They shoved Athos forward. He raised his hands to shade his eyes from the morning's sun. He saw the baron seated in the same chair as the day prior; he wore the same clothes, and he looked just as devastated. The children were once again pulled from their parents' arms and made to stand together on the outskirts of the circle. They continued to huddle together, but this time their cries were hushed. The guards forced the parents to remain by the stables, guarded by men with pistols. The hangman's noose continued to sway from the branch of the tree and a guard stood beside it.

The air was cool. Athos looked down and watched as the white pedals fluttered across the ground and landed against the feet of those unaware of their presence. A hawk flew overhead, and starlings fluttered and jumped from tree branches to roof railings. A horse nickered and a stall door was kicked.

Tomas stepped forward and shook his head. He took a bite of his apple, tossed it to the side, and then wiped his hand on his britches.

Athos swallowed. His vision blurred, his stomach turned, and his heart raced. He could feel his pulse through his veins and his mind struggle to find focus. His hands shook, and for a moment, he thought about stopping: not moving, not thinking, but allow the sun time to warm his skin, and his body time to rest. A true rest to allow his mind to stop, his pulse to quit racing, and his body time to heal. His mind needed time to comprehend all that had happened. He looked toward Tomas and heard him speaking, but his words blended like a quick scan of a page… catching only glimpses of words, but not enough time to focus on their combined meaning.

Tomas motioned with his hands toward two of his guards and glanced their way as they jogged toward the house. He grabbed Athos' chin and forced him to focus. He turned suddenly and walked away, only to return with a glass of water. "Drink this," he said, "the last thing I need for you to do is die before they have a chance to fight you."

Athos took the cup, contemplated the contents for a moment, and drank it. The water did little to quench his thirst. He blinked several times. He looked toward the children, their parents, and two unfamiliar men. Both wore light gray leather doublets, leather breeches, and tall black boots that protected their knees. Both had swords at their waists and main gauches hooked to their belts.

"That is the swordsman?" The taller of the two chuckled and shook his head. "Do you know what I can get for 25 French livres, Tomas?" He slapped his friend's shoulder. "A mighty fine woman, a well-made sword, and new horse to get me home."

Tomas handed Athos his sword and shrugged. "Yesterday was a bit of a disappointment," he licked his bottom lip, "today will be better." He made a movement with his hand as his guards escorted d'Artagnan from the front of the house.

D'Artagnan stumbled, squinted his eyes against the sun, and held his shackled hands before him.

Athos swallowed the bile in his throat. He inhaled sharply when d'Artagnan stumbled again, fell to his knees, and then was roughly grabbed and pulled to his feet.

D'Artagnan was shoved toward the hangman's tree, forced to step onto a cart, and a guard slipped the noose around his neck. His tenacity held strong as he fought against his body's natural instincts to fight, but nerves could not hide what his mind feared, and muscles defied their strength as they quivered. D'Artagnan clenched his jaw and looked toward the scene: a seated old man, Athos surrounded by guards, children crying, and parents pleading. He breathed in through his mouth, felt his chest tighten, and sweat collected on his brow. He watched Tomas taunt, strut, and enjoy his position amongst his men.

Tomas grabbed the cup from Athos' hand and tossed it aside. "They're Spaniards who hold themselves in high regard when it comes to their skills, Athos. Don't disappointment me or the boy will die." He turned suddenly and said, "Gentlemen, don't let appearances fool you." He stepped toward them. "You might have a chance to beat him… but don't count on it." He stepped aside as the taller of the two shrugged out of his doublet and handed it to his friend. He pulled his blade, flicked his wrist, and sliced it through the air.

Athos rubbed his eyes, tightened his grip on the handle of his sword, and looked toward the soldier who strutted around the circle. Athos ran his hand through his hair, his fingers caught in tangled strands, and he shifted to face his opponent. Exhausted muscles trembled and twitched, knees felt ready to buckle, shoulders ached, his back twinged, and his mind worked to focus. He could feel his heart working to keep him on his feet.

"You look like something that has been spewed from a gutter," the Spaniard said and chuckled. He looked toward his friend, who shifted his feet and raised his eyebrows. "I think I'll kill you slow, yes… slow enough that you'll understand what it is I'm speaking."

"I understand you perfectly, Monsieur," Athos said, and quickly deflected a blow.

The man chuckled and charged with several quick strikes. Athos fell back, stumbled, and hit the ground with a grunt. He deflected an oncoming strike and slowly pushed himself to his feet. He looked toward the soldier who chuckled, danced a few steps as he waved his arms wide, and shrugged. He stopped suddenly, slipped into the ready position, and charged toward Athos.

Athos deflected the blow, twisted his arm, and sent his blade beneath the soldier's arm and sliced at his side.

The soldier fell backward, clutched his left palm to his injured side, and looked at his bloodied hand in surprise. Angered, he charged again. He grabbed his main gauche from his belt and swung.

Athos stepped aside, arched backward, and felt the blade cross his forearm. He shifted position and swung left and then right. The blade struck once, twice, and then three times, and the soldier scurried backward. He fell, dropped his main gauche, and rolled to retrieve it only to find a blade to his throat.

"Yield?" Athos said. Sweat ran down his face, back, and chest.

The soldier grunted, tossed his sword aside, and said, "Sì, I yield."

Athos looked toward d'Artagnan who remained on the cart with a noose around his neck.

"You should have killed him," Tomas said, stepped from the crowd, raised his weapon and fired.

Athos spun around, and watched wide-eyed, as d'Artagnan fell from the cart when the bullet struck his arm. The noose tightened around his neck, and in his effort to find footing he knocked back the cart, and kicked his feet in search of ground.