Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Twenty Years After by Alexandre Dumas (epub read online books .txt) 📖
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
Book online «Twenty Years After by Alexandre Dumas (epub read online books .txt) 📖». Author Alexandre Dumas
As for Winter, at the sound of that voice he turned pale, and was, as it were, petrified.
It was the voice of a cavalier mounted on a magnificent black horse, who was charging at the head of the English regiment, of which, in his ardor, he was ten steps in advance.
“‘Tis he!” murmured Winter, his eyes glazed and he allowed his sword to fall to his side.
“The king! the king!” cried out several voices, deceived by the blue ribbon and chestnut horse of Winter; “take him alive.”
“No! it is not the king!” exclaimed the cavalier. “Lord Winter, you are not the king; you are my uncle.”
At the same moment Mordaunt, for it was he, leveled his pistol at Winter; it went off and the ball entered the heart of the old cavalier, who with one bound on his saddle fell back into the arms of Athos, murmuring: “He is avenged!”
“Think of my mother!” shouted Mordaunt, as his horse plunged and darted off at full gallop.
“Wretch!” exclaimed Aramis, raising his pistol as he passed by him; but the powder flashed in the pan and it did not go off.
At this moment the whole regiment came up and they fell upon the few men who had held out, surrounding the two Frenchmen. Athos, after making sure that Lord Winter was really dead, let fall the corpse and said:
“Come, Aramis, now for the honor of France!” and the two Englishmen who were nearest to them fell, mortally wounded.
At the same moment a fearful “hurrah!” rent the air and thirty blades glittered about their heads.
Suddenly a man sprang out of the English ranks, fell upon Athos, twined arms of steel around him, and tearing his sword from him, said in his ear:
“Silence! yield--you yield to me, do you not?”
A giant had seized also Aramis’s two wrists, who struggled in vain to release himself from this formidable grasp.
“D’Art----” exclaimed Athos, whilst the Gascon covered his mouth with his hand.
“I am your prisoner,” said Aramis, giving up his sword to Porthos.
“Fire, fire!” cried Mordaunt, returning to the group surrounding the two friends.
“And wherefore fire?” said the colonel; “every one has yielded.”
“It is the son of Milady,” said Athos to D’Artagnan.
“I recognize him.”
“It is the monk,” whispered Porthos to Aramis.
“I know it.”
And now the ranks began to open. D’Artagnan held the bridle of Athos’s horse and Porthos that of Aramis. Both of them attempted to lead his prisoner off the battle-field.
This movement revealed the spot where Winter’s body had fallen. Mordaunt had found it out and was gazing on his dead relative with an expression of malignant hatred.
Athos, though now cool and collected, put his hand to his belt, where his loaded pistols yet remained.
“What are you about?” said D’Artagnan.
“Let me kill him.”
“We are all four lost, if by the least gesture you discover that you recognize him.”
Then turning to the young man he exclaimed:
“A fine prize! a fine prize, friend Mordaunt; we have both myself and Monsieur du Vallon, taken two Knights of the Garter, nothing less.”
“But,” said Mordaunt, looking at Athos and Aramis with bloodshot eyes, “these are Frenchmen, I imagine.”
“I’faith, I don’t know. Are you French, sir?” said he to Athos.
“I am,” replied the latter, gravely.
“Very well, my dear sir, you are the prisoner of a fellow countryman.”
“But the king--where is the king?” exclaimed Athos, anxiously.
D’Artagnan vigorously seized his prisoner’s hand, saying:
“Eh! the king? We have secured him.”
“Yes,” said Aramis, “through an infamous act of treason.”
Porthos pressed his friend’s hand and said to him:
“Yes, sir, all is fair in war, stratagem as well as force; look yonder!”
At this instant the squadron, that ought to have protected Charles’s retreat, was advancing to meet the English regiments. The king, who was entirely surrounded, walked alone in a great empty space. He appeared calm, but it was evidently not without a mighty effort. Drops of perspiration trickled down his face, and from time to time he put a handkerchief to his mouth to wipe away the blood that rilled from it.
“Behold Nebuchadnezzar!” exclaimed an old Puritan soldier, whose eyes flashed at the sight of the man they called the tyrant.
“Do you call him Nebuchadnezzar?” said Mordaunt, with a terrible smile; “no, it is Charles the First, the king, the good King Charles, who despoils his subjects to enrich himself.”
Charles glanced a moment at the insolent creature who uttered this, but did not recognize him. Nevertheless, the calm religious dignity of his countenance abashed Mordaunt.
“Bon jour, messieurs!” said the king to the two gentlemen who were held by D’Artagnan and Porthos. “The day has been unfortunate, but it is not your fault, thank God! But where is my old friend Winter?”
The two gentlemen turned away their heads in silence.
“In Strafford’s company,” said Mordaunt, tauntingly.
Charles shuddered. The demon had known how to wound him. The remembrance of Strafford was a source of lasting remorse to him, the shadow that haunted him by day and night. The king looked around him. He saw a corpse at his feet. It was Winter’s. He uttered not a word, nor shed a tear, but a deadly pallor spread over his face; he knelt down on the ground, raised Winter’s head, and unfastening the Order of the Saint Esprit, placed it on his own breast.
“Lord Winter is killed, then?” inquired D’Artagnan, fixing his eyes on the corpse.
“Yes,” said Athos, “by his own nephew.”
“Come, he was the first of us to go; peace be to him! he was an honest man,” said D’Artagnan.
