“At last we are off!” exclaimed Porthos.
“Alas,” said Athos, “we depart alone.”
“Yes; but all four together and without a scratch; which is a consolation.”
“We are not yet at our destination,” observed the prudent D’Artagnan; “beware of misadventure.”
“Ah, my friend!” cried Porthos, “like the crows, you always bring bad omens. Who could intercept us on such a night as this, pitch dark, when one does not see more than twenty yards before one?”
“Yes, but to-morrow morning——”
“To-morrow we shall be at Boulogne.”
“I hope so, with all my heart,” said the Gascon, “and I confess my weakness. Yes, Athos, you may laugh, but as long as we were within gunshot of the pier or of the vessels lying by it I was looking for a frightful discharge of musketry which would crush us.”
“But,” said Porthos, with great wisdom, “that was impossible, for they would have killed the captain and the sailors.”
“Bah! much Monsieur Mordaunt would care. You don’t imagine he would consider a little thing like that?”