and I am about to sink."

The tone of agony in which these words were spoken awakened a feeling
of compassion in the breast of Athos.

"Unhappy man!" he murmured.

"Good!" said D'Artagnan. "I like to see you pity him. On my word, I
think he is swimming towards us. Does he suppose we are going to take
him in? Row, Porthos, row."

And D'Artagnan plunged his oar into the water. Two or three long
strokes placed twenty fathoms between the boat and the drowning man.

"Oh! you will have mercy!" cried Mordaunt. "You will not let me
perish!"

"Aha! my fine fellow," said Porthos, "we have you now, I think,
without a chance of escape."

"Oh, Porthos!" murmured the Count de la Fere.

"For heaven's sake, Athos," replied Porthos, "cease your eternal
generosity, which is ridiculous under such circumstances. For my part
I declare to you, that if he comes within my reach, I will split his
skull with the oar."

D'Artagnan, who had just finished his colloquy with Aramis, stood up
in the boat.

"Sir," said he to the swimmer, "be so good as to betake yourself in
some other direction. The vessel which you intended for our coffin is
scarcely yet at the bottom of the sea, and your present situation is a
bed of roses compared to that in which you intended to put us."

"Gentlemen!" said Mordaunt in despairing accents, "I swear to you that
I sincerely repent. I am too young to die. I was led away by a
natural resentment; I wished to revenge my mother. You would all have
acted as I have done."

"Pshaw!" said D'Artagnan, who saw that Athos was becoming more and
more softened by Mordaunt's supplications. The swimmer was again
within three or four fathoms of the boat. The approach of death seemed
to give him supernatural strength.

"Alas!" said he, "I am going to die, then. And yet I was right to
avenge my mother. And besides, if it were a crime, I repent of it, and
you ought to pardon me."

A wave that passed over his head, interrupted his entreaties. He again
emerged, and made a stroke in the direction of the boat. D'Artagnan
took his oar in both hands. The unhappy wretch uttered a groan of
despair. Athos could bear it no longer.

"D'Artagnan!" cried he, "my son D'Artagnan, I entreat of you to spare
his life. It is so horrible to let a man die when you can save him by
stretching out your hand. I cannot witness such a deed; he _must_ be
saved."

"Mordieu!" replied D'Artagnan, "why do you not tie our hands and feet,
and deliver