d.

"Pardieu!" replied Fouquet, laconically; and rode on faster.

D'Artagnan was nearly mad; the blood rushed boiling to his temples and
his eyes. "In the king's name!" cried he again; "stop, or I will bring
you down with a pistol-shot!"

"Do!" replied Fouquet, without relaxing his speed.

D'Artagnan seized a pistol and cocked it, hoping that the noise of the
spring would stop his enemy. "You have pistols likewise," said he, "turn
and defend yourself."

Fouquet did turn round at the noise, and looking D'Artagnan full in the
face, opened with his right hand the part of his dress which concealed
his body, but he did not even touch his holsters. There were not more
than twenty paces between the two.

"Mordioux!" said D'Artagnan, "I will not assassinate you; if you will
not fire upon me, surrender! what is a prison?"

"I would rather die!" replied Fouquet; "I shall suffer less."

D'Artagnan, drunk with despair, hurled his pistol to the ground. "I will
take you alive!" said he; and by a prodigy of skill of which this
incomparable horseman alone was capable he threw his horse forward to
within ten paces of the white horse; already his hand was stretched out
to seize his prey.

"Kill me! kill me!" cried Fouquet; "it is more humane!"

"No! alive--alive!" murmured the captain.

At this moment his horse made a false step for the second time, and
Fouquet's again took the lead. It was an unheard of spectacle, this race
between two horses which were only kept alive by the will of their
riders. It might be said that D'Artagnan rode carrying his horse along
between his knees. To the furious gallop had succeeded the fast trot,
and that had sunk to what might be scarcely called a trot at all. And
the chase appeared equally warm in the two fatigued _athletae_.
D'Artagnan, quite in despair, seized his second pistol, and cocked it.

"At your horse! not at you!" cried he to Fouquet. And he fired. The
animal was hit in the quarters--he made a furious bound, and plunged
forward. At that moment D'Artagnan's horse fell dead.

"I am dishonored!" thought the musketeer; "I am a miserable wretch! for
pity's sake, M. Fouquet, throw me one of your pistols that I may blow
out my brains!" But Fouquet rode on.

"For mercy's sake! for mercy's sake!" cried D'Artagnan; "that which you
will not do at this moment, I myself will do within an hour; but here,
upon this road, I should die bravely; I should die esteemed; do me that
service, M. Fo