Although our friends were expecting that condemnation, it filled them with grief.  D’Artagnan, whose mind was never more fertile in resources than in critical emergencies, swore again that he would try all conceivable means to prevent the denouement of the bloody tragedy.  But by what means?  As yet he could form no definite plan; all must depend on circumstances.  Meanwhile, it was necessary at all hazards, in order to gain time, to put some obstacle in the way of the execution on the following day —­ the day appointed by the judges.  The only way of doing that was to cause the disappearance of the London executioner.  The headsman out of the way, the sentence could not be executed.  True, they could send for the headsman of the nearest town, but at least a day would be gained, and a day might be sufficient for the rescue.  D’Artagnan took upon himself that more than difficult task.

Another thing, not less essential, was to warn Charles Stuart of the attempt to be made, so that he might assist his rescuers as much as possible, or at least do nothing to thwart their efforts.  Aramis assumed that perilous charge.  Charles Stuart had asked that Bishop Juxon might be permitted to visit him.  Mordaunt had called on the bishop that very evening to apprise him of the religious desire expressed by the king and also of Cromwell’s permission.  Aramis determined to obtain from the bishop, through fear or by persuasion, consent that he should enter in the bishop’s place, and clad in his sacerdotal robes, the prison at Whitehall.

Finally, Athos undertook to provide, in any event, the means of leaving England —­ in case either of failure or of success.

The night having come they made an appointment to meet at eleven o’clock at the hotel, and each started out to fulfill his dangerous mission.

The palace of Whitehall was guarded by three regiments of cavalry and by the fierce anxiety of Cromwell, who came and went or sent his generals or his agents continually.  Alone in his usual room, lighted by two candles, the condemned monarch gazed sadly on the luxury of his past greatness, just as at the last hour one sees the images of life more mildly brilliant than of yore.

Parry had not quitted his master, and since his condemnation had not ceased to weep.  Charles, leaning on a table, was gazing at a medallion of his wife and daughter; he was waiting first for Juxon, then for martyrdom.

At times he thought of those brave French gentlemen who had appeared to him from a distance of a hundred leagues fabulous and unreal, like the forms that appear in dreams.  In fact, he sometimes asked himself if all that was happening to him was not a dream, or at least the delirium of a fever.  He rose and took a few steps as if to rouse himself from his torpor and went as far as the window; he saw glittering below him the muskets of the guards.  He was thereupon constrained to admit that he was indeed awake and that his bloody dream was real.