"My father always said so, monsieur."
"Confess, likewise, that it is a sad circumstance in which you find yourself, of falling in with men destined to be shot or hanged, and to learn that these men are old acquaintances—old hereditary acquaintances."
"Oh! you are not reserved for such a frightful fate as that, messieurs and friends!" said the young man, warmly.
"Bah! you said so yourself."
"I said so just now, when I did not know you; but now that I know you, I say—you will avoid this dismal fate, if you like."
"How—if we like!" cried Aramis, whose eyes beamed with intelligence as he looked alternately at the prisoner and Porthos.
"Provided," continued Porthos, looking, in his turn, with noble intrepidity at M. Biscarrat and the bishop—"provided nothing disgraceful be required of us."
"Nothing at all will be required of you, gentlemen," replied the officer—"what should they ask of you? If they find you they will kill you, that is a settled thing; try, then, gentlemen, to prevent their finding you."
"I don't think I am mistaken," said Porthos, with dignity; "but it appears evident to me that if they want to find us, they must come and seek us here."
"In that you are perfectly right, my worthy friend," replied Aramis, constantly consulting with his looks the countenance of Biscarrat, who was silent and constrained. "You wish, M. de Biscarrat, to say something to us, to make us some overture, and you dare not—is not that true?"