Aramis answered nothing; he merely drew his blade and made it glitter thrice through the air, then put it up again.
The diners were much surprised, and the waiters also showed uneasiness.
“I perceive the play is alleged to be by one Sydney Grundy,” observed Athos, his melancholy increasing.
“Bon Dieu!” observed D’Artagnan.
“Bon Dumas!” said Aramis.
“Speak, Athos,” continued D’Artagnan; “deliver your opinion, and we four will execute it in the face of this city. One thing I am determined upon. This profanation must cease. We owe it to the Master.”
“Dumas would certainly will it so,” declared Porthos. “His mighty shade must not be troubled by these puppets. I have my muscles still, Athos has his brains, Aramis his priestly cunning, D’Artagnan his matchless blade.”
“This passes belief!” cried Aramis, suddenly shaking the Globe aloft. He started to his feet, and his friends, moved by that close, mysterious sympathy which at all times united them, likewise leapt from their chairs.
“What now?” cried D’Artagnan, his dark eyes gleaming with Gascon fire.
“Another travesty! Another Three Musketeers—this time at a house of entertainment named the ‘Garrick,’ and executed by one Hamilton!”