“Monsieur Mordaunt! ’tis well,” said Porthos, “we shall remember that; but see, there is a postscript from Aramis.”
“So there is,” said D’Artagnan, and he read:
“We conceal the place where we are, dear friends, knowing your brotherly affection and that you would come and die with us were we to reveal it.”
“Confound it,” interrupted Porthos, with an explosion of passion which sent Mousqueton to the other end of the room; “are they in danger of dying?”
D’Artagnan continued:
“Athos bequeaths to you Raoul, and I bequeath to you my revenge. If by any good luck you lay your hand on a certain man named Mordaunt, tell Porthos to take him into a corner and to wring his neck. I dare not say more in a letter.
“ARAMIS.”
“If that is all, it is easily done,” said Porthos.
“On the contrary,” observed D’Artagnan, with a vexed look; “it would be impossible.”
“How so?”