“That is true,” said Porthos
And he spurred his courser on.
At the end of another two hours the horses had gone twelve leagues without stopping; their legs began to tremble, and the foam they shed whitened the doublets of their masters.
“Let us rest here an instant to give these poor creatures breathing time,” said Porthos.
“Let us rather kill them! yes, kill them!” cried D’Artagnan; “I see fresh tracks; ’tis not a quarter of an hour since they passed this place.”
In fact, the road was trodden by horses’ feet, visible even in the approaching gloom of evening.
They set out; after a run of two leagues, Mousqueton’s horse sank.
“Gracious me!” said Porthos, “there’s Phoebus ruined.”
“The cardinal will pay you a hundred pistoles.”
“I’m above that.”