“Ah! my brave countryman,” cried D’Artagnan, “wait a little, wait a little. I will be with you; and we will settle with this rabble.”
“One instant, sir,” said Monk, “wait.”
“Long?”
“No; only the time to ask a question.” Then, turning towards the sailor, “My friend,” asked he, with an emotion which, in spite of all his self-command, he could not conceal, “whose soldiers are these, pray tell me?”
“Whose should they be but that madman, Monk’s?”
“There has been no battle, then?”
“A battle, ah, yes! for what purpose? Lambert’s army is melting away like snow in April. All come to Monk, officers and soldiers. In a week Lambert won’t have fifty men left.”
The fisherman was interrupted by a fresh discharge directed against the house, and by another pistol-shot which replied to the discharge and struck down the most daring of the aggressors. The rage of soldiers was at its height. The fire still continued to increase, and a crest of flame and smoke whirled and spread over the roof of the house. D’Artagnan could no longer contain himself. “Mordioux!” said he to Monk, glancing at him sideways: “you are a general, and allow your men to burn houses and assassinate people, while you look on and warm your hands at the blaze of the conflagration? Mordioux! you are not a man.”
“Patience, sir, patience!” said Monk, smiling.
“Patience! yes, until that brave gentleman is roasted—is that what you mean?” And D’Artagnan rushed forward.