Porthos hung his head. As if to confirm the words of Aramis, they heard the yelping pack come with frightful swiftness upon the trail of the animal. Six foxhounds burst out at once upon the little heath, with a cry resembling the noise of a triumph.
"There are the dogs plain enough!" said Aramis, posted on the look-out, behind a chink, between two rocks; "now, who are the huntsmen?"
"If it is the Seigneur de Locmaria's," replied the patron, "he will leave the dogs to hunt the grotto, for he knows them, and will not enter in himself, being quite sure that the fox will come out at the other side; it is there he will go and wait for him."
"It is not the Seigneur de Locmaria who is hunting," replied Aramis, turning pale, in spite of his efforts to maintain a good countenance.
"Who is it, then?" said Porthos.
"Look!"
Porthos applied his eye to the slit, and saw at the summit of a hillock a dozen horsemen urging on their horses in the track of the dogs, shouting "Taïaut! taïaut!"
"The guards!" said he.
"Yes, my friend, the king's guards."
"The king's guards! do you say, monseigneur!" cried the Bretons, becoming pale in their turns.