"And now," said the musketeer, "answer me the question put to you by that black-looking Saint-Mars. What did you come to do at the Lerin Isles?"
"To bid you farewell."
"Bid me farewell! What do you mean by that? Is Raoul going anywhere?"
"Yes."
"Then I will lay a wager it is with M. de Beaufort."
"With M. de Beaufort it is, my dear friend; you always guess rightly."
"From habit."
While the two friends were commencing their conversation, Raoul, with his head hanging down and his heart oppressed, seated himself on a mossy rock, his gun across his knees, looking at the sea—looking at the heavens, and listening to the voice of his soul—he allowed the sportsmen to attain a considerable distance from him. D'Artagnan remarked his absence.
"He has not recovered the blow," said he to Athos.
"He is struck to death."