d with him fatigue had prevailed over
hunger. He had fallen asleep and was in a profound slumber when
D'Artagnan returned. Athos and Aramis were beginning to close their
eyes, which they half opened when their companion came in again.

"Well!" said Aramis.

"All is well; we may sleep tranquilly."

On this assurance the two friends fell asleep; and D'Artagnan, who was
very weary, bade good-night to Grimaud and laid himself down in his
cloak, with naked sword at his side, in such a manner that his body
barricaded the passage, and it should be impossible to enter the room
without upsetting him.

71. Port Wine.

In ten minutes the masters slept; not so the servants---hungry, and more
thirsty than hungry.

Blaisois and Mousqueton set themselves to preparing their bed which
consisted of a plank and a valise. On a hanging table, which swung to
and fro with the rolling of the vessel, were a pot of beer and three
glasses.

"This cursed rolling!" said Blaisois. "I know it will serve me as it did
when we came over."

"And to think," said Mousqueton, "that we have nothing to fight
seasickness with but barley bread and hop beer. Pah!"

"But where is your wicker flask, Monsieur Mousqueton? Have you lost it?"
asked Blaisois.

"No," replied Mousqueton, "Parry kept it. Those devilish Scotchmen are
always thirsty. And you, Grimaud," he said to his companion, who had
just come in after his round with D'Artagnan, "are you thirsty?"

"As thirsty as a Scotchman!" was Grimaud's laconic reply.

And he sat down and began to cast up the accounts of his party, whose
money he managed.

"Oh, lackadaisy! I'm beginning to feel queer!" cried Blaisois.

"If that's the case," said Mousqueton, with a learned air, "take some
nourishment."

"Do you call that nourishment?" said Blaisois, pointing to the barley
bread and pot of beer upon the table.

"Blaisois," replied Mousqueton, "remember that bread is the true
nourishment of a Frenchman, who is not always able to get bread, ask
Grimaud."

"Yes, but beer?" asked Blaisois sharply, "is that their true drink?"

"As to that," answered Mousqueton, puzzled how to get out of the
difficulty, "I must confess that to me beer is as disagreeable as wine
is to the English."

"What! Monsieur Mousqueton! The English--do they dislike wine?"

"They hate it."

"But I have seen them drink it."

"As a punishment. For example, an English prince died one day because
they had put him into