“Porthos, what is that yonder?” interrupted Aramis, rising suddenly, and pointing out to his friend a black spot upon the empurpled line of the water.
“A bark!” said Porthos; “yes, it is a bark! Ah! we shall have some news at last.”
“There are two!” cried the bishop, on discovering another mast; “two! three! four!”
“Five!” said Porthos, in his turn. “Six! seven! Ah! mon Dieu! mon Dieu! it is a fleet!”
“Our boats returning, probably,” said Aramis, very uneasily, in spite of the assurance he affected.
“They are very large for fishing-boats,” observed Porthos, “and do you not remark, my friend, that they come from the Loire?”
“They come from the Loire—yes—”
“And look! everybody here sees them as well as ourselves; look, women and children are beginning to crowd the jetty.”
An old fisherman passed. “Are those our barks, yonder?” asked Aramis.
The old man looked steadily into the eye of the horizon.