“Your swords, gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, advancing with a polite bow. “You will hardly refuse. I see by your looks that you know us.”
“Make way! make way!” shouted Mousqueton and Grimaud from the pit. Giving and receiving hard blows, they finally reached their masters’ sides.
Mr. Beerbohm Tree was in a tight place, according to the modern phrase. The house hung upon his words, and roared with savage delight at the unexpected spectacle. Mr. Tree, we repeat, was in a fix. Should he fight or call for base aid? Pride indicated the first course, prudence prompted the latter.
He made a sign to the pretended musketeers behind him.
But Aramis and D’Artagnan observed it, and leapt forward with an ancient expletive on their lips.
“Treachery! treachery! Then guard yourselves, gentlemen!” they cried.
There was a deathlike stillness. Only one sweet female voice cut the heated air like a knife. It was Milady calling for the police.
Whistles sounded and the hurried tramp of firemen and mechanics was heard behind the scenes.
“A breath of the good past times,” panted D’Artagnan, pinning Mr. Tree to the left upper entrance.
“Spirit of the old king!” cried Aramis, as the unfortunate gentleman who impersonated him fell pierced through the left lung.