“Yes, but when once they are hamstrung, our necks will be strung next.”
“If one of them comes to my side,” asked Porthos, “must I kill him?”
“Yes, by a blow of your fist, if you can; we will not fire but at the last extremity.”
“I can do it,” said Porthos.
“Come and open, then!” cried D’Artagnan to the man with the scythe, taking one of the pistols up by the muzzle and preparing to strike with the handle. And as the man approached, D’Artagnan, in order to have more freedom for his actions, leaned half out of the door; his eyes were fixed upon those of the mendicant, which were lighted up by a lantern. Without doubt he recognized D’Artagnan, for he became deadly pale; doubtless the musketeer knew him, for his hair stood up on his head.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” he cried, falling back a step; “it is Monsieur d’Artagnan! let him pass.”
D’Artagnan was perhaps about to reply, when a blow, similar to that of a mallet falling on the head of an ox, was heard. The noise was caused by Porthos, who had just knocked down his man.
D’Artagnan turned around and saw the unfortunate man upon his back about four paces off.
“‘Sdeath!” cried he to the coachman. “Spur your horses! whip! get on!”
The coachman bestowed a heavy blow of the whip upon his horses; the noble animals bounded forward; then cries of men who were knocked down were heard; then a double concussion was felt, and two of the wheels seemed to pass over a round and flexible body. There was a moment’s silence, then the carriage cleared the gate.