  `You are a coward.  You have insulted a defenseless man.  You have defouled the face of your king.  You must die.’”

Athos, pale as a ghost, repeated these words to the man, who, seeing the bodeful preparations that were making, put himself in an attitude of defense.  Aramis, at this movement, drew his sword.

“No,” cried D’Artagnan, “no steel.  Steel is for gentlemen.”

And seizing the butcher by the throat: 

“Porthos,” said he, “kill this fellow for me with a single blow.”

Porthos raised his terrible fist, which whistled through the air like a sling, and the portentous mass fell with a smothered crash on the insulter’s skull and crushed it.  The man fell like an ox beneath the poleaxe.  His companions, horror-struck, could neither move nor cry out.

“Tell them this, Athos,” resumed D’Artagnan; “thus shall all die who forget that a captive man is sacred and that a captive king doubly represents the Lord.”

Athos repeated D’Artagnan’s words.

The fellows looked at the body of their companion, swimming in blood, and then recovering voice and legs together, ran screaming off.

“Justice is done,” said Porthos, wiping his forehead.

“And now,” said D’Artagnan to Athos, “entertain no further doubts about me; I undertake all that concerns the king.”

64

Whitehall.

The parliament condemned Charles to death, as might have been foreseen.  Political judgments are generally vain formalities, for the same passions which give rise to the accusation ordain to the condemnation.  Such is the atrocious logic of revolutions.