t any pilot, in a frail bark; should
a blast of wind upset the boat we are lost."

Mousqueton heaved a deep sigh.

"You are ungrateful, D'Artagnan," said Athos; "yes, ungrateful to
Providence, to whom we owe our safety in the most miraculous manner.
Let us sail before the wind, and unless it changes we shall be drifted
either to Calais or Boulogne. Should our bark be upset we are five of us
good swimmers, able enough to turn it over again, or if not, to hold on
by it. Now we are on the very road which all the vessels between
Dover and Calais take, 'tis impossible but that we should meet with a
fisherman who will pick us up."

"But should we not find any fisherman and should the wind shift to the
north?"

"That," said Athos, "would be quite another thing; and we should
nevermore see land until we were upon the other side of the Atlantic."

"Which implies that we may die of hunger," said Aramis.

"'Tis more than possible," answered the Comte de la Fere.

Mousqueton sighed again, more deeply than before.

"What is the matter? what ails you?" asked Porthos.

"I am cold, sir," said Mousqueton.

"Impossible! your body is covered with a coating of fat which preserves
it from the cold air."

"Ah! sir, 'tis this very coating of fat that makes me shiver."

"How is that, Mousqueton?

"Alas! your honor, in the library of the Chateau of Bracieux there are a
lot of books of travels."

"What then?"

"Amongst them the voyages of Jean Mocquet in the time of Henry IV."

"Well?"

"In these books, your honor, 'tis told how hungry voyagers, drifting out
to sea, have a bad habit of eating each other and beginning with----"

"The fattest among them!" cried D'Artagnan, unable in spite of the
gravity of the occasion to help laughing.

"Yes, sir," answered Mousqueton; "but permit me to say I see nothing
laughable in it. However," he added, turning to Porthos, "I should not
regret dying, sir, were I sure that by doing so I might still be useful
to you."

"Mouston," replied Porthos, much affected, "should we ever see my castle
of Pierrefonds again you shall have as your own and for your descendants
the vineyard that surrounds the farm."

"And you should call it 'Devotion,'" added Aramis; "the vineyard of
self-sacrifice, to transmit to latest ages the recollection of your
devotion to your master."

"Chevalier," said D'Artagnan, laughing, "you could eat a piece of
Mouston, couldn't you, especially after two or three days