“Charles Stuart,” said the colonel of the English regiment, approaching the king, who had just put on the insignia of royalty, “do you yield yourself a prisoner?”
“Colonel Tomlison,” said Charles, “kings cannot yield; the man alone submits to force.”
“Your sword.”
The king drew his sword and broke it on his knee.
At this moment a horse without a rider, covered with foam, his nostrils extended and eyes all fire, galloped up, and recognizing his master, stopped and neighed with pleasure; it was Arthur.
The king smiled, patted it with his hand and jumped lightly into the saddle.
“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “conduct me where you will.”
Turning back again, he said, “I thought I saw Winter move; if he still lives, by all you hold most sacred, do not abandon him.”
“Never fear, King Charles,” said Mordaunt, “the bullet pierced his heart.”
“Do not breathe a word nor make the least sign to me or Porthos,” said D’Artagnan to Athos and Aramis, “that you recognize this man, for Milady is not dead; her soul lives in the body of this demon.”
The detachment now moved toward the town with the royal captive; but on the road an aide-de-camp, from Cromwell, sent orders that Colonel Tomlison should conduct him to Holdenby Castle.
At the same time couriers started in every direction over England and Europe to announce that Charles Stuart was the prisoner of Oliver Cromwell.
Have you been to the general?” said Mordaunt to D’Artagnan and Porthos; “you know he sent for you after the action.”
“We want first to put our prisoners in a place of safety,” replied D’Artagnan. “Do you know, sir, these gentlemen are each of them worth fifteen hundred pounds?”
“Oh, be assured,” said Mordaunt, looking at them with an expression he vainly endeavoured to soften, “my soldiers will guard them, and guard them well, I promise you.”
“I shall take better care of them myself,” answered D’Artagnan; “besides, all they require is a good room, with sentinels, or their simple parole that they will not attempt escape. I will go and see about that, and then we shall have the honor of presenting ourselves to the general and receiving his commands for his eminence.”
“You think of starting at once, then?” inquired Mordaunt.
“Our mission is ended, and there is nothing more to detain us now but the good pleasure of the great man to whom we were sent.”
The young man bit his lips and whispered to his sergeant:
“You will follow these men and not lose sight of them; when you have discovered where they lodge, come and await me at the town gate.”
The sergeant made a sign of comprehension.
Instead of following the knot of prisoners that were being taken into the town, Mordaunt turned his steps toward the rising ground from whence Cromwell had witnessed the battle and on which he had just had his tent pitched.
Cromwell had given orders that no one was to be allowed admission; but the sentinel, who knew that Mordaunt was one of the most confidential friends of the general, thought the order did not extend to the young man. Mordaunt, therefore, raised the canvas, and saw Cromwell seated before a table, his head buried in his hands, his back being turned.
Whether he heard Mordaunt or not as he entered, Cromwell did not move. Mordaunt remained standing near the door. At last, after a few moments, Cromwell raised his head, and, as if he divined that some one was there, turned slowly around.
“I said I wished to be alone,” he exclaimed, on seeing the young man.
“They thought this order did not concern me, sir; nevertheless, if you wish it, I am ready to go.”
“Ah! is it you, Mordaunt?” said Cromwell, the cloud passing away from his face; “since you are here, it is well; you may remain.”
“I come to congratulate you.”
“To congratulate me--what for?”
“On the capture of Charles Stuart. You are now master of England.”
“I was much more really so two hours ago.”
“How so, general?”
“Because England had need of me to take the tyrant, and now the tyrant is taken. Have you seen him?”
“Yes, sir.” said Mordaunt.
“What is his bearing?”
Mordaunt hesitated; but it seemed as though he was constrained to tell the truth.
“Calm and dignified,” said he.
“What did he say?”
“Some parting words to his friends.”
“His friends!” murmured Cromwell. “Has he any friends?” Then he added aloud, “Did he make any resistance?”
“No, sir, with the exception of two or three friends every one deserted him; he had no means of resistance.”
“To whom did he give up his sword?”
“He did not give it up; he broke it.”
“He did well; but instead of breaking it, he might have used it to still more advantage.”
There was a momentary pause.
“I heard that the colonel of the regiment that escorted Charles was killed,” said Cromwell, staring very fixedly at Mordaunt.
“Yes, sir.”
“By whom?” inquired Cromwell.
“By me.”
“What was his name?”
“Lord Winter.”
“Your uncle?” exclaimed Cromwell.
“My uncle,” answered Mordaunt; “but traitors to England are no longer members of my family.”
Cromwell observed the young man a moment in silence, then, with that profound melancholy Shakespeare describes so well:
“Mordaunt,” he said, “you are a terrible servant.”
“When the Lord commands,” said Mordaunt, “His commands are not to be disputed. Abraham raised the knife against Isaac, and Isaac was his son.”
“Yes,” said Cromwell, “but the Lord did not suffer that sacrifice to be accomplished.”
“I have looked around me,” said Mordaunt, “and I have seen neither goat nor kid caught among the bushes of the plain.”
Cromwell bowed. “You are strong among the strong, Mordaunt,” he said; “and the Frenchmen, how did they behave?”
“Most fearlessly.”
“Yes, yes,” murmured Cromwell; “the French fight well; and if my glass was good and I mistake not, they were foremost in the fight.”
“They were,” replied Mordaunt.
“After you, however,” said Cromwell.
“It was the fault of their horses, not theirs.”
Another pause.
“And the Scotch?”
“They kept
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