They gained the air at last. Their horses awaited them, each with a lackey at the stirrup.
“We have done our duty,” said Aramis.
“Only half of it,” answered D’Artagnan.
“What next?” inquired Athos. “No more blood, my dear D’Artagnan.”
“The ‘Garrick,’” answered the young Gascon, his eyes aflame.
Porthos laughed joyously. “This beer of England is good,” he said.
THE GAME OF LIFE
IN the spirit I saw a strange pastime not long ago; but I did not know or guess the nature of the entertainment. At first it seemed no more than a big cricket-match, with all the world looking on and humanity playing against its enemies. But as I looked again, I perceived that the audience was a thing of shadows, a mighty, misty crowd of ghosts—those who had played each their innings, and now watched the Game of Life and the living play it.
’Twas a single-wicket game, and a mighty balcony overlooked the field of play. Recording Angels scored, Time umpired, Death bowled tirelessly and unchanged through the ages occupied by the Game of Life; but the fielders moved and came and went like a demon-dance. Vile red and black things were they, the very outcome of delirium as it seemed; and now one rose into hideous prominence, and Cholera or Small-pox snapped ten thousand players, and sent men, women, children to the shades; and now another showed deadly activity, as War or Sudden Death made havoc with the batsmen. A hideous crew they were, all tentacles and hydra-heads; they thronged the earth and the air around each player, and no stroke seemed safely out of their reach.
Consumption kept the wicket, and caught or stumped cruel numbers of promising players before they were well set; Fever stood at mid-on; Cancer fielded deep and fielded sure; Heart Disease was at point; Apoplexy at cover-point; and all the other fell things that rob man of life stood round—a seething, twisting mob of black and scarlet devils leapt out of a nightmare or a picture by Salvator Rosa.