“What is the meaning of this hunt, skipper?” said Porthos.
“Eh! monseigneur, I cannot understand it,” replied the Breton. “It is not at such a moment that the Seigneur de Locmaria would hunt. No, and yet the dogs—”
“Unless they have escaped from the kennel.”
“No,” said Goenne, “they are not the Seigneur de Locmaria’s hounds.”
“In common prudence,” said Aramis, “let us go back into the grotto; the voices evidently draw nearer, we shall soon know what we have to trust to.”
They re-entered, but had scarcely proceeded a hundred steps in the darkness, when a noise like the hoarse sigh of a creature in distress resounded through the cavern, and breathless, rapid, terrified, a fox passed like a flash of lightning before the fugitives, leaped over the boat and disappeared, leaving behind its sour scent, which was perceptible for several seconds under the low vaults of the cave.
“The fox!” cried the Bretons, with the glad surprise of born hunters.
“Accursed mischance!” cried the bishop, “our retreat is discovered.”
“How so?” said Porthos; “are you afraid of a fox?”
“Eh! my friend, what do you mean by that? why do you specify the fox? It is not the fox alone. Pardieu! But don’t you know, Porthos, that after the foxes come hounds, and after hounds men?”