De Winter turned and followed the direction of Aramis’s finger. The beacon bathed with light the little strait through which they were about to pass and the rock where the young man stood with bare head and crossed arms.
“It is he!” exclaimed De Winter, seizing the arm of Athos; “it is he! I thought I recognized him and I was not mistaken.”
“Whom do you mean?” asked Aramis.
“Milady’s son,” replied Athos.
“The monk!” exclaimed Grimaud.
The young man heard these words and bent so forward over the rock that one might have supposed he was about to precipitate himself from it.
“Yes, it is I, my uncle—I, the son of Milady—I, the monk—I, the secretary and friend of Cromwell—I know you now, both you and your companions.”
In that boat sat three men, unquestionably brave, whose courage no man would have dared dispute; nevertheless, at that voice, that accent and those gestures, they felt a chill access of terror cramp their veins. As for Grimaud, his hair stood on end and drops of sweat ran down his brow.
“Ah!” exclaimed Aramis, “that is the nephew, the monk, and the son of Milady, as he says himself.”
“Alas, yes,” murmured De Winter.