“Fine sport, by Jove!” cried Porthos, with a laugh that shook the windows. “Fine sport!”
“Are you still bent on departure, Athos?” asked D’Artagnan.
“No, I remain,” replied Athos, with a threatening gesture that promised no good to whomsoever it was addressed.
“Swords, then!” cried Aramis, “swords! let us not lose a moment.”
The four friends resumed their own clothes, girded on their swords, ordered Mousqueton and Blaisois to pay the bill and to arrange everything for immediate departure, and wrapped in their large cloaks left in search of their game.
The night was dark, snow was falling, the streets were silent and deserted. D’Artagnan led the way through the intricate windings and narrow alleys of the city and ere long they had reached the house in question. For a moment D’Artagnan thought that Parry’s brother had disappeared; but he was mistaken. The robust Scotchman, accustomed to the snows of his native hills, had stretched himself against a post, and like a fallen statue, insensible to the inclemency of the weather, had allowed the snow to cover him. He rose, however, as they approached.
“Come,” said Athos, “here’s another good servant. Really, honest men are not so scarce as I thought.”
“Don’t be in a hurry to weave crowns for our Scotchman. I believe the fellow is here on his own account, for I have heard that these gentlemen born beyond the Tweed are very vindictive. I should not like to be Groslow, if he meets him.”
“Well?” said Athos, to the man, in English.
“No one has come out,” he replied